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

by David Towsey

  Rebekah’s monument stood on the far side of town, a tower of rusting bars that criss-crossed like the weave of a basket. It was fragile and very old. Once it was tall enough to touch the clouds, so the stories went. There had been more on these hills, in a line that went all the way to Pine Ridge, but most had crumbled and fallen away over the years. The Pastor said they were a work of our ancestors; it was important to remember their mistakes.

  Childless couples still came from all over the county to try their luck in the shadow of Rebekah. Folk said it was a good shape.

  Sarah hadn’t visited the relic with Thomas, hadn’t needed the monument’s help to get pregnant. In fact, the place they had gone flowed across the land, wide and shallow. The Col River: the source of water and life in Barkley. She was drawn to it, to the memories of time spent on its banks with Thomas. She had to shut them out or she would lose herself there.

  The picnic basket was full: cured meat, Indi figs, cheese, and two oranges. Mary’s face brightened when she saw the sweet fruit.

  ‘For later,’ Sarah said. She felt a moment of pride when Mary accepted this and cut off a piece of cheese.

  ‘What happened in the street the other night?’ Mary said.

  ‘What night?’

  Mary finished chewing. ‘The trouble. You were gone a long time. I saw a fire at the end of Main.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ Sarah said, taking a long drink. ‘One of the farmers wanted to burn some wood they didn’t need. But it was too close to someone’s home.’

  ‘People sounded angry.’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘It was silly. But people get angry for all sorts of reasons.’

  ‘Whose house was it?’ Mary said.

  ‘Um, the Peekmans’, I think.’

  ‘Jared Peekman?’

  Sarah started to pack away the plates. ‘I think I see someone at those worker hives.’ She pointed to a nearby hill.

  ‘They’re ’Keeper Courie’s.’

  ‘Want to say hello?’

  Sarah checked the sun as Mary peeled an orange. She packed away the rest of the picnic.

  *

  The man was covered by a veil, but Sarah could tell it was ’Keeper Courie from the way he walked. It was a confident but modest way of moving, born of the respect of others combined with a sense of duty. Sarah liked him.

  ‘Hello, ’Keeper. I hope we’re not disturbing you?’ Sarah said.

  ‘Not at all, Mistress McDermott. If Mary here wants to see the hives, I’ll show her, with your permission.’

  It was strange seeing only half the man’s face; as if he were at the edge of her vision, out of focus. His nose and brows rose out of a darkness created by the veil, the shadows shifting as he spoke. But his voice was calm. A deep and soothing sound, as if he didn’t just say the words, but hummed them to a tune of his own.

  ‘If it’s no bother?’ Sarah said.

  ‘No. No bother.’

  Courie took off his veil. He looked worn, like a rock-face that stood in defiance of the wind. His eyes were startlingly blue, yet the colour had a tint of something else. Sarah realised she knew that tint; it was in the mirror every morning. He put the veil on Mary; it was far too big, so he told her to hold on tight to stop it slipping.

  ‘Should be a good year for honey, if this weather keeps,’ he said to Sarah.

  ‘What’s that?’ Mary pointed to something in Courie’s hand.

  To answer, he lifted the item and pressed lightly on a set of small bellows. Smoke wafted into the air.

  ‘Makes the workers sleepy. Otherwise they might not be happy to see us.’

  The two of them walked towards the hives; Mary’s questions like flashes of lightning, followed by the rumble of Courie’s answers. Sarah sat down and watched. She fiddled nervously with the grass. She was sure nothing bad would happen, but couldn’t help feeling uneasy. Thomas used to scold her, saying she was Harrying the girl. She hated that old story: of Harry Herris who caught a bright-lie made of gold and in trying to keep it safe killed it. ‘It’s just a rope-swing, stop worrying,’ Thomas had said. What if she fell off and broke her neck? ‘What if the sky fell tomorrow?’ It was an annoying response, and she had said so.

  The hives came to life.

  It was sudden and she could feel it, like the wind changing direction. All the hives were emptying; plumes of workers rose from each. Their buzzing seemed to surround the hills in an instant. Courie stopped and put his hand on Mary’s shoulder. They were still some way from the hives.

  ‘’Keeper?’ Sarah tried to call over the noise. Her voice shook.

  He looked around, confused. His mouth was moving, but she could hear nothing but the beating of a hundred thousand wings. Her daughter was only twenty paces away, but she could barely see Mary. A curtain had been pulled down between them.

  2 : 3

  Courie took Mary’s hand and turned his back to the hives. Sarah saw the doll, Stripe, fall slowly from her daughter’s grasp like a leaf in the autumn.

  The air emptied.

  ‘Stripe,’ Mary screamed. Courie kept hold of her as she wriggled to reach her doll.

  A cone of workers rose from the ground, like a tiny hurricane. At the base of this swirling mass, lying in the bone-grass, was Stripe. He was covered from head to toe in workers. Only his green button eyes were uncovered. The buzzing calmed to a deep hum. It sounded like a mouser purring.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Mary fought to be free as Courie carried her over to Sarah.

  ‘Easy, Mary. They won’t do the doll harm. Maybe they’re just curious,’ he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘What now?’ Sarah said.

  ‘I don’t know. I doubt we could make the workers leave him. But they won’t leave the hives either.’ Courie paused, his hand scratching his beard. ‘Wait here.’

  He took the veil from Mary and pressed on the bellows. He approached the winged hurricane. More smoke muddied the air. He bent down and with an outstretched hand picked up a leg of the doll. Workers oozed onto his white glove. Courie moved away from the hives. The further he went, the more workers lifted off from the doll.

  ‘Next time, we’ll leave Stripe at home, eh?’ he said, handing the doll to Mary. She stared at it.

  ‘I’m so sorry, ’Keeper,’ Sarah said.

  ‘No harm done. Only seen them like that once before, back when they were my pa’s. He’d bought some leather shoes from a river trader. Workers changed, like today. He couldn’t figure if they were angry or curious. He wasn’t stung.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He walked away, then went back to the river trader and raised all kinds of hell. Eventually, just to be rid of Pa, the man admitted he’d bought the shoes from a Walkin’. Pa came home and buried the shoes far from the house. Said they were tainted.’

  Mary and Courie were looking at her. Thank you, Thomas, she thought. Thank you for this mess.

  ‘Well, that is a strange story,’ she said. ‘I can assure you, ’Keeper, it won’t happen again.’

  With Courie and his hives fading behind them, Mary said: ‘“Cursed be he that smiteth his neighbour secretly.”’

  Sarah didn’t reply as they trudged through the bone-grass.

  Thank you, Thomas.

  The sun was still full, but its edge breathed down onto the horizon. It would be dark by the time they were home.

  *

  As the sun set, Luke Morris shivered. He hadn’t moved from this spot for two days now. He counted sunsets and lost track of hours. The bag of oats was half empty. He ate like a bird, picking crumbs out of his own hand in jerky, nervous movements. His arms looked delicate and he could feel his ribs through his cassock. But he wasn’t hungry. His vigil for the Good Lord sustained him. He wasn’t hungry. He was lonely.

  Earlier, he had noticed a line of crumbers marching along the hot rock. They moved in single file. Luke wondered if the front crumber was important, older, or just knew these parts better than the others. They all seemed content to fol
low. He started talking to them. Asking where they were going, where they had been, and what they looked forward to. They kept marching. He was overcome with the urge to crush them beneath his sandal for ignoring him. It was a hateful thought. He stood up slowly. His joints creaked like a barn door. He looked for a switch or stick with which to cleanse himself, but there were no bushes in sight. Instead, he picked up a sharp-edged stone from the side of the Col River. He clenched it in his hand. He squeezed until his knuckles turned white and blood lined his fingers. Drops of red touched the blue water, expanded, and then disappeared. He put the stone in his pocket and waited for the bleeding to stop. It didn’t take long.

  He now hefted the stone in his other hand. It was stained a reddy-brown. Sinful thoughts could be atoned for. The Good Lord was forgiving. And Luke was lonely.

  The moon was heavy in the clear sky. It would be a cold night. As he walked, he rubbed his arms to keep warm. Barkley wasn’t far away. He wasn’t returning from exile. He was reminding himself of what he left behind. Or couldn’t.

  *

  Main Street was asleep. It wasn’t late, but too late for a stroll along the board-walks. Luke ducked into a back alley. He passed locked doors and small, fenced-off patches of ground. One or two were looked after, growing shrubs that smelt bitter. He didn’t want to be seen. The Pastor would find out. In this town nothing stayed a secret and Luke couldn’t face the Pastor’s disappointment. Twice in the alley Luke almost turned back. He was indulging himself, and at a time when self-denial was the Good Lord’s will. Going without food or water was easy. Denying himself the sight of her wasn’t.

  Behind her house he found a barrel to perch on. The alley was dark, but candlelight spilt out of the top windows. He was desperate to see her. Just a glimpse of her face. He willed her to walk past once and he would be sated. His exile could run indefinitely. He peered upwards, cursing his weak eyes. A window was fogging up, or had blindness finally come to him? He wiped his glasses and strained to see.

  There. The soft curve of a shoulder. Bare. Hair spilling onto her back. He took out his crucifix and began to rub it between his thumb and forefinger. His hand stung from the cuts but he embraced the pain. She went out of sight. Luke almost fell off the barrel. He prayed she would return. He was answered – her back turned, she stepped into a bath. Then she was gone. In his other hand, Luke grasped the sharp stone.

  He waited, but didn’t see her again. The candles went out. He stayed for as long as he could. Dawn was coming. He left the alley, running his bloodied hand along the wooden wall. Touching it wasn’t like touching her, but he would remember how it felt nonetheless.

  2 : 4

  Mary sat watching the huntsman’s web in front of her. It stretched across the back of the tired-looking pew. The fat shoulders of the Levin family rolled over the top edge. There were large cracks up and down the pew, probably because the Levins were so big. It certainly creaked a lot. The cuts in the wood had been there so long they were smooth. She liked to run a finger down them, but this Sabbath a web was in the way. The threads clung to the pew as if by magic. But she knew it wasn’t the kind of magic that was bad, the kind that Pastor Gray preached against, the kind of their ancestors. This was a natural magic from the Good Lord. Delicate and complicated.

  She hadn’t spotted the huntsman yet. Some cracks were quite deep and there was a little hole in the corner. The hole was her guess: more private. Huntsmen liked doing things on their own.

  From the front of the church she could hear Mrs Gray listing the week’s announcements. Everyone – including lots of adults – fidgeted on the hard seats; their bony bottoms trying to find a comfortable way to sit. It was just like school. But Mary was sitting very still. She wanted the huntsman to come out. Mrs Gray finished, the Pastor came to the front, and Mary’s patience was rewarded: the huntsman’s long legs trickled out of the hole, like a leak in a bucket. Its body was small and black.

  ‘When we doubt the word of the Good Lord, we disgrace ourselves,’ the Pastor said, beginning the sermon. Mary could see his red hair and dark cassock at the edge of her vision. He was getting closer. ‘And when we doubt the word of our fathers, we disgrace ourselves.’

  Despite its legs, the huntsman seemed tiny on the web. A smudge on a blank page.

  ‘The Good Book tells of two such doubters, who shamed the names of Aaron and Miriam.’ The Pastor moved further down the aisle, into the centre of the congregation. The huntsman stopped on its spiralling home. ‘They challenged the beloved Moses, chosen of the Good Lord. Doubters. Fools, amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ came the echo. Mary breathed the word heavily and the web shook. The huntsman stood its ground, swaying.

  ‘They questioned his visions, questioned the very gift of the Lord. Fools, amen—’

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘—to question the gift, which was His word.’ The Pastor stood for a moment; his voice was steady and unusually quiet. Mary wanted to watch the animal, but she couldn’t ignore the Pastor.

  ‘So, the Lord appeared to Moses, Aaron and Miriam; because that is the nature of the doubting mind. Weak, it desires proof when it needs faith. And He said:

  ‘“Listen”,’ the Pastor roared. Mary and her mother jumped, and others did too. The word was so complete it filled the church. It was too big a word for their little town: it was the word of the Good Lord.

  ‘“When a prophet of the Lord is among you, I reveal myself to him in visions, and I speak to him in dreams.”’

  Pastor Gray’s voice dropped again, back to his own.

  ‘For seven days Miriam was exiled. Cast out. The fitting punishment for going against the will of her father.

  ‘You must never go against the word of our Father. Nor the word of your own.’

  Never. It was a long time, and when Mary met her father in heaven, never would still be happening. People were always saying ‘never’ and ‘for ever’, but they rarely meant it. People other than the Pastor.

  ‘For that is the road of damnation and exile.’

  The Pastor went to the front of the church and her attention turned back to the huntsman. It casually slid across its web. Something was caught, struggling to be free. Mrs Freeman, who lived on Main in a big old house, leant in to whisper:

  ‘Looks like he’s done for.’ She nodded at the web.

  Whatever the buzzing creature was, the huntsman was now eating it. Or so Mary thought. Nothing was really happening. The huntsman could’ve been kissing it. Finally, in the silence that followed the end of the sermon, the black smudge went back to its hole. Left behind was the insect, but she could almost see through it, as if it was empty.

  ‘Didn’t want that bit,’ Mrs Freeman said.

  ‘I wonder how long the shell will last,’ Mary said.

  ‘Won’t last for ever.’ Mrs Freeman and her mother stood up, but Mary stayed looking at the web. The two women left her there as the congregation gradually filtered out of the church. The shell of the insect still hung on the sticky threads. Perhaps, like her mother washing the dishes, the huntsman would clean up later.

  Was the web its only home? She thought about how big the huntsman was and then how big its web was. It would be like living in your bedroom. But, the huntsman could move its home. She couldn’t. It was a gift the Good Lord gave His huntsmen, but not her. She was more like the insect: stuck and wriggling to be free. Free from what, the insect didn’t know; not until it was too late. She was caught in something, something she didn’t understand but could feel all around her. Sticky threads of people and words. And she didn’t know where her huntsman was.

  She wanted to destroy the web, but didn’t. Instead, she carefully plucked the insect shell off. Opening the pocket of her dress, she dropped it inside. The huntsman started to come out, but must have thought better of it.

  The sound of people talking outside was strange to hear in the empty church. Their mumble echoed faintly. The pews and altar were peaceful, as if they were resting after the service. Mary did
the same each Sabbath, lying on her bed. She would close her eyes and imagine she was somewhere else – a place without flaking walls and rough sheets. There would be mountains, great peaks that challenged the sky. And trees, so green they were almost painful to see. And streams, with water clear enough to drink and warm enough to swim in. Her father would catch fish, her mother prepare the picnic. They’d talk and play games she was too old for, but she wouldn’t care. Maybe the pews dreamed too.

  Mary got up and turned to go. There was another person still in the church, sitting near the back, and he was looking at her.

  ‘Hello, Mary,’ he said.

  *

  Luke Morris stared at her. He had small dark eyes behind his glasses. He’d always made her feel self-conscious, but there was something else now. Mary’s cardigan buttons were undone.

  He stepped in beside her as she walked out of the church. Outside, they stood on the porch as the rest of the congregation milled about and gossiped. She blinked away the glare of the mid-morning sun. It was a cold clear day, still as the grave. That’s what all the buildings looked like in the weak spring light: big gravestones.

  ‘How are you? How is your mother?’ Luke said.

  ‘Very well, thank you.’ Mary searched for Sarah. Her mother would talk to Luke instead. The crowd all looked the same: the women in black dresses and blonde ponytails. They blurred together, one stream of drab colours and forced smiles. Mary’s eyes hurt to look at them. Her head felt heavy, her knees weak. She’d gotten up too quickly. Taking a deep breath, she tried to listen to the acolyte.

  ‘—don’t you think? Mary?’ He said her name in a strange way, like it was covered in honey. ‘Don’t you think the Lord does show Himself in dreams and visions? To normal people?’

  ‘Maybe, Mr Morris. But you probably have to be special, not normal.’