by Lee Markham
In seeing and living too much we become lost. It is the way of it.
I am starting to feel a little lost now. In my dotage, with my wife, walking through the trees. Our children now own the world, some of them are starting to have children of their own. And some of those children, they look at us as I looked at the parents of my parents back when I was a buck. Back when I thought I was better than them. Back when I had a choice to make, at the treeline. A choice I can no longer remember, that is as a dream. But I had thought myself better than those tired old husks that so disdained me and my youthful ways. But they passed on and the world fell into our hands and we had to bear it. And we did. Until our bodies wearied and we could bear it no longer, and we handed it on. We handed it on and then told the children how to do it.
That they were doing it wrong.
I laugh at that and my wife looks at me.
I shake my head.
It is in our nature, I guess, to not trust our children. To believe they will drop the world and break it. Perhaps it is for the best that we depart it when we do, or they might start believing us. And in believing us they would surely drop it.
We live out our days and they are good. She leaves before me. And that is a greater sadness for me than the pups we lost. Greater, and better. The sadness of losing her is also a promise. A promise that I can leave too. That I don’t have to stay. Not that I have to leave because the world is rotting, but because the world simply doesn’t need me any more. That my work here is done. And everything is OK.
At last, everything is OK.
One night I awaken. The wind is soft and somewhere distant an owl is hooting half-heartedly. I push myself up and out from beneath my shelter. I pull on an extra skin – the night is cold – and I head out into the moonlit darkness, not so dark at all. I take the stick that helps me stand now and I totter away from the settlement, down towards the treeline.
Something is waiting for me.
Someone.
I stop a few lengths distant from them and tilt my head. My eyes aren’t what they once were and I can’t make them out. When they step forward, my heart leaps into my throat. It is her. And with her a young one, a buck, gimlet eyes looking at me with as much shock as I’m sure I am reflecting back. For he is me. As I was. As somewhere within I’ve no doubt I will always be.
And then I am him, beside her once again, and I am watching the young me turning away from us and moving back up the slope to the settlement. Back to the life that is his.
I lean on my stick and exhale. I am tired now.
She reaches out and puts her hand on mine. The tiredness in my bones takes on an unearthly weight then, and there starts a skittering behind my ribcage that reminds me of a small, injured bird I once found on the ground. That had died in my hands as I cradled it.
It is my time.
She helps me to the ground and props me up against the trunk of the tree. She strokes my cheek and she weeps. Such sadness, these young ones. I smile at her, and say for her not to worry. That this is the way of things. That this is as it should be. That my work is long since done and all I could achieve by staying is undoing it. I don’t want to poison my children. Or their children. I have to let go.
She smiles so sadly then. ‘You are beautiful…’ she whispers then, ‘I love you. I always have. And I always will. And I’m so sorry…’
I shake my head wearily at her and tell her to hush.
Behind her the sky is turning red. A new day is dawning.
I look to the east and wait for her. She that reddens the sky in anticipation of her arrival. She that chases away the night.
She leans in and kisses me, softly, lingeringly, on my lips, and once again she takes my breath away. Then she slips away back into the shadow of the trees and leaves me there, breathless and done. My chest is still, but my eyes and my mind hold on for those last few moments, so that I can see her, the sun, one last time.
And then, there she is.
Rising majestic over the hill and the settlement that sits atop it.
She rises, she that gives life and taketh it away.
She rises and I look into her.
She rises, and I rise with her.
2
By the time the man with the scar across his face opens his eyes, all of the others in the room are calm enough, but deeply concerned. Those that had hosted the old-one know that he is gone now. They know that the man on the floor took him away from them. But they’re not sure how whatever has just happened will have affected him. He lies there for a moment and looks up at the ceiling.
One of the flock that he’d brought with him steps forward.
She has been one of his flock for a few years now, ever since he’d saved her from the group of drunks that had set upon her. She’d been living in a box at the time. Story of her life. He’d pulled her out of harm’s way and snapped a few drunken limbs and taken her back to the farm. He’d nursed her back to health and invited her to stay. To help with the running of the place. In time she’d asked for the gift. She’d wanted to help people the way he’d helped her. She didn’t feel cut out for farm work. She felt that outreach work would be a better fit. And outreach required the gift. That was how it worked.
So, over those few years, they had slowly grown as a group, as a family, but they all understood the need for absolute secrecy. That the farm was for him, in effect, a secure retreat from a violent relationship. His own woman’s retreat. She teased him about that from time to time, kindly, and he would smile. He would smile and say, ‘Soon… soon…’, and his eyes would flit away as if somewhere else he was being watched and his secret might get out.
It would always be soon. Always on the horizon. She didn’t think he would ever leave the old-one. People never did. Not when they’d stuck it out that long. Once they’d made it that far they always seemed to get locked in it until the bitter end. And the end would always be truly bitter. No matter what. It was almost a badge of honour.
But then one day he told them it was time. She didn’t know what had happened to push him to the decision. But something in his eyes had shifted. Something in his posture. He stood slightly straighter. Like he wasn’t carrying anything any more.
That had been just over a month ago now. It hadn’t gone smoothly. It had been a terrifying time for all of them. They’d thought they might lose him. And they’d not been at all sure about the boy, John, whom he’d brought back with him. The boy had been mean. Still was pretty mean. Might yet still grow up to be mean. But the man had treated him fairly and the boy had responded positively. Enough. So far. He’d played his part in putting things right, and he’d not allowed his petulance to run away with him such that he’s upended any plans. He’d not given them away. That had been her greatest concern. And he’d not asked for the gift. Which had also been a relief. She’d assumed he would, but he hadn’t. It seemed his better nature was better than hers. That he had less need to vent. Less need to bare his teeth. Perhaps in time he’d change his mind. Perhaps he was a better person than she gave him credit for.
She steps forward and looks down on the prone, dazed figure on the floor. His eyes roll lazily across to look at her. She asks him, ‘What’s the word?’
She needs to know he’s still who he was. That he isn’t the other one.
The man on the floor smiles up at her.
‘Grease. Grease is the word.’
She smiles. He smiles.
‘Good,’ she says, reaching down to take his hand and pull him to his feet. ‘Is it done?’
His smile fades somewhat. He nods. He says nothing. Then he steps round her and looks down at the knife. It is where he’d thrown it after he’d pulled it from his arm. It is glowing red. Getting redder. He steps back from it, over towards the young crowd watching him carefully. The light coming through the sole unboarded window is brightening.
‘We need to move. We need to be quick. We need to be careful – stay away from trouble. Especially you lot…’ He looks at the
hooded flock that sparked the chaos engulfing the streets. ‘They’ll be looking for you. And if they take you in, we won’t be coming for you. We do things differently. Understand?’
They nod solemnly, respectfully, and then start off down the stairs. He is the last to follow. He glances back at the knife. It is now glowing white, like a light bulb. As if it is falling into the sun.
Somewhere, a part of it is.
A drop of molten metal falls to the floor from its tip and a small flame plumes into existence. He can almost feel the warmth being given off by the steel from here, some metres distant. He turns and heads down to the next floor.
They are waiting for him. But not just the flock.
Danny is here. He looks at the scarred man with dispassionate eyes. He is tired, and he is angry. But he has reconciled himself to his situation. He won’t miss the old-one. He felt nothing for him. ‘What happens to the boy who did this to me?’ he asks.
The scarred man looks at him and gives him an honest response. ‘He moves on. You should do the same.’ Danny nods and frowns at the same time. It was the answer he’d expected. But not the one he’d wanted.
Peter is wailing. He is in Anna’s arms and sobbing like the young child he still is. Was. Will for a long time continue to be. He refuses to look at the scarred man, or his flock. He hates them. They have taken away the only person who has ever cared for him. The only person who ever protected him, stood up for him, made him feel safe. He doesn’t feel safe any more. He is scared and he is crying. He clings to Anna. She holds him tight and shushes him. He snuffles and sobs into the crook of her neck. She looks across at the scarred man and locks eyes with him. They see each other. The faintest flicker of a smile on her lips. Then a nod.
He nods back and understands her smile. She is one of them now. She is with them. Her sympathies for the old-one hadn’t extended to sympathy for his ways. She had come to pity him. She didn’t think she would miss him.
And then John’s mother is also here, cowed and terrified. Wide-eyed and docile. She doesn’t know where to be, where to look, what to do. The scarred man goes to her, puts a finger under her chin and raises her face to look at him. Her eyes are awash with tears and she is shaking. He tells her that she has nothing to fear. She will not be harmed. That they will now take her to her son.
Her face folds and creases and weeps. She puts her hands to her face and he holds her.
A crackling from upstairs gets them moving. A hole burns through the ceiling above their heads and the knife, molten now, pours through. It is too bright to look at. It is the heart of a star. The heat it throws off is incredible. Impossible. They move then.
Down, out into the streets. They break into small groups, each smaller group led by one of the scarred man’s flock, and they make flight to somewhere safe, a place in the city, not too far from the now blazing emporium. A place where they can hide from the sun, before heading back to their home beyond the concrete and the crowds.
At the safe place the scarred man counts them in.
All of them.
All except one.
3
Picking through the smouldering rubble of the building, the fire crews found no human remains. At least there was that. Not that there was any guarantee that they wouldn’t yet. But so far, so not so bad. Having said that, what they did find suggested the kind of heat that wouldn’t leave remains. Just ash. Incineration.
Tom paced the perimeter demarcated by the police tape some fifty metres distant and felt adrift. The last month and a bit of his life had seemed like some ever-intensifying fugue. What started as just plain weird at the park bench had evolved to something more sinister back at the same bench a week later, before then blossoming through full-blown horror at the flat into a situation approximating an actual nightmare from there on in – Anna’s mysterious disappearance, the further murders, the missing children and young adults, the shooting fuck-up, the assault on the police station and now this: the city in flames, with others across the country fast going the same way.
It was madness. And it shook him to his core.
His foundational belief that the world, humanity, whatever, was on a gradual curve up and away from the fanged bloodlust from whence we came didn’t stack up so neatly in the wake of these last few weeks’ events. He wondered this morning if perhaps Anna hadn’t had a point after all.
What was it Anna had said to him that night in the café?
You’d be surprised what children can do these days, Tom.
That was it. That’s what she’d said.
He wasn’t so sure that he would be surprised. Not any more. Not today. Not after the night the city had just lived through.
She’d been right, after all, it seemed.
A part of him blamed her. Blamed Anna. He knew it didn’t make sense, but he had to acknowledge it. He did. This part of his mind blamed her for saying it out loud and making it so. Her, and people like her, assuming the world was gone to shit, their quiet cynicism slowly polluting the world until… well, until lo, so it came to pass. He shook his head at himself. He knew this was bigger than that. And somewhere, deep down, he believed that nothing much had really changed. Less than a hundred years ago the industrialised slaughter of entire races was still very much the fashion and this was nothing like that. This was just a squall. A particularly vicious storm. But it would pass. It didn’t herald the dawn of the descent of man.
He hoped. He hoped. He continued to hope.
He nursed a coffee in a takeout cup and looked up through the charred and smouldering walls and glassless windows of the old furniture emporium. He remembered this place from when he was little. He’d come here with his parents. They’d bought bunk-beds for him and his brother, their firstborn. His parents still had them, the bunks. His nephews slept on them now when they stayed with their grandparents. His own daughter probably would too when she was a bit older and started going for sleepovers. He remembered the day his folks had driven in from the suburbs to choose them, spending the afternoon chasing through the fake bedrooms parked up next to mocked-up living rooms and home offices. It had reminded him of a book they had in the school library that had pictures of buildings with the walls removed so you could see what was inside. Little arrows pointing to things named in English and French. He’d loved that book. And he’d loved this furniture shop. But it was gone now.
But then it had been gone for a while already. Emptied and abandoned. A husk. Now, however, it had been cremated and it would never be back. No matter how hard he wished it. And he only wished it at all because he was sat here looking at its blackened shell.
He hadn’t thought of it for years.
But that’s how life worked. You might happily forget something only to remember it once it was gone. And only then would you miss it. When it was too late. The most tired cliché in the world. But still true. Just like all the other clichés. He wondered what would be next. What was he neglecting to remember right now as he sat there pining over the loss of a store that he’d not thought of since childhood?
He missed childhood.
And he felt sad.
A deep, aching sadness. And he worried that this time he wouldn’t be able to shake it.
He swilled his nearly empty cup and slugged down the last mouthful. Grimaced. Headed across the street to find a bin. He wasn’t sure what else he was going to achieve here. Especially in the wake of so much else going on all over the place. The brutal attack on the police station that had sparked the subsequent bedlam had been carried out by a nondescript gang of hooded youths. Witnesses had falteringly described a peculiarly menacing air they had about them, which, coupled with their seemingly inhuman brutality – how matter-of-factly they attacked and murdered so many trained police officers, outside and inside the station – painted a picture somehow beyond conceit. They’d freed the girl and gone, swept away in a landslide of directionless, inflammatory destruction. But then it did all provide a dreadful, impossible continuity to the wave
of crimes they’d been investigating over the previous weeks.
Survivors had made all sorts of wild statements about what had happened and none of it made any sense. They described things that weren’t possible. Kids moving so fast they were a blur. Throats being ripped out with bare hands. Officers being thrown across rooms. Doors torn from hinges. Hysterical, outlandish, unbelievable, impossible. So why then did he believe it?
It was something about the words the desk clerk quoted the ringleader as saying to him: ‘We’re here for the girl, rat.’ It niggled at his mind. It was such a small, insignificant detail in a spuming ocean of the stuff, and yet his mind hollered that there was something to it. That there was a connection to be made.
But he hadn’t been able to make it. Too tired. Too much else to try and absorb.
He’d come here when he heard the description of the crowd of kids that had swarmed across the street in the direction of the building not half an hour before the first reports of smoke. He didn’t know if he was the first to make a connection, or if he was in fact just the first to be losing the plot and seeing connections where there were none to be made. Perhaps it was just that when he imagined a swarm of hooded kids moving as one in a blur through a police station, and a similar swarm sweeping through busy, moving traffic as one, in a blur, he imagined the same kids. So it was tenuous. At best. Because all the statements were clearly tinted by the exaggerating lens of panic, and none of them withstood any sort of serious scrutiny. But still. He was begging and not choosing. There wasn’t much else to go on. Or rather, there was so much else to go on it didn’t really make a fat lot of difference where he started.
He dropped the cup in the bin and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
He wished Anna was here. As much as she could drive him mad, and as little as he shared her world view, she was always good for perspective. She could always look in on things from the other side, and quite frequently it was this very stereoscopy of their vision as a team that would illustrate the nature of the crime. Without her he felt like he was walking around with a patch over one eye – and that he was misjudging everything. His perspective was all out of whack. But, she wasn’t here. Hadn’t been for a while. Not since she’d gone wrong that night and walked out of his life.