by Joy Dettman
It was believed that you and Honi had been taken by the searcher, until a female child was sighted in the woods. Dan, full brother of Rowan, chose to show himself at the house so he might ask news of you. He did not return.
These past weeks, the night watchers’ reports are all of you and your dogs, and the danger you bring to our valley. They know of the beast who follows you. They know of your use of the tri-fly. For their safety and your own, they offer to you and your child a life with us.
As you, we live within the caves and the old diggings of the ancient ones. In their years in this valley these people have cut great halls into the hills, and created many comforts, the best of which is laughter and friendship. To come here is to commit to their ways. To come here is to agree to a ninety-day confinement and a daily cleansing with herbs. I have found with these people a simple freedom unknown in the city, and in the months since leaving the cave of confinement, have made their ways my own.
Here we have no book, no pen, thus those born of the valley do not read or write. Too, they have developed a method of hand communication, which is used widely, thus much oral language is being lost.
Will you bring to us your child and your books, Honoria? Will you live with us and teach the children all you have learned from your books? Will you show to them the great power of reading, and show the way of making your paint pictures that trap the movement of sunlight?
And will you come to me, girl of the mountain, for I do not forget you, and in my night dreams and my day dreams, you are ever with me.
I wipe my eyes with my hands, and with my arm, and with my hair. I fold the letter and I place it at my breast but take it from there and read it again.
Oh Lord, will I come to you my man of the city. I do not forget you, and I love you well.
‘I am Honoria,’ I say to baby. ‘I am the one who will not be silent. I have a name, baby. I am Honoria.’ Then I look at my dogs, my friends, my helpers. ‘But I will not leave you.’
So I weep then and look at the place of my small garden where the pumpkin seeds and the honeydew thrust their green heads from out of the earth. I dip water for them, and search anew for the sprouting of my orange fruit seed.
It is later when I take my child to the pool and scoop water for her, which I trickle onto her brow.
‘You are Honey Dew, girl of city and mountain,’ I say. ‘You were found in the barn, by accident, and you grew well and strong, and you are sweet, and your flesh is pure. You were freeborn and will live free. And you will laugh and cry and call my name aloud when we play. And this I pledge.’ Then I make my sowman’s cross sign on her tiny breast. She likes her name well for she offers me her silly open-mouthed smile. I tickle her, to make her smile more, and she tries to make a laugh for me. I think she is like Honoria and she will not be silenced.
That night, by my last wax-light, I plan long on what to write, how to write my own words to these people, but how can I write that which will explain my love of these great dogs and my debt to them, and all of my feelings? And if I should write, how will they read it?
So I paint my reply. I paint my Honey Dew’s likeness as she sleeps beside my dogs. I paint them as her tall guardians, for they have been our guardians. I paint my good Sir Sowman too, and he is offering to me the splendid flowers, for I wish to show these people his humanity. I paint my cows, and the silly cocky red rooster with sunlight glinting on his fine green-tipped tail feathers. And I paint my dart gun; I am learning to make its arrow fly true, and it is less wasteful than the light-gun, which last evening turned a fine fat pig into two rear legs of a fine fat pig.
Then in the corner of my painting I write my name, strong, with black paint: Honoria, and I place it on the shelf with the trading basket, then go to my bed.
I will not sleep tonight, but wait for the tall brown-clad one, who is Rowan, my father. And Lord, how long will be this night.
(Excerpt from the New World Bible)
Came the morning when the prophet, Moni, crawled from her bedding and bowed low to the Chosen. And she kissed the Ring of Rule they wore on their left thumbs. And she pleaded with them for mercy.
And the Chosen laughed and they taunted her. But they took her from the recreation halls and made her to wear the face veil. And they gave her menial labour in the cloning laboratory where she cowered and walked with her awful face hidden from view.
And in time the Chosen saw that she was a pitiful thing without claw to scratch, without teeth to bite. And thus her movements were not observed closely.
And she murdered ten of the Chosen in their beds with their own sharp laboratory blades. And she held a blade to the throat of the laboratory flier, Rene, and his great craft carried her, two youthful labourers and eight females, out of Hell and into freedom.
And the earth shook, and there was war in the city between the east and the west, and fine buildings crumbled and fell. And the tall fence which divided the city was dismantled.
And for thirty days anarchy raged over all of the city, and in the streets blood flowed red in the gutters.
And for thirty days the searchers could not pursue the prophet, Moni, for the followers of Moni held the city, and held all crafts to ransom.
And the Chosen fell to their knees and cursed the name of Moni Morgan as her face veil was carried as a banner through the streets of all of the city, both the east and the west.
And her laughter was echoed there.
COME HOME
The shelf below Granny’s art gallery disguises a rock door that swings wide. It has been placed just so between the rabbit and the kangaroo. Behind it there is a small tunnel, and into it the tall one, Rowan, bids me crawl. He has brought strong cord to bind my dogs and I have bound them – for his peace of mind. They do not much like entering this place, but I hold the cords in my hand and when the tunnel is tall enough for me to stand, I pet them well, and feed them one of the strange sweet biscuits.
As Rowan closes the door and joins me, I pass my child to him, though I do not yet know if I trust him more than I trusted the grey men. He is too silent, and in silence he starts forward. I follow close on his heels, the dogs on mine. As I, they do not like our Honey Dew to be in another’s arms but my own.
Jonjan’s letter told me that the distance was long. With his flickering light to guide him, the man who gave his seed to my mother steps confidently before me into a maze of tunnels, which I believe are the diggings of the ancient ones who came here for gold.
‘Care,’ Rowan says. ‘Danger.’
Certainly there is danger. The descent is steep and there is much water about. It drips from the ceiling, drips onto my hair as we walk deeper, down, and down. But the worst of the down is soon done and the decline becomes easier to traverse.
There is a second rock door, taller, wider. It is guarded by a second male, who stares at me and my dogs. Perhaps his hands speak but he utters not a word.
Such silence, hollow. Only the scrape of footsteps and the panting of the dogs.
Then the pathway widens and soon tiny lamps glow from walls that are not man-made, but here and there rough steps have been cut to lead down, and thankfully, so thankfully, I see distant daylight. My dogs wish to race for it, but I hold them back.
And Lord, here is a hidden valley of such greenness and colour that I fill my eyes with it and forget to walk. Here is the garden I have known. It was not that city thing with its plasti-dome and white overall-clad workers. These garden walls are rock, and when I look up to see the sky, there is no sky, but a roof. Oh, not of rusting metal, as with my house, or the plasti of the city garden, but a roof woven of browns and greys, draped between the trees, and beneath it, there is the pool, wide and pure and blue.
The dogs are afraid. The male’s tail is down and curled far beneath him; the female’s tongue hangs low. She sits panting, not wishing to advance further.
But I know this place. My first memory is of this place. I played in this place. I swam in this pool, and I wandered hand
-in-hand through the soft green with my mother. Now in my mind’s eye I see Honi, see her golden hair. Now in my mind’s eye I hear her laughter as she picks a small bouquet.
The one who is my father beckons and walks ahead. I follow him and my Honey Dew into this paradise.
‘Come,’ I urge my tardy dogs. They do not like it, but they obey.
And I see children, small ones and tall ones. I walk forward feeling the warm rain that falls from this woven sky, mixing with the warm rain from my eyes, for I remember the children’s play in this land where trees grow tall and straight up through the sky to the place where a slim swathe of sunlight cuts its pathway through to our valley, like an opaque rainbow cut from the milky way.
Oh, Lord. I have come home.
He is there with his long golden hair. He walks with a stick, but walks quickly towards me, his dear smile wide. And other doors swing open in the rock face and others come to these doors to peer at me and shake their heads at my dogs.
‘Sit,’ I command. The dogs have never before been so eager to obey. I tie the cords to a small tree and I take back my Honey Dew from her grandfather’s arms and we run. We run to my Jonjan.
(Excerpt from the New World Bible)
And Moni led her followers to a hidden valley where the ancients had laboured for gold, and when her work was done in this place, she left the group and returned to the building of the old Morgan settlement to wait alone for the coming of the golden child.
And in the hidden valley the eight females lay willingly with the flier and the youthful labourers and children were freeborn. And they grew strong. And it was seen that they had no disease. Thus in time, where there had been few, there were many. And there was food and freedom for all.
And a generation was born free, and a generation died free. And they were buried in the earth and the cross of God made and words spoken over them.
But the promised golden child did not yet come.
And it came to pass that a messenger arrived from God. And his chariot was of gold, and it was drawn by two golden steeds. And the messenger spoke unto Moni, and he said: ‘Come. It is time.’
And Moni said unto the messenger: ‘I have done what was asked of me. I have waited patiently. She has not yet come.’
And the messenger said: ‘Her time now is near at hand, but Her pathway has become unclear for there has been great interference in the way long prepared for Her.’
And Moni was seen no more in the land of the living, though her soul did not yet leave the land of her fathers.
Then came the night when an infant cried in the dark. And thus was Moni’s soul reborn.
And She was recognised. And She was fair of face and Her eyes were blue and wide with advance knowledge. And around Her head was a halo of gold.
EPILOGUE
This day will soon be leaving, taking with it the rain, which has been falling since near dawn. Rain is all very well and necessary, but how it thwarts me at times – as the letters of my writing machine thwart my poor blind fingers.
I believe I have given them enough torment of learning for today, and like the children of my schoolroom, they now wish to play. Poor fingers, they like much better the paintbrush and the paint board – and I have a new board, wove of the flax plant and stretched tight on willow canes. It waits impatiently to accept my final painting of the old Morgan house.
From the cave mouth the house still appears to stand tall but on each visit now we find segments of the roof blown away. And how the last of it rattles in the wind, as if eager, too, to fly free. One morning I will walk from the cave mouth and find the roof fallen and the bricks begun to tumble. I am prepared for this, and though on the day of its death I will certainly feel a great sadness, I believe I will also feel more secure.
The city men know of that house. We have not seen a flying machine since the second year of my coming here, yet I fear that one day they will return. Far better if there is no house to guide them.
With great and combined labour, we have taken the city men’s shed and the grey water tank, the generator, the small freezer and also the device from the shed roof which harnesses the power of the sun. In truth we have taken from Granny’s house and cellar all we can carry – and made good use of our gleanings.
The old barn we can not carry. It stands strong, as it has for two hundred years. The pigeons enjoy its shelter. Perhaps in time, where there is now one pair with two fledglings, there will be many – as with the children of our valley. They are born, they grow, they join and soon there are new children to name at our meetings.
My Honey Dew is a strong girl, with long limbs, a cloud of golden hair and too much talk for a young one. Her chatter is readily forgiven for she is a favourite of many, though I do not hold her above her brothers, Lenny and Aaron, who came to join our family during the first years of my return to the valley. The fruit of my labour is very sweet. I think I may bring forth more children, though I do not wish for as many as Pieta has given to the group!
Dear Pieta, she is the last of the females who flew with Moni and her hair is grown so grey it has become a silver white – I think from the seventeen infants she has pushed into life. My mother was her last born, and all but my mother are still with the living.
Pieta has told me much of Granny, of how she left the sisterhood during the second year of their freedom when she was big with child, and near crippled by its greedy demands on her aging bones. In those first years the searchers had hunted relentlessly for the females of the Great Escape and Moni had said she brought danger to the youthful group, that this was the reason she must leave them. Pieta believes Moni never planned to live with them in the valley, but to return to the house of her people, and to her beloved books.
Pieta tells that on the night Moni said goodbye, the circle of sisterhood was formed, and again the oath was sworn, then each member, male and female, swore to die before revealing the entrance to the valley of the old gardens.
I am certain now that Granny had tried to tell me of the rock door, guarded by Aaron’s white rabbit. If I had sat with her on the day she left the earth, surely she would have broken her vow. I had not sat with her so the blame is only mine.
Verney and Nate, two youthful labouring males, had assisted in the Great Escape and flown willing with the females. Both were workers in the garden of the breeding station. Verney did not live long. The searchers had taken him when he walked by night to seek news of Moni. He sleeps in the old Morgan graveyard for I have seen the wooden marker over his grave, the letters burned into the wood, as I had burned Granny’s own name letters into green wood.
Nate, of the city garden, still lives, and how strong he lives. He is of my blood, for he fathered my mother. I love him very well, and love his flowers – and his apricots.
Rene, the copter flier who brought the group from the city, a knife at his throat, remained with the females and has grown old here. Unlike Pieta, Rene does not now recall much from the old days, or even from yesterday. Rowan, my father, son of Rene, speaks little, but watches me with troubled eyes. Pieta says his heart and his inner strength failed him when Honi left this life and I was lost. Rowan has not joined with another woman, thus has fathered no other child but he has taken my children to his heart and I think they are beginning to heal his great hurt.
There is one male here, Merle, first of the freeborn. He is of Lenny’s years and he bears a notable physical likeness to Lenny and Pa. It is said that Merle is the son of Riva and Verney, the lost one, but I dare to believe that information inaccurate. I have a great liking of Merle and how I love to watch him eat, for Lord, he eats just as Lenny.
From their earliest days in the valley it has been the habit of my people to collect and heal the maimed. Some lived, many died. Old Notalk was accepted here thirty-seven years ago. A labourer who escaped the city, a follower of Moni, he and two companions had searched for and found her promised land. They had no speech. The city men took their tongues, as they took the tongue of any who ha
d spoken the name of Moni. Notalk fathered five sons and two daughters, and it was he and his mute companions who taught the hand method of speaking. The other labourers have long left this life, but Notalk lives strong and his mind is young. He is given much respect.
Sern, the searcher, was carried here, as was Jonjan. Sern’s craft fell from the sky in the summer of nine years ago. Sorely injured and near death during the ninety days of his confinement, no one believed he would survive, and few cared. A tiny, bird-like male, dark of hair and complexion, his eyes are huge. But his legs! They are stick-thin and will not carry him far from his chair. Jemma, the small one, agreed to join with him, and already in nine brief years, Sern has fathered seven sons, who are dark and bird-like, but strong in leg and advanced in progress.
In my first year in the valley I could not look upon that searcher, nor did I trust my back to him. But slowly I learned to respect his great love of my books; he reads and writes very well. It was later I learned also to respect his knowledge of city technology. It was he who extended the sun harvester, he who joined the wires which set the generator’s heart to beating and the freezer to freezing. He it was who claimed the old printing tool I had discovered in the room of Aaron Morgan’s journal.
How the searcher worried that machine, how he frowned over it, and how many pieces he made of the inside of it. For a hundred days I thought the pieces of use only for the dump-hole. But he understood the melting of metal drips which joined small wires, as he understood the putting of the pieces back again into one.
And he made the letters again print strong!