The Resurrectionist

by James Bradley

  ‘Where did you find him?’ Caley asks.

  ‘In a tavern,’ I say, ‘pleading for his soul.’

  ‘Has a dog a soul? Caley asks, watching him, and all at once I know I have not seen all of this. But then he surprises me by coming up to Graves, and taking his arm solicitously.

  ‘Sit,’ he says. Graves allows himself to be led by Caley to his seat by the fire. There, Caley offers him a drink, and briefly all seems repaired between the two of them.

  ‘You must be careful,’ Caley says. ‘If we are discovered all of us will hang.’

  Graves snuffles into his drink, staring at the two of us. ‘For what you have done you deserve to hang.’

  ‘You have done it too,’ I say.

  Graves looks at me. ‘Perhaps I have,’ he says, ‘but at least I’m not a damned resurrectionist.’ Then he giggles, the idiot sound incongruous.

  Behind him Caley has taken up something in his hand. Perhaps Graves sees my eyes move, for he begins to turn, but even as he does Caley raises his hand and brings a chisel plunging down. It cannot take more than a second, less perhaps, but it seems to occur so slowly that its various parts can be unpicked: the look on Caley’s face, the movement of the blade up, then down, Graves’s recognition of what is to come; and then, even as they slip apart, they seem to pull back, collapsing inwards, in a sudden rush, only to meet in the sickening crunch as the knife pierces Graves’s skull.

  Graves does not slump or fall, instead he gives a choking cry and stumbles to his feet. At first I think I must have misunderstood somehow, that the implement has glanced off, or struck somewhere unimportant, but then I see the handle sticking from his head at the back, the blade sunk several inches deep within.

  ‘Oh no,’ cries Graves, groping behind him with his hand. ‘What have you done?’ Seizing the knife he closes his hands upon it, as if not quite able to believe what he has found.

  ‘Give me up,’ Caley hisses. ‘Give me up would you?’

  ‘I never gave you up,’ says Graves, ‘and now you’ve killed me.’ He has his hand wrapped about the handle, but he cannot bring himself to try to pull it loose. Blood has begun to bubble from the wound running down to stain his collar.

  Swivelling to look at me, Graves holds out a hand.

  ‘Please,’ he whimpers, ‘help me. Draw it forth.’ He lurches suddenly, and his face contorts, tears leaking from his squinting eyes and down across his cheeks. Once again he looks at Caley, then with a sudden motion starts towards the door. For a space of seconds he fumbles with the latch, trying in vain to open it, but then Caley starts after him, catching him around the neck. Though he moves more slowly, stumbling and swaying as if drunk or drugged, Graves still has strength enough to throw him off.

  ‘Help me,’ he pleads hopelessly, ‘help me,’ tears streaming from his face. Looking at him I realise I no longer care what happens here, all that matters is that it be done, and moving calmly and without haste I take up the poker by the fire. As it strikes his lifted arm the force of the blow reverberates through my own, and lifting it I strike again, harder now, hitting him across the face. Still he does not fall and so I strike again, and then again, and at last he stumbles to his knees, and I follow him, beating him with it as one might whip a dog, over and over and over again, until at last he falls forward on his face and is still.

  WE TAKE GRAVES to Brookes’ house. It is folly, to take a body mutilated thus, but Caley will not be swayed from it. His face set so pale and furious, I am afraid of him as I have not been in many weeks. We hurry down through the shrouded streets, the smell of the river heavy, dank and sulphurous, Caley driving the barrow mercilessly.

  Brookes is asleep when we arrive, and so it is his prentice who shows us in. When Brookes appears he is in his nightshirt, as he often is, its filthy folds billowing about his fleshy form. Seeing it is us he nods and rubs his hands together, and I am reminded of the kindnesses he has shown to me. Time seems out of joint tonight, the smell of Graves’s blood upon my skin.

  ‘You knew I was short?’ he asks, his little eyes studying us.

  ‘Buy this one,’ Caley says, ‘and cut him close and small.’

  Brookes looks at him curiously. ‘Let me see him first,’ he says. All at once I wish to be away from here, out of this house, and I lift my eyes to the roof of glass above.

  ‘You have some learning,’ Brookes says, watching me, ‘have you heard tell of the Hindu’s belief that life is not a thing lived from end to end but a circle, in which we die only to be born again, over and over?’

  I shake my head. ‘A strange belief,’ I say, and Brookes nods his head.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he says, ‘perhaps.’ He puts out his hand and draws back the cloth to reveal Graves’s face. The mouth lolled open, the squinting eyes half closed in death. I am struck by the sadness of Graves being there, of the stilling of his foolish laugh. Poor Graves, I think, tears welling up, uncontrollable. Brookes has paused, Graves’s chin held in his fingers. Slowly he lets his hand fall, the back of it brushing the chest beneath the arm. Still warm, I realise, and must hold myself unless I laugh. With his other hand Brookes touches Graves’s mangled face, then pulls back a scrap of scalp where the chisel entered. For a long moment he stares at it, then slowly, carefully, he withdraws his hand and wipes it on his nightshirt.

  ‘Go,’ he says. ‘Take this with you.’ Though his voice is level I hear the way he must work to keep it thus.

  ‘Why not?’ Caley demands, stepping closer as if to threaten him. Brookes turns to look at him.

  ‘I will pretend you did not ask me that,’ he says, drawing the sack back up over the ruined head.

  Only at the door does he speak again.

  ‘Do not come here again,’ he says. ‘I will not have you in my house.’

  I hear the impact like a dull thud, and turn. At first I cannot tell what has made the sound. Behind me two men stand, a large mirror held between them, halfway between the door and a wagon filled with furniture. They have heard it too, and for a moment we all stand, gazing about.

  Then I see it. The small corpse dark upon the freshly swept cobbles. The men’s eyes follow as I bend to touch it. A swallow, its neck broken, wings lolling loose. At once I know it has flown into the mirror, winging into its own reflection in a hastening arc, only to strike those glassy depths. I lift its broken body, so small it can be held in one hand. Still warm, the tiny heart only just stilled. A small thing a life, so easily broken, and all at once I begin to weep, while above me the men place the mirror on the wagon, and one, with a rag from his pocket, wipes the small mark the bird has left upon the glass.

  I DO NOT REMEMBER how I came to be here. It is as if I am slipping out of myself, like a lens falling out of focus. I cannot go back to the house, for Caley is there, and I know he would see it in my eyes. I am by the river, where I used to walk with Robert. I have had no word of him, and miss him. All day I have been walking. I have a decision to make, although in truth I know it is made already. The only question now is how it is to be done.

  He is not hard to find. The fog is already thick, so he only hears me when I am hard upon him, stepping out from behind to call his name. He wheels around, one hand moving to his belt, his white eye staring blindly.

  ‘It is only me,’ I say. He looks as if he thinks to kill me there.

  ‘Run away, boy,’ he says. ‘You have no business here.’

  When I do not move, he takes a step closer.

  ‘Did you not hear what I said?’

  ‘I would speak with you,’ I say.

  ‘What could you say that I would want to hear?’

  ‘Intelligence,’ I say, ‘about the murder of Lucan.’

  At the mention of Lucan’s name, Craven stiffens.

  ‘You say he is murdered?’

  ‘And anatomised,’ I say.

  In one sudden movement Craven lunges forward, grabbing my collar and forcing me to my knees. Though he is thin he is quick, and strong, and before I can fight back he ha
s produced a knife and has it against my eye.

  ‘Who did it?’ he asks.

  ‘Caley,’ I gasp, and at my throat his grip tightens.

  ‘And you?’ he demands. ‘What part in it did you have?’

  ‘I was a witness,’ I say, ‘but not a party.’ Craven holds me there, the knife quivering an inch from my eye. With the fog behind him he seems shrouded in a jaundiced light.

  ‘Why have you come to tell me this?’

  ‘Because I would see some justice.’

  Craven nods, and lowers the knife.

  ‘Why should I trust a traitor?’

  ‘I owe Caley nothing,’ I say.

  Craven lets me get to my feet.

  ‘Speak then,’ he says. ‘Tell me what you intend.’

  SHE IS SLEEPING when I knock upon the door.

  Though Mary’s instincts are to turn me away, she admits me. I am not sure what I think to do: wake her perhaps, ask for some absolution. Yet once I am there in her room, I am unable to touch her. It is dim, the soft light of the evening against the drapes. Outside the air is still, and cold, but in here it is warm. She lies upon her side, as she always does, one arm outstretched, her face downturned, one half obscured by the pillow. Where do we go in sleep, I wonder. The self turned inwards, only to find itself absent, lost amongst the inner shapes of its dreaming. I am so full of the wrong of this thing, with the knowledge of my part in it. Yet as I look at her I wish I could say to her that I will make it right somehow, that all that has been done can be undone. I am tired, and would lay myself beside her. After a time, a minute, maybe more, she murmurs, and stirs, pushing herself over onto her back, turning her face away from me, and quietly I step away, out the door and am gone.

  WORD IS SENT, telling him it is me who seeks his company. Two days he has been alone, and I am afraid of what he will have done, alone in the house.

  As I walk I seem to float. I did not sleep today, and the night is cold, a bitter wind blowing hard against the sky. No opium, I told myself this morning when I woke – I should be clear tonight, and calm – but somewhere I drank, and then again, the depth of it pressing out against my eyes.

  I am late, I think as I arrive, or early, or maybe both. We are to meet in the yard of St John’s, a narrow place and walled. I have been here, I know, but I cannot find the memory. Time is slipping about me.

  And then his voice.

  ‘Prentice,’ he says. With a start I turn to see him there.

  ‘What?’ he asks. ‘Did you not think that I would come?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he asks.

  ‘Nowhere,’ I say, ‘nowhere.’ He takes a step closer to me, and I step away, and he goes still.

  ‘Why back away?’ he asks. ‘Are you afraid of me?’ I hear the crack in his voice, sharp as a gun. There is something in his hand, some heavy thing.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘not afraid.’ Then he extends a hand until it almost touches me.

  ‘Then what?’ he asks, his voice trembling.

  But I hear a sound, and without thinking turn. He too starts, one hand grasping me by the collar and pressing me back against the wall.

  ‘No one,’ I say. But as he presses me against the wall I see his eyes are wet with tears.

  ‘Do you mean to give me up?’ he demands, pushing me, his body pressed against my own.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘I will not give you up.’

  His face is full of this thing that is in both of us. I see the way it swells and grows, like tenderness, or love.

  ‘Please,’ I say, and then all at once he steps away. At first I think to run, for now I understand. I am betrayed by all.

  And then I see his eyes are not on me but on a shovel abandoned by a grave nearby. Taking a step towards it he reaches out, closing his hand about its haft.

  ‘What do you do?’ I ask, and he laughs.

  ‘You did not think I would let you kill me, did you?’

  ‘Let me go and you will never see me again,’ I plead, and Caley nods. Encouraged I take a step away, but then he yanks the shovel free, pulling it into his hands and around in one long arc, its passage slicing the air only inches from my head as I stumble back. Near the fence a tree grows upwards, and I make for its dark shape, the quickest way across the wall, and am almost there, when suddenly I am grabbed out of the darkness, and go down into the reeking mud. A hand claws at my face, and I struggle upwards, but something strikes me in the head from behind, a massive blow that sends me crashing to my knees. I struggle to rise, but then it strikes me again, sending me down once more, then again, and again. Dimly I know it must be the shovel.

  Then a hand grabbing me, my body rolled onto its back, the weight of a knee upon my chest.

  ‘Betray me, would you?’ he demands, and I hear the way his voice is breaking. All I see is red and sparking light. Then taking me by the throat he dashes my head down upon the stones, and consciousness ebbs and all is dark.

  I WAKE WITHOUT WAKING, merely rising from a kind of stupor into a different darkness. Where I am I do not know. Above me is the sky, although I do not recognise it at first. A girdle of light, dark cloud scurrying fast. For a time I lie, staring upwards. I can feel the earth beneath me I think, moving in the void. I am cold, and everything is slipping upwards, like heat lost into the night. The slivered moon. I try to move, but cannot, or not my arms, and so I twist my head back, and then I see the lantern, the opened grave. I am floating, smooth as a stone borne in the mouth.

  Then I am above, the grave open beneath me. A pauper’s hole, the bodies wrapped and stacked one on the other, nameless in the earth. With a strange clarity I understand what is happening, what Caley means to do. One by one he pulls the bodies forth, lining them around the pit. Then I see him take the one I recognise as my very own, and pressing his face close to it to whisper something I cannot hear, he pushes it into the waiting pit.

  I am above and I am beneath.

  Then one by one the bodies falling in upon me there, their swaddled shapes rolling in on top of me. And all at once I am afraid, and I start to strain and fight, but my body is not mine, it will not move, and so I try to shout, but my voice is mute, as if this was a dream, and one from which I could not wake. From overhead the earth still falling, the close stink of it, as my body seems to fall into the smothering dark, its pressing weight, as if I am not to die but to be unborn, and unmade, returned to the womb from which I came. And all at once I think I understand. Time is not a river, but a prism, in which we are broken and divided like light. Then the last earth tumbles from above, and all is still.

  THE KINGDOM OF THE BIRDS

  New South Wales, 1836

  AT FIRST IT IS NOTHING, or less than nothing. A sort of hesitation in the air. Bourke has fallen still; all about is silence, the only sound the breathing of the bush. In the depthless mirror of the water’s surface the clouds stream by, a silent motion, the dipping flight of a currawong moving crosswise to their current like a stone forever falling but never striking. On every side the world unspools.

  Turning my hand I look at it. It is part of me, and yet it seems another lives within its skin. The water spilling down from it, beaded glass, as slowly as a feather might. My blood moving past inside of me.

  Lifting my eyes I see them. Silent on a rock upon the creek’s other side; so close we might speak. How long they have been standing there I am not sure: though it is only now that I have seen them, it seems that they have stood there all along, or even are already gone, as if the fault lies with my senses or with time itself.

  In his hand, each holds a brace of spears, light and slender things which give the impression of flight. And yet they seem dressed not for the hunt but for some ritual, their faces and bodies painted with circles and lines of white, lending them the appearance not of men but of ghosts, which perhaps they are.

  Unfolding myself I rise. They do not speak, or move, though for a moment I think perhaps they will utter some words which will give this
sense, in some tongue known to all of us. But they do not, instead they stand, and watch, their eyes deep and liquid beneath their painted brows.

  How long we stand like this I am not sure. A few seconds only, no more, though time seems to stretch impossibly. And then, quite suddenly, a flicker in the light, as if a shadow moved over us. In the water’s rusty depths a shaft of light slips upwards and away. Too quick, I think, as if it were just a bird that moved against the sun. But it is enough to break whatever spell it is that binds us here. Across the creek the smaller of the two steps backwards, his eyes passing over me and away. Then the taller too, and without a sound they are gone, slipped away into the bush.

  When at last I turn from the space that they have left, I see Bourke still standing there, his horse’s bridle hanging in his hand. His eyes meet mine, and briefly we are equal in each other’s gaze. And then he looks away again as if some intimacy has passed between us and we were made closer by it than we might care to be.

  Only later, as we come acrest the road towards the settlement does he speak of it. It is growing late, and overhead the birds shoot and wheel against the fading sky.

  ‘They thought us spirits once,’ he says, not turning in his saddle. ‘They took the colour of our skin for the pallor of the dead and imagined us their ancestors, lost and wandering in the living world once more.’

  Though it is a story I have heard before, the memory of the silent way they stared at us across the creek, the spectral masks of their painted skin rises unbidden in my mind. Then all at once he turns to me.

  ‘You have never felt it?’ he asks. ‘That sense we are not quite real here? That this land is not our own?’