Your Brother's Blood: The Walkin': Book 1 (The Walkin' Trilogy)

by David Towsey

  ‘Mrs Gray, did Jesus’ mummy burn his body?’ James Turner said, whistling over his ‘s’ sounds. James’ brother, Paul, had recently died of a fever. Mrs Gray moved out from behind the table and crouched down in front of the boy.

  ‘No, James, she did not; and that’s why Jesus came back to life. The Good Book says the last thing the resurrected Jesus did was to light a fire for his friends. Then, as his spirit returned to heaven, tongues of fire came to rest on each of those friends. Our Barkley realised the Lord’s message: through fire our spirit will not stay in this world, but journey to paradise. So you see, your mummy used fire to set Paul’s spirit free. All right?’

  James nodded and waved up at the ceiling to his brother. It could’ve been funny, but no one laughed.

  Mrs Gray straightened and smoothed her dress. Mary knew what every girl in the classroom was thinking, because she was thinking it too. ‘Will my hair be that pretty when I’m married?’ She looked from the teacher to her own braids. Did Mrs Gray like wearing those dresses? Was Mary alone in hating clothes that made everyone the same? She couldn’t be. They itched like damnation.

  ‘Today, I will talk about another part of John Sebastian Barkley’s teachings. Sometimes, as James just saw, our Barkley’s words can be confusing. What he means, what he wants us to think and do, is not always clear.’

  Mary stared out of the window. Much of Barkley’s rules were obvious, common ideas that made sense: don’t hurt people; help those in need; burn bodies when people die. It made the rest of the rules seem strange. Strange and frustrating. Why no books? No drawings, no tales, no nothing other than the Good Book. Reading, but no writing? She thought the Good Book was important and wonderful. But wouldn’t other stories be good to read as well? Her father had told her of heroes and quests and princesses; hushed words when her mother was still closing the shop. He’d have the Good Book open and ready in case Sarah came in.

  ‘In the first teaching, we speak the words “repentance for our ancestors”.’ Mrs Gray was going slowly for the younger children. Mary sighed as loudly as she dared. ‘To repent is to say we are sorry for what we have done. But Barkley tells us to repent for something our ancestors have done. Why would he say that?’

  The children were silent. Then, a small hand jerked upwards.

  ‘Yes, Lois?’

  ‘Because our ansisters were naughty.’

  ‘That’s right, they were. And we say sorry for all the naughty things our ancestors did by doing what?’

  ‘Living a plain life. Family, worship and the soil,’ Mary said, exaggerating each word. It was a game she played with Mrs Gray: give the right answer but in a challenging tone. The teacher would be caught like a fish on the river bank. As the seconds raced past, the only thing she could say was, ‘That’s right’, and move on before the other children noticed.

  The corners of Mrs Gray’s eyes and mouth tightened.

  ‘You see, many years ago, before the Second Fall, man lived without family, without worship and without any care for the soil. It was not how the Good Lord wanted us to live. Our ancestors were lazy, so He took away the mechaniks, took away their dark and evil magic.’

  ‘Took away the books and the drawing and the music,’ Mary said. Her mouth fell open. She’d only meant to think that.

  ‘Actually, Mary, He did not,’ Mrs Gray snapped. ‘J. S. Barkley did. Our Barkley saw the Good Lord’s disapproval and showed us the right way to live. He gave us a town in which to live this way. He saved our souls. Tomorrow, I will tell you exactly what he saved our souls from.’

  Another old lesson Mary could ignore.

  The children filed out of the schoolroom, clunking down each step. They formed a single line, Mrs Gray leading the smallest at the front – James. Eunice was the last one out. It was her job to close the door and the gate as they went out onto the street. Men riding shaggies wandered down Farborough, the thud of hooves like a drum for the children’s march home. It was important to be quiet around shaggies. They were unpredictable and could kick a man if scared. As one plodded past their line, Mary’s whole body tingled with the desire to jump out and scream. But she didn’t.

  Mary stood in front of the shop. An afternoon with her mother lay behind the door: learning how to keep a floor tidy; when shelves needed filling with food or clothing; how to make small words with dull people. These lessons were better than the ones in school.

  In the late afternoon, before supper and bed time, she was allowed to run and play and see the other children. Instead of playing, she decided she would go to the river and draw in the wet mud. She would draw people and birds and anything at all, and watch the water wash them away.

  ‘Are you going in or not?’ Mrs Gray said. Mary looked up at her aunt. It was easy to forget she was part of the family. She was married and had a different surname, but that wasn’t why. Mrs Gray was the teacher; that’s who she was. Did she ever stop and just be a normal grown-up? She was coming into the shop as the teacher.

  Mary opened the door and Mrs Gray followed her in. The line waited outside, Eunice now in charge.

  ‘Hello, Sarah. I wondered if I could have a brief word.’ Mrs Gray stood at the counter. She was shorter than Sarah by almost a foot, but the teacher had a way of looking down at someone.

  Mrs Gray was actually very pretty, with long eyelashes and curly hair. But there was an edge to her. Maybe it was because she spent all day telling children off, or because she was married to the Pastor. She had fierce eyes.

  ‘I caught Mary drawing in the sand again,’ Mrs Gray said.

  ‘Again? But I told her last time.’ Her mother’s cheeks turned red. ‘Mary, upstairs, now.’

  She went to the stairs and clomped away on the third one. Then she sat down.

  ‘What was she drawing?’ That was her mother.

  ‘Does it matter?’ Mrs Gray said.

  ‘No. It won’t happen again, I promise. It’s been difficult; she misses Thomas.’

  No one said anything for a while.

  ‘Well, it’s forbidden. She knows that.’

  The bell of the shop door chimed.

  ‘How could you be so silly?’ her mother said.

  2 : 2

  ‘An appreciation of distance is always framed by an understanding of time. To a human child, tomorrow could seem a hundred miles away. A twenty-minute walk, from one side of a town to the other, is a vast and tiring expedition. But as they grow, the world around them shrinks. Over the years they shift their expectations of time, of what could and should be achieved in a single day. They begin to think of the future and the past. They lose a minute-by-minute existence, an immediacy of needs and wants. This is the transition from child to adult.

  ‘And then, everything is reversed. The world shrinks again. It takes twice as long to walk anywhere; confined in their homes, only the most essential journeys seem worth the effort. Thoughts turn to making the most of their time. The past holds too many memories; the future, only an end. This is the transition from adult to elder.

  ‘An example: a boy dreams of the Redlands. They are an expanse of adventure and possibility. As he grows into a man he discovers that the map of Pierre County disagrees – the Redlands are a set of lines the size of a thumb. His adult eyes realise the relative scale: big, but a space that has its limits. Then the man becomes elderly. He looks on the same map again and marvels at the sheer size of that rocky wasteland.

  ‘There is only one disruption to this cycle. For some it is final, for others only moments. To those lucky enough to be born again, time becomes infinite and distance is reduced to nothing.

  ‘This is the transition from human to Walkin’.’

  – transcribed from Transitions, a lecture in the Black Mountain Common Consensus of Winters 2919 – Councilman Cirr speaking

  Thomas travelled all day and all night. He spent the time remembering, not just the big things but every small detail he could of Barkley. His family. His friends. The way Main felt on a busy day. The lamps
being lit at dusk; their soft light getting stronger as the night became darker. But most of all, he thought about the day he became a soldier.

  *

  Thomas had joined the line of men outside the church. He recognised most of them. Some were barely older than boys, others married men with families. Paul Richards was in front of him.

  ‘What’s this about, Paul?’ Thomas said.

  The Elder’s son couldn’t stand still and kept putting his hands in his pockets and taking them out again.

  ‘I overheard …’ Paul glanced about to make sure no one else was listening. ‘I overheard it’s a draft.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Thomas scratched his beard. It always itched. A beard was the tradition for married men in Barkley. It was a way of keeping things in perspective – not even a wife was as annoying as an itchy beard.

  Thomas tried to ask more questions, but Paul wasn’t interested. He just shrugged and kept his head down. The line shuffled forwards. Thomas stepped into the church. The pews were empty. It was cold without all the people. And so quiet. At the front the men were lining up. The Pastor, Gravekeeper Courie, Law-Man Bellis and a bunch of strangers stood a little way off, talking. Elder Richards was directing everyone where to stand. It came to Thomas’s turn and the Elder took him by the elbow.

  ‘Right up front, Mr McDermott.’

  The Elder had never called him ‘Mr McDermott’ before. Thirty men all told, in three lines. Some of the younger men looked restless, like Paul. The older hands seemed bored. Thomas was at the end of the front row. He looked along it. He knew all the men by name and family. They were all farm boys. Paul was standing in the back row.

  With a bang of his stick, the Elder called for quiet – though the men weren’t making a sound. The Pastor, the Law-Man and the strangers came to stand alongside the Elder.

  ‘First, thank you for coming down so quickly,’ Richards said. ‘This man here is Lieutenant Morgan from the Southern Protectorate Army. He has a few things he wants to say to you boys, so listen carefully.’

  Morgan was wearing a heavy-looking red jacket. Its buttons were so shiny they caught the dying sunlight. His trousers were matching red, though the knees were scuffed. He wore calf-high boots in polished black. Somehow the dust and dirt of Barkley hadn’t stuck to the boots the way it stuck to everything else. But most of the men were staring at Morgan’s moustache. It was bushy and greying and sat on his lip like a fat mouser. His chin was clean-shaven. Thomas knew what the other men were thinking, and he was thinking it too: was Lieutenant Morgan married?

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Morgan said, clearing his throat with a loud humpf. ‘I come here today to offer you a great opportunity. History is being made, right here in our blessed country. You too can be a part of something glorious.’

  Someone in the lines sneezed.

  ‘There is a menace wandering the streets of our nation. The Walkin’.’ Morgan made to spit at the word, and then remembered where he was. One of the boys couldn’t help but snigger when Morgan swallowed. ‘The Walkin’. An evil the likes this land has never seen before. I don’t have to tell you men. Your Pastor has explained your feelings on the matter. So I will just say this: join the Southern Protectorate and keep your families safe from this scourge for ever.’ Lieutenant Morgan stepped back, his boots slapping the wooden floor.

  The Pastor came forward and led them all in a prayer. Thomas bowed his head like the rest of them, but couldn’t help glancing at the men next to him. They looked as confused and afraid as he felt. Walkin’ in the streets? That didn’t happen in Barkley. And didn’t a man best protect his family from his own home? Thomas had heard rumours of armies and wars. It was the reason you couldn’t get bananas in the shop these past years. Amen.

  ‘Thank you, Pastor,’ Richards said. ‘And thank you, Lieutenant Morgan. Now, boys, now is your chance to volunteer for this magnificent cause. Just step up here and do the right thing for your town and your country.’

  No one moved. ’Keeper Courie started coughing. Thomas was fairly sure Nathaniel was really laughing and trying to hide it. The Elder glared at everyone and no one in particular. He waited. Thomas, like many others, shifted his weight from foot to foot. Hands were run through hair. Noses pinched or blown. But not one of them budged an inch.

  ‘I didn’t want to do it this way,’ Richards said. ‘Ten men will join the Southern army today. Either by volunteering or by draw.’ He let the men consider that for a while. Still no volunteers. From the altar the Elder picked up a leather bag. He shook it. ‘There’s white pebbles and red pebbles in here. Draw a red pebble and you’re part of Barkley’s representation to the Southern Army.’

  The Elder went to the first man in the front row. Jared Peekman. Jared looked at the Pastor, who nodded to the boy. The pebble came out red. Jared had a wife and son. They were moving out of his pa’s place that summer. Jared held the pebble in his hand, staring in disbelief. He didn’t know what it meant, not really, and neither did Thomas. War took bananas out of shops, not men out of their homes. Not Barkley men.

  The next pebble was red. And the next. When it came to Thomas’s turn, the Elder couldn’t look him in the eye.

  *

  The shop bell chimed and Sarah saw Rachel Courie come in. The plump woman hesitated as the door closed behind her and then busied herself amongst the vegetables. She usually came in on a Wednesday afternoon to fill the Courie larder.

  Mary was still putting out the stock Caleb Williams had brought in that morning. Sarah heard her daughter greet Mrs Courie, before her attention was drawn back to the counter and the woman standing in front of it.

  ‘You’ll give me three silver for each of the wax, and two for the tallow?’ Mrs North said.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Mrs North looked hard at the candles laid out on the polished wooden counter. Her eyes narrowed. She gave a sharp nod.

  ‘Thirty-three silver then.’

  ‘I make it thirty-five,’ Sarah said.

  The chandler gave a rare smile.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Dropping the silver into her purse, Mrs North paused. Her apron was covered in grease marks; she’d come straight from her work. She blushed and quietly said ‘Good day’. The bell chimed again as Mrs North left.

  Mary appeared from the end of a row. Dust and dirt marked her face, which was set in a dangerously neutral expression. Sarah knew that face well. Mary had been kept indoors these last few days.

  ‘So,’ Sarah said brightly, ‘I thought we could have a picnic today, after we shut the shop. Go up to the hills and see the whole town.’

  ‘I’ll put those candles away next.’ Her daughter was trying not to smile.

  ‘Is there anything special you want to eat?’

  ‘Not really,’ Mary said.

  Sarah moved the candles to one side, keeping the wax and tallow separate. The Pastor would want the wax candles for the church. She hoped he didn’t want them all. Three silver each would be a generous addition to her regular donations. At times it was a struggle to keep track of everything that came in and out of the shop – especially to the church. But over the years, she’d developed an excellent memory. All the prices and all the levels of stock were ordered neatly in her head.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Rachel Courie said, her arms full of food. ‘Five potatoes, three onions, two courgettes and some beans.’

  Sarah counted up the price, named it, and helped Rachel put the vegetables into her basket.

  ‘How is Nathaniel?’

  ‘He’s well, thank you for asking. That business with Jared Peekman was difficult for him.’

  ‘It was for all of us,’ Sarah said.

  Rachel smiled weakly. ‘It’s silly, but he feels somehow responsible. Like he could have been there for Jared and …’ Rachel adjusted her dress. The wool was tight around her waist. ‘He says there will be plenty of wax this year.’

  ‘I hope so. The winter wo
uld be torture without candles,’ Sarah said.

  ‘We rarely use ours. Nathaniel is always so tired when he comes home.’

  ‘It must be very hard, being the ’Keeper.’

  ‘He gets lonely, I think. The graveyard is so far from town, and folk that visit want to be alone.’

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Sarah had visited the graveyard two days ago. Alone.

  ‘Well,’ Rachel said, ‘these vegetables won’t stew themselves.’

  Sarah shut the shop door and locked it. She looked out onto the street, seeing Rachel struggling with her full basket; Caleb’s cart still hitched in the street; and many other familiar folk walking along the board-walks. There were children playing on the edge of the thoroughfare. They laughed and ran and shouted.

  She flipped the wooden sign on the door to ‘closed’ and went back to the stillness of the empty shop.

  ‘I think I’ll put some oranges in the picnic, how does that sound?’

  ‘All right, Mum.’

  *

  Sarah laid out the patchwork quilt on the brittle yellow grass. On these hills it was knee-length and stiff, prickly hairs standing on guard if you rubbed it the wrong way. Mary sat down and started pulling apart pieces that stood at the edge of the blanket. People called it bone-grass.

  When Sarah had first come to Barkley, children used to bury each other under handfuls of the stuff. After a while, the girl or boy underneath would jump up and pretend to be a Walkin’. The hairy bone-grass would stick in their woollen cardigan or skirt. A little imagination and these were exposed bones and rotten flesh. The resulting games of chase had a fear only children could enjoy.

  It was a bright, cloudless evening, though a chill ran with the breeze. Sarah could see the whole town from here: the jumbled rows of wooden houses; the two main streets with their board-walks; the church; her shop; and Elder Richards’s office. It was all smaller than it felt.

  She knew almost everyone. She’d assumed it was because she ran the shop, but really, there weren’t many people to know. They would come in and chat briefly whilst buying or selling goods. But they didn’t stay long. The men seemed nervous, the women sharp. Since Thomas had gone, no one had stopped for a drink or dinner. She used to like entertaining, though Thomas didn’t. He would sit through it for her. He was always charming.