Among You Secret Children

by Jeff Kamen

She indicated the strip of exposed ground at their feet. He went clinking towards them, and once at their side he crouched and flapped the sack open and dug gently into the soil with the spade. ‘Don’t fill it all the way, please, dear,’ Eva said. ‘Can’t carry more than half a sack at my age.’

  He nodded, lost in thoughts that made him feel sadder the more he dwelt on them, and as they continued talking, he consoled himself by studying the worms the soil held, smiling in surprise to find so many there. They were curious looking. Some had raised parts that were finely ribbed; many had spots at either end. Some had plain bodies of a charcoal hue, while the rest were striped in pinks and browns and muddy reds. He watched them in growing fascination, scooping up a handful of the soil to examine them more closely. As with the front garden, the soil was rich and black, and when he put it to his nose he took in a musky scent that seemed to fill the air with its freshness, its pleasing tone and depth.

  ‘Listen, dear,’ the old woman was saying, gesturing with her pipe, ‘it wasn’t far away from here, not far at all. They slit their throats. Cut them up. Yes, cut them in front of the parents like animals. Slaughtered them, just slaughtered them.’

  ‘But these pig,’ Cora said. ‘Without me, they die.’

  The old woman repeated her argument, pleading with Cora to stay away until the bad times had passed, but Cora cut in with fierce determination: ‘You must understand, Eva,’ she said, ‘this house — this is mine. If they come here, I fight. I fight hard.’

  ‘I understand you, dear. You’re a proud woman, very proud. And don’t get me wrong, I admire you for it. But don’t think they’ll just leave it at fighting.’ Eva hesitated a moment, then added sombrely, ‘They kill the men, that’s bad enough. But the women ... well, you know what they do to the women.’

  Cora nodded at this, her features suffused with doubt.

  ‘It’s the same evil in every age, dear. All the old stories ... evil. I do wish you’d think about moving away ...’

  Moth sighed, listening to them with new despair. He wanted to stand up and scream at Cora to listen, to act on what she’d been told, yet everything he knew about her told him it was hopeless. Leaving Eva to continue her persuading, he added soil to the sack until it was just over a quarter full. The old woman seemed to notice this, and sent him a wink of gratitude as he offered to tie it off with some twine. Then turning to Cora she said, ‘I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to leave this little lot at home, then go west for a while. Wait for news.’ She gripped Cora’s arm tenderly. ‘Think about it, dear. Think hard. I don’t want anything happening to you. You’re a good soul. I mean it. A truly good soul.’

  ‘I will think, Eva,’ Cora said, covering the old woman’s scrawny hand with her own much larger hand, and the pair of them stood lightly clasped like this for some time, caught in a gentle stalemate of friendship and dilemma and contemplation.

  He sighed again, turning from the women to ponder what Eva had said — and what he could do to reinforce her argument. Were it worth the effort, he thought ... were it worth him even bothering ...

  His musings were interrupted by the sight of one of the larger worms twisting its way up to the surface. He plucked it out without thinking and tossed it into his mouth, mashing the sweet juices against his palate before swallowing the creature down. When it had gone, he eyed the soil with new interest. The second worm he chose for its length, and he was sucking it between his lips when he looked up at the women, hearing Cora speak. Immediately Eva’s face changed, and she shrieked into his ear like a steamwhistle. Stumbling, babbling in horror, she backed away from him, and seeing what had happened, Cora seized her by the arm and led her safely away, ushering her swiftly towards the orchard, doing what she could to calm her down, assuring her that it was nothing, just a silly joke.

  As they departed, he sank to the ground clutching his throat and whooping raggedly for breath, terrified by the old woman’s reaction, wondering if what he’d eaten was poisonous. He was vomiting up the remains, tears streaming from his eyes, when Cora strode back towards him.

  ‘Wh-what is it?’ he gasped, drooling.

  Without a word, she dragged him to his feet, then slapped him round the face so ferociously that he span away and dropped to the grass. He kicked at her as she towered over him but she batted his feet aside, hissing, ‘You, I should kill you. You think this something to laugh? Hah? You men do bad, you kill. You kill the people. Our people. You stay here two week, no more. Why? I don’t know. You a stupid boy, so I don’t kill you, I think.’ She pinned him down with her boot. ‘You work here,’ she said, trembling, ‘you eat, you sleep. Then you go. Hear me? You go! I hope you go far away! I hope the wolf smell you! I want you gone!’

  ~O~

  His working day ended with the hideous trench and the next day began with it. And the next. Faeces and flies and rain and silence filled his hours, and all his croaky pleadings ended in yet more abuse: there was less food for him, less time to sleep; and conspicuously, he thought, no time for treatments.

  It was as if the worm had opened a gulf between them that nothing could fill or transcend. He grew ever more anxious, his marks on the wall turning to desperate streaks. Then, just when he could no longer stand the tension between them, he found their lives interrupted by a visitor, a girl of perhaps twenty years who appeared without warning as he was collecting water from the rainbarrel. As she called to the house, he thought perhaps to go and speak to her, to plead for help — but his gut told him to wait and listen. ‘Mama?’ she called from the garden.

  Treading carefully, his ankles chained together in a figure of eight, he hid in the trees and looked on. Mama? he thought. Mama? Was this the …?

  A moment later Cora yelled, ‘I come, Clareka!’ and ran out to meet her. As they embraced, the daughter burst into tears of joy and relief. He remained hidden as he watched Cora lead her towards the house, the girl moving with an awkward gait, one hand supporting her belly. He heard Cora question her about her condition and saw the daughter smile with affection as she answered. As they passed from view, skipping from one language to the other, he crept out to follow them, hearing enough to infer that the daughter was deeply worried about her mother, and had travelled there especially to warn her to leave. When the front door was shut, he turned away in thought, convinced that at last someone had arrived to talk sense to her.

  They reappeared shortly after lunch. As soon as he heard them he hid again, observing them slyly. It wasn’t until they were at the gate that his heart sank, watching in dismay as the daughter pleaded with her mother once again to take her advice. But it seemed that no matter what was said, nor who said it, Cora had made up her mind, and was immune to all persuasion. He watched her shake her head and laugh, assuring her daughter that all was well, that there was nothing to be frightened of. The last he saw of the girl was through a broken section of the wall at the front. A tearful figure at the reins of a small cart, she prompted her pony forward, then turned the cart expertly around and set off. The cart jostled away through the birches and swayed steadily uphill, Clareka putting a hand out in farewell until the trees eclipsed her.

  As Cora turned away he slunk back further, terrified of being seen. She looked crushed, all bravado drained from her. Her eyes were focused on the ground and she walked the path as if years had been piled on her during the visit. Before she’d even reached the house she burst into tears, and he stood watching uneasily, unsure whether to go to her or let her deal with matters as she saw fit. The front door shut with a bang. He paced about aimlessly for a while, undecided, then he collected the bucket he’d brought with him, scrubbed clean by now, and was soon back at his labours.

  ~O~

  Late the next day, at work beneath heavy grey clouds, he saw another family carrying goods with them, heading for the northern reaches of the valley.

  The sight chilled him. The old woman’s stories were still fresh in his mind, and as he scanned the birches he saw enemies lurking in every shado
w. Resting on his shovel as he watched the travellers go, he pictured the rocky slopes transforming into a levelled-out factoryscape, the distant peaks turned to watchtowers. Local streams would divert into a central canal, the slave crews sending stripped timber floating down it like corpses, each batch destined for newly constructed and anonymous-looking buildings. He saw fires roaring in huge stone containers, thunderheads of steam sending bladed discs screaming round while machineheads screeched out electricity from wire teeth. He saw Cora’s body hanging from a branch: limp, bloodstained, cold. The vehicle emerging from deep subterranean stations to recommence its drilling.

  Drifts of fine rain blew into him and he felt the Ostgrenzers’ menace in it, felt them everywhere. When the travellers had gone, he looked about furtively, then packed his things for the evening and hobbled up towards the gate.

  That night, with the wind blowing wet and strong through the valley, he sat at the table jumping at every rattle and creak in the house. Every lurch of the shutters startled him; the gusts beneath the door, the flutters of the fireplace. And he did not appear to be alone in this: he noticed that Cora had started drinking earlier than usual. Her lips were already stained by the time she’d served the dishes, and she seemed to grow increasingly nervy as she ate.

  Picking at his food, his fears began to swarm him. He imagined a troop of guards encircling the house. Figures climbing over the walls, signalling. Torchlight on the cracked plaster. Someone listening at the shutters. Two, three, four at the door. Five, six, seven round the back. The pigs squealing. Someone climbing a ladder and leaping into Cora’s bedroom, thudding down the stairs and into the narrow hallway. Troops blasting in on them while the front door crashed open, guns firing in a deafening roar.

  When a log spat, he gasped, dropping his fork so that it clattered on the tabletop. Cora sat trembling. She cut him a ferocious glance, hissing, ‘Stop this!’ then returned to her drink. He sat still. A few empty dishes lay between them. A lantern was burning low in the recess. For once there was no table light; the walls were flickering. He set the fork straight, swallowing uncomfortably as the door shook on its hinges.

  He toyed with the idea of going to bed, but the thought of being alone made him even more uneasy. Finally, he decided to speak. ‘Can I, ah … can I say something?’ he said. She nodded.

  ‘I … I know what she came for, your daughter. She came to warn you, but you wouldn’t —’

  ‘My daughter?’ she said, sitting upright, ‘my daughter? You don’t know my daughter. Why you talk about my daughter?’

  He stared at her. ‘You’re asking me why? Because I’m worried, that’s why. You s-saw those people yesterday, I know you did. Why do you think they’re leaving?’

  ‘You know nothing.’

  ‘Me? Me know nothing? It’s you! You’re — you’re just stupid, you know that? You’re going to get killed staying here. And get me killed, too. Don’t you even care?’

  As she warned him to silence, he snorted incredulously. ‘Don’t you understand? Weren’t you listening to Eva? Because I was. We, ah, we could get shot, beaten, anything. Can’t you see that? Everyone’s going. Running away.’

  ‘What,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘You don’t understand. You don’t know what —’

  ‘No,’ he cut in, flushing. ‘I do know. Don’t blame me if they kill us. It’s your fault.’ He pointed a shaky finger. ‘Yours, you understand? Yours.’

  He sat there breathing hard, the smoky air sawing icily in and out of him.

  She watched him for a moment, tapping her bowl. ‘You say you help me, no? Is this a lie?’

  ‘No. It’s not a lie. I-I’m here working, aren’t I?’

  She smiled, but something was moving in her, he could sense it. Breaking under the strain. He watched her chest rise and fall as she went to answer; but instead she sighed. ‘You work these day,’ she said quietly. ‘Then go.’

  ‘Eleven,’ he said. ‘Eleven days. Don’t worry, I’m counting.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, raising her drink to her lips, ‘you do this. You count these day.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will,’ he said, but even as he spoke the words, he found himself tensing.

  ~O~

  It grew late. At last, his head nodding, he rose to go to bed. When she moved, he assumed it was to pass him the key, but to his surprise she poured him some wine.

  ‘What, ah ... what’s that for?’ he said suspiciously.

  ‘You drink wine, no?’

  ‘Me? No.’

  She studied him. ‘I come inside, my food gone. Mess here. Someone has been here. Someone drink my wine.’

  He shrugged, still unsure of her motives.

  ‘You drink wine or no?’

  ‘Well, I ... ah, yes, okay,’ he said carefully. He took the cup, then before she could stop him, say otherwise, he drank back the wine, watching her with a challenging expression. When she still failed to react, when nothing bad happened, he reached for the jug to pour for himself, and found no resistance. He drank more slowly this time, remembering the fire in his blood the first time he’d tried it. He tilted his head. It tasted as good as he recalled, if a little strong, and he sipped again with cautious pleasure. The next time he reached for the jug he poured for her first, a gesture she accepted with a movement of her hand.

  They continued drinking: glumly, silently, and then the wine was gone. Without speaking, she took the jug to the storeroom to refill it, and on her return they drank again, taking it in turns to pour.

  The night deepened beneath a rumbling sky. They sat staring away from each other, sipping.

  ‘You name,’ she said at last, and he looked up wearily.

  ‘You name,’ she repeated. ‘What is it?’

  He told her.

  ‘Motte?’ she said, as if slightly annoyed at this. She tore a piece of bread and bit at a half and chewed. Her face seemed to alter briefly in the quivering light, then alter again. She said nothing, just continued to eat and drink, and when the light dipped once more the kitchen fell almost to darkness. He watched her in a thick sweet fog, watched her dwell in the silence she’d formed with the wine and which she seemed unable or unwilling to let go of. Behind him the last of the logs puffed and settled in the coals. She sighed. All this he took in headily, sipping, thinking, feeling safe for the moment from the harsh world outside, and yet in many ways safe from nothing; like a man in the path of some terrible and imminent collision. He studied her again, wishing that things were different. Wishing she’d been working in the garden that day, a friendly stranger inviting him in for a drink as he trekked past the house. How he wished it.

  After another sip of wine he found his cheeks had grown hot. His thoughts were becoming littered and formless, starting to dissolve, tasting of a bittersweet and wistful melancholy. Each time he looked at her, he found her staring over her bowl into what he imagined to be lonely and darkly beautiful and almost unutterable emptiness. Resting on his elbows, he found himself beginning to do the same.

  The kitchen lamp burned down to an orange wire. He found his gaze settling on her in a way deeply unfamiliar to him, a woman whose features seemed shrouded to him as much by his fear of seeing something in them as by the umbral and reticent quality of the light. She seemed like a creature from beyond the world, something as tenebrous as a tree in a midnight forest, loyal only to mystery and the black hearts of animals and birds, and when her eyes faintly glinted as she caught him staring at her, he had a memory of seeing the same eyes somewhere before, somewhere inaccessible and now unreachable, as remote and strange to him as the moment he was born ...

  She lowered her bowl, set it on the table without sound. Then cleared her throat to speak. He felt his head fill and empty again. Felt the blood surging in and out. In. And out.

  ‘You ask why I stay, Motte,’ she said. ‘So, I tell you.’

  He waited in silence, wondering what she could possibly say in her defence.

  ‘You hear me speak. You know I’m not from her
e.’ She smiled briefly in acknowledgement of her accent. ‘My parent come here from the south, far away. There was war, bad thing.’ She hesitated. ‘They dead, of course.’

  He bit his lip.

  ‘The men came, burned things, all — all our house. My family run away. My mother is young. All the people are leaving. All, everywhere. They leave, they come here to this land.’ She motioned round the table as if they had company. ‘Me, I born here. Here, in this house. My nana then is very old. She … she tells me when she is very young, she sees her mother hurt. They came, what ... they burned things, killed. Always the same, you see?’ She paused, her gaze settling on the far end of the table. He coughed, watching her uncertainly.

  ‘She says, they take her mother away. Soldiers, men. They hurt her. Raped. But not all. They cut off her head, you see? And they give this head to my nana. Men of this world.’ She smiled bitterly as she said this, and as he looked at her, his thoughts ran down his mind like blood down a jagged glass.

  Then in a cold whisper, she said, ‘They put in her mother’s eyes dog eyes. Imagine her dream.’

  He sat back in his chair, his shoulders caving as he breathed.

  She watched him a moment. ‘So,’ she added, nodding, ‘you say you not understand. Maybe now you listen me. You see, always we go away. Us, because we little, because we are small. They put you this place or there, they say where you die. This country, that country, no matter.’ She snorted. ‘Us, we want only to live. They — they want to take everything. Burn house, move you, kill you, you see? So. My family come here. I born here, I stay here. But you — you say go, always go.’

  ‘Look, ah, I didn’t mean —’

  ‘I say where? What, I go back to mama’s country? Maybe they push me away again. Maybe war there, too. Maybe other soldier, other men. Always the same.’ She clenched her fists. ‘So I say, no. No. I stay here now. I fight. Always I fight.’ With that, she took another drink. He watched her, transfixed. Somewhere outside, a gate creaked thinly but he did not hear it, nor did he notice the door shudder, nor the ash swirl up the flue.