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

by David Towsey

  He picked up the sack of yellow clay. Breaking off two handfuls he began wedging it on the worktop. Deep thuds echoed in the shed, like the parade drum on Main. He broke the lump in two, squeezing it back together in his hands. Keep it moving. Thumping the worktop.

  At the wheel, he put his foot on the pedal and began an easy rhythm. The bat picked up speed, levelling off in a steady spin. He pulled his wash bucket closer and dipped his hands. He sprinkled drops on the bat, the water spreading with the motion, changing the wood’s colour from a dusty cream to a wet brown.

  A red chalk dot marked the centre of the bat. He eased the clay lump as close to that mark as he could. The clay took, turning, and he held it there.

  He hunched, bent over the wheel. His back didn’t ache, but it would that night. Especially without a bed to sleep in.

  Up and down on the pedal, nice and easy.

  The wet clay slid under his cupped hands. He raised his fingers, a slight pulling movement. The lump followed, becoming taller and thinner. The clay appeared to stay still whilst the bat ran, but his eyes lied. His hands knew the truth. He pressed gradually inwards with his thumb. The ball yawned open. He steadied it there. Taking his hand from inside, he dunked it into the water bucket. With two fingers he inched the hole wider, pulling them back towards his body. He kept it spinning.

  Carefully, he squeezed. The urn grew; pulsing upwards.

  Clay water stained his forearm. The lip was up to his elbow. Feeling his way, he pushed gently at the point three quarters up the urn’s height. There it became fat; the curve of a mother’s hips. The tips of his fingers pinched the top. Closer and closer he brought his hands together, until the hole was only a few inches wide. A final touch, he pulled the lip flat, like a bud unfurling. He slowed his foot a little at a time, until it stopped. He took the wire that hung from the wheel and slid it under the base. His hands and arms were covered in dried clay. His foot throbbed, ghosting the motion of the pedal.

  It was all soothing. A thought hadn’t troubled him the whole time.

  And now he hated himself for doing it. No matter how smooth, no matter how he shaped and moulded, the urn was still supposed to hold the ashes of a little girl or a man. Or a Walkin’. One person lost to another. A simple clay urn. Black powder and memories would fill it. A symbol to remember – like the headstones, like the graveyard. Folk went there to remind themselves of relatives they’d lost; they left remembering the family they still had.

  A simple shape. He’d made an urn for Lydia, but he’d been guilty of leaving out more than just ashes. He’d forgotten what he had. Rachel was a part of this urn; everyone left in Barkley was. Each urn was a little different. He was well practised by now, but they were never exactly the same. This one was narrower than usual, but still only a foot and a half tall. And he had another to make today.

  He went to the kiln. He felt the heat as a slight change in the air. He opened the door and eased the paddle in.

  Back in the garden he did it all again. It was midday by the time he finished. The second urn thrown, he sat at the wheel. His hands were a chalky grey. He dusted them off. With a nail, he idly peeled dried clay off his arms.

  ‘Nathaniel?’

  He jumped; he hadn’t heard Rachel come back. She stood behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders.

  ‘Sorry, I was years away,’ he said.

  Her hands tightened ever so slightly. Such a simple movement, but it was everything: all the times he thought of the past; the slips when he confused the two of them; simple words that could hurt; but most of all, her patience and love. It cut, and drew apart the curtains he had held tightly closed. Men – Nathaniel had no illusions as to how women worked – could be so blind.

  He took her hand, it was cold but soft. So soft. He cupped it between his own. He would keep her there from now on, surrounded by his attention. It was no less than she deserved.

  ‘When I come home it will be different. I promise.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘I promise.’

  *

  Luke knelt before the altar. He held his arms in a cradle; as he had done for Simon Peekman. Beside him, the wooden floor still bore the stain of Simon’s blood. Mrs Gray had scrubbed as hard as she could, but it wasn’t enough. It was a mark that had to remain, under the eyes of the Good Lord. Luke carried it with him, also. Not in shame, but in pride. He had done the Good Lord’s work here that day and he continued to do it.

  He stared at the crucified figure of Christ. It was carved in a light wood. Christ’s head was angled to one side, his gaze averted from his followers. Luke had tried every spot he could but, no matter where he sat, Christ would not look him in the eye. But they shared so much.

  Luke’s hands were covered in scars. He picked at one on each hand, right in the middle, until it bled. He heard the church door open and close. A single set of footsteps echoed along the aisle. He didn’t turn to look who it was. He didn’t need to.

  ‘Hello, Luke.’

  ‘Pastor.’

  ‘I’m sorry I have to interrupt your meditations,’ the Pastor said. He was standing a few paces behind Luke.

  ‘No need. I find myself often deep in thought, these days.’ He looked again at the stain on the floor.

  ‘As is right. If only more men spent time in contemplation; their paths would be clear.’

  ‘My path is not so clear to me, Pastor.’

  ‘Let me help.’ The Pastor began to pace. ‘You have shown great fortitude. The Good Lord sees everything. Your service has been noticed.’

  ‘Has it?’ he said, failing once more to meet Christ’s gaze.

  ‘Of course. So much so, that the Good Lord has provided you with another opportunity to serve.’ The Pastor paused.

  ‘The McDermotts,’ Luke said, the name filling the empty air between him and the eaves.

  ‘Yes.’ The Pastor placed a hand on Luke’s shoulder. ‘It will be your great trial, acolyte. There will be many obstacles – both of Satan and of man.’

  ‘The Good Lord grant me strength,’ Luke said.

  The Pastor gripped his shoulder. There was pain. There was burning. But Luke did not buckle; he kept his back straight. ‘He wills it,’ the Pastor whispered in his ear. The man’s beard tickled Luke’s neck. ‘You are an instrument of the Good Lord. Never forget that. The men who travel with you are not so strong. Their faith is flimsy. Barkley needs you, Luke.’

  ‘Then let me go alone. Unburdened by unbelievers.’

  ‘If it were my decision. Sadly, even men of Barkley interfere with holy matters. But you do go alone. Only you can rid us of these two devil-spawn. You will not fail me.’

  Luke’s entire upper body started to throb.

  ‘I will do what has to be done.’

  ‘Amen.’ The Pastor released his grip and patted Luke’s shoulder.

  *

  It didn’t take Nathaniel long to pack the rest of his things. A change of clothes, a raincoat, his rifle, sleeping blankets, and food. They wouldn’t be gone long. He said as much to Rachel as she helped him. He said it many times, mostly for his own benefit.

  Rachel cooked lunch as they waited for the urns.

  ‘Last hot meal for a while,’ she said. She was smiling, but it was strained. ‘You will be careful?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What would I do if … ?’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself. We’re just going to find whoever took Mary,’ he said.

  ‘No you’re not.’ She looked at the empty space where his rifle had hung.

  They ate the meal in silence, Rachel sniffing every so often.

  Nathaniel packed his gear onto Buster. The shaggie took the load in his usual stoic way. He put the clothes and supplies in well-worn saddlebags. He strapped the urns to the top of the bags, one on each side. He checked three times they were tied down tight. Rachel stood on the porch, watching. He went over and drew her into a hug. For a moment she resisted, and then she went l
imp in his arms. She shook as she cried. He told her it would be okay.

  ‘Everything will be better when I come home,’ he said. ‘I keep my promises.’ She looked up at him. He kissed her forehead. ‘I have to go.’

  He mounted. Rachel passed him his rifle. Her hands were shaking.

  ‘It will only be a couple of days,’ he said.

  ‘I love you.’

  On the track he looked back twice, but he didn’t wave.

  *

  As usual, Nathaniel was the last to arrive. Bellis, Luke Morris and a few others stood outside Elder Richards’ office. The acolyte was already in the saddle, looking eager to go. He tutted as Nathaniel eased Buster alongside the other shaggies.

  ‘Morning, Elder, Veronica,’ Nathaniel said, tipping his hat.

  The Elder turned. He had been speaking to a small knot of people – most of whom were from the McDermott family.

  ‘Good, you’re here.’ The Elder took Nathaniel by the arm and led him a little way off. ‘Four of you going – yourself, Bellis, Luke, and Samuel McDermott.’

  ‘A McDermott boy? Is that a good idea, considering?’

  ‘Ma McDermott insists the family is represented.’ Richards glanced sidelong at the McDermotts. ‘I’m sorry, but I couldn’t have her bothering me every day until you’re back. She’s a … persistent woman.’

  He knew Samuel to look at and by reputation as a steady worker. But what kind of temperament did the boy have? Was he the Pastor’s man, ready to light a match under everyone? And it might be his brother out there. Nathaniel could only imagine how that would play on a man’s mind – he himself was an only child.

  ‘How well does he know the Good Book?’ Nathaniel said.

  Richards leant closer. ‘I would think he’s too busy in the fields to read much. But he’s young.’

  Nathaniel nodded. ‘I’ll keep an eye on him.’

  ‘You might not be able to spare it.’

  Luke Morris was making a fuss. ‘Your gossip is an agent of the devil. It costs us time.’

  ‘We’ll catch up to them,’ Bellis said in his even manner.

  ‘The Good Lord doesn’t reward idle words.’

  The Good Lord also had infinite patience; a shame his most devout followers rarely shared the virtue. They mounted and rode out of the town with no fanfare. No one waved them goodbye or wished them well. The Elder, Veronica and the McDermotts watched them go in silence. They received similar stony stares from folk on the board-walks. When they passed the shop, Nathaniel made himself look at the front. He was relieved that Sarah wasn’t there.

  3 : 3

  Mary stretched and rubbed her eyes.

  ‘Morning,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Did Karl come?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can we see him before we go?’ she said.

  ‘All right, if we’re quick. I’ll put the fire out, you gather your things.’

  They left Karl’s room tidy. Mary looked uncomfortable taking the food, but Thomas insisted. Better guilty than hungry.

  Karl hadn’t moved. His jaw was slack, hanging down on his chest. He still didn’t smell – it was just a matter of time before he woke up. Karl had mentioned Walkin’ blood in his family; that his grandpa said as much. Thomas was no expert, these things could take years for all he knew, but it would happen.

  ‘Good luck, Karl,’ he said.

  It had rained during the night. Clouds covered the sky; one colour in every direction. He hoped it would stay dry, for Mary’s sake. The wet stone buildings had an odd smell. A musty damp, but with a bite.

  They left Miracle. A blightbird circled overhead. One friend was still around. Thomas had never seen the Redlands after rain. The whole land seemed to be busy making use of the water.

  ‘Did you sleep, Dad?’

  ‘No. Another thing I don’t do.’

  ‘But how do you dream?’ she said.

  He almost stumbled. Dreams. He’d forgotten about them. Mary was looking at him, her little face frowning.

  ‘It’s all right. I have memories of you to keep me going,’ he said.

  It was true; he had spent those first nights awake but dreaming of his family and home.

  ‘We’ll make new ones then. New dreams for you.’ Mary smiled, but she looked tired. He had no idea how long it would take to get to Black Mountain. It could be many, many nights of sleeping on rough ground.

  *

  This was the farthest into the Redlands Nathaniel had ever been. They had been riding for two days now. At first, the going was difficult. They left the track that led out of Barkley and headed into the scrub. The ground was uneven beneath Buster’s hooves. It rolled and jutted like the surface of the Col River and was just as unpredictable. The earth itself was not far from the colour of his clay. It was cracked and dry and it was only spring. Looking at it robbed his mouth of saliva and made his throat itch. Buster carefully picked his way between the thorny bushes. The four of them zigzagged across the land. It was not the quickest way to travel. The sky had a few wisps of cloud but was otherwise clear. From the saddle, he could see for miles in every direction. The vastness of it made him shiver, despite the warm morning sun. This over-fired clay ground stretched on for ever. In such a place, they should be able to see their quarry. Two tiny dots. Two crumbers in the palm of the Redlands. But Nathaniel saw nothing but bushes and cracked earth and empty sky.

  It was past midday when Bellis got off his shaggie. The rest of them stopped, spread out as they were, and waited. This wasn’t the first time the Law-Man had dismounted. Luke leant towards Bellis, straining to see what was happening. Samuel looked bored. He stroked the tuft of hair between his shaggie’s ears. Bellis knelt by a thorn bush.

  ‘Anything?’ Nathaniel said.

  ‘Is it them?’ Luke said.

  Bellis shrugged and got back on his shaggie.

  According to Bellis they were going in the right direction. He didn’t tell the rest of them how he knew that, just that he did know. Luke muttered. But Bellis was the only one of them who could track more than their own breath in a cold morning. Samuel had found missing woollies before, but that wasn’t the same.

  They resumed their slow meandering across the Redlands. That night, they made camp in a hollow. There was no wind, but the feeling of shelter was a comfort after the days of open ground. Samuel stayed with the shaggies as the rest of them liberated firewood from scrawny bushes. When they returned, they compared thorn wounds. Luke’s hands looked the worst, covered in scars and holes and wet with blood. He insisted that had little to do with thorns. Bellis shook his head at the acolyte but said nothing.

  Samuel was the best at starting a fire. He handled flint like Nathaniel handled a shovel or Luke the Good Book.

  ‘I’ve spent nights watching the woollies,’ Samuel said when asked about this proficiency. The McDermott boy didn’t say much. He seemed happier to listen to the other men talk. Nathaniel wondered if he was a little slow. Samuel had a way of moving that was very deliberate. Before he said anything, he visibly thought for some time. Nathaniel liked the boy, regardless.

  Luke led them in a prayer. Then each man took out a small part of his rations. They only ate twice a day – at dawn and at night. No time to stop during good riding hours. On the first night, they all measured out a portion of food and then tore into it like ravenous animals. Now they ate slowly, chewing until there was nothing left to chew on, savouring each mouthful.

  ‘Are we getting closer?’ Luke said when everyone had finished their meal. He looked at the fire, but the question was undoubtedly for Bellis. Nathaniel watched the fire too. He saw the small body of Simon Peekman at its centre, the flames caressing the boy. He wanted to look away, but forced himself to stare at what had happened – what he had been a part of. And would be again.

  ‘I’d say so,’ Bellis said, eventually. He spat into the fire. It hissed at him in response.

  ‘But we could be quicker?’

  Bellis sighed. ‘It’s not about b
eing “quicker”.’

  ‘No? Every hour we waste is an insult to the Good Lord,’ Luke said. ‘Two abominations are loose because of Barkley men and women. Unforgivable.’

  ‘Two?’ Nathaniel said.

  ‘Yes, two. I saw the demon creature that was the father. Are you calling me a liar?’

  Nathaniel shrugged. ‘You saw what you saw.’

  ‘And that means the girl carries the taint. Two creatures. They must be put to flame; both of them. We were all present for the burning of Jared and Simon Peekman.’

  ‘The shaggies go as quickly as they go,’ Bellis said. ‘Push them harder and soon enough they get slower.’

  Nathaniel didn’t want any further part in the conversation, so he went to check on the shaggies. The moon was fat in the sky. Away from the fire, the sound of scrapers and other insects filled the night. He checked the other shaggies first, making sure they were hitched right. Not that he thought the animals might bolt. These were good shaggies. But anything could spook a shaggie out here. Buster nuzzled him.

  ‘I know what you’re after,’ Nathaniel said. He took a handful of oats from a saddlebag. Buster’s tongue was thick and wet. The opposite of how Nathaniel felt. He wished he was back at home, with Rachel, worrying about dry-stone walls and cutting back trees. He shivered. ‘You won’t be cold out here, will you, boy?’ He patted the shaggie’s flanks and went back to the fire. Luke was reading aloud from the Good Book.

  ‘“… came a traveller unto the rich man, and he spared to take of his own flock and of his own herd, to dress for the wayfaring man that was come unto him; but took the poor man’s …”’

  Bellis was snoring. Samuel listened to every word.

  Nathaniel settled down into his blankets. The drone of the acolyte and the spitting of the fire gave him bad dreams.

  *

  The following morning, he woke to the sound of Bellis kicking dirt over the fire. Nathaniel was the last one awake. It was the same at home. The sun hadn’t disentangled itself from the horizon yet. He ate his meagre breakfast of salted meat in his blankets. The cold had crept into his bones. He was too numb to shiver. He chewed so his teeth wouldn’t chatter.