The Dead Men Stood Together

by Chris Priestley

  It was late now. Night was coming in and draining all the colours from the scene. The hermit’s fire glowed more intensely and threw our shadows on the trees and on the mossy woodland floor. What colour is moss at twilight? Not green, nor any colour known by name.

  A nightingale began to sing in the trees nearby, its voice startling us both and then holding us in its grip for the length of its song.

  ‘Some say it is a sad song,’ whispered the hermit, as reverently as if we had been in church and the bird’s song had been a sermon. ‘But I don’t think of it that way.’

  The bird let loose another burst of its song. And I had to agree that it didn’t make me feel sad at all. It lifted my heart and made the whole wood come alive, as though it had been waiting for the nightingale to sing.

  ‘The pilot’s boy says that he sees spirits,’ said the hermit. ‘He says that in the air around us are different spirits, good and bad. They are attracted to us depending on our characters. A wholly good person will attract only good spirits.’

  I thought of the man the pilot’s son said he had seen, and the demons he brought with him.

  ‘And a bad person?’

  ‘A bad person will attract bad spirits – demons, the boy calls them,’ said the hermit. ‘And that must mean that there are many more demons in the air than angels.’

  ‘Is that why you live out here on your own,’ I asked, ‘because you think people are bad?’

  The hermit looked at me very seriously.

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t shun people because I am better than they are. I shun them because I do not deserve to be with other people. I shun them as a penance.’

  He looked away, deep in thought.

  ‘You don’t really believe he sees these spirits?’ I asked.

  ‘I do believe he sees them,’ said the hermit. ‘Whether they are there or not, I couldn’t say. And whether they have the meaning he gives them, I likewise couldn’t guarantee.’

  ‘Surely demons could only be bad,’ I said with a grin.

  To my surprise, the hermit did not agree.

  ‘Perhaps. But perhaps we need demons to drive us to good things,’ he said. ‘Perhaps they are neither good nor bad, but simply some vital part of the world, like air or water.’

  I frowned.

  ‘Come,’ said the hermit. ‘It’s getting dark. Time you were home.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, getting up. ‘There’s no need to go with me.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said with a smile. ‘With the air full of demons, I would feel happier making sure that you got safely to your house. Your mother would expect it of me.’

  I smiled. The hermit walked with me until I could see my cottage and then I realised that he was no longer there and I turned to see him standing alone in the moon shadows. I waved and he waved back, then he walked away.

  III

  My home was dark against the western sky and bats flitted here and there as I approached, picking off the moths lured to the lamplight shining from the window.

  I was walking towards the house when I noticed another light coming from the barn and, looking through the door, saw a man standing with his back to me, splashing water from a bucket into his face as he leaned forward. A lamp was resting on a barrel.

  I stood there staring. He pulled his shirt over his head and his back was now bared. Written all across it in ink scratched into the flesh were all manner of signs and symbols – stars and moons and curious devices I did not know or understand.

  ‘Who are you, sir?’ I asked, as strongly as I was able. He turned at my voice.

  He was a tall man, thin but with his muscles well defined. His face was long and handsome in a wolfish way. His beard was short and darker than his hair, which was wet and fell to his shoulders. His smile was wide and white.

  ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘And who might this be?’

  I said nothing. I was staring at his chest, which was likewise inscribed with pictures. There was the sun and the moon, a ship in full sail. There were coiling snakes and knotted ropes. There was a cloud with a lightning bolt, dice, a death’s head.

  ‘The pictures bother you, boy?’ he said. ‘Here, let’s hide them away.’

  He grabbed his shirt and pulled it on over his head. At that point my mother appeared and I moved towards her stealthily; whether to protect her or be protected by her, I could not rightly say. The stranger laughed – and to my surprise, my mother joined him.

  ‘Do you not know me then?’ said the stranger.

  I looked to my mother in confusion. She chuckled and shook her head.

  ‘’Tis your uncle,’ she said. ‘Your father’s brother. He played with you many times when you were a little boy.’

  I did remember my uncle. Or at least I loved the memory of him and his laugh and his wonderful stories. But I couldn’t match that memory to the man who stood before me. My uncle seemed to read my mind.

  ‘I have changed a little,’ he said. ‘I have been through many trials since we last met. But then we all have changed over the past years, have we not? Apart from my sister-in-law there, who looks younger, and more beautiful if anything.’

  My mother blushed – something I hadn’t seen her do since my father was alive. She slapped him with the back of her hand and he pretended that he was hurt and staggered back, groaning and clutching his stomach.

  I laughed and he looked up smiling and opened his arms. After a moment’s hesitation, I strode forward and we embraced. I was suddenly overcome with memories of my father and had to fight to hold back tears. Again he seemed to sense what I was thinking.

  ‘I was right sorry to hear about your father,’ he said. ‘He was a good man, my brother. And they are rarer than rubies, let me tell you.’

  My mother said my uncle must eat and we all went through into the kitchen, where the whole room was filled with delicious smells. I walked to the pot and took the lid off.

  ‘Rabbit?’ I said.

  ‘Your uncle brought it,’ said my mother. ‘And two pigeons.’

  I thought of the pilot’s boy and realised now that my uncle was the stranger he had seen.

  ‘They were in my path,’ he said with a shrug. ‘It seemed wrong to come empty-handed.’

  ‘How . . .’ I said. ‘How did you –’

  ‘I have a crossbow,’ said my uncle.

  I saw too that he wore a cross around his neck. ‘Another on his back that mocks the first.’ No doubt my uncle wore his crossbow on his back.

  ‘You must be a good shot,’ I said.

  ‘Well now,’ he said, taking a piece of bread, ‘there’s not a lot of use in having one if you’re not, is there?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ I said.

  The cross around my uncle’s neck was a large wooden crucifix. He saw me looking at it and grinned.

  ‘A wise old monk gave me this,’ he said. ‘In thanks for saving him from a heathen who was about to inflict some of the pains of the saints upon him.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, wide-eyed.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘’Twas in the Mountains of the Moon in the Arab lands. We had marched five days in burning heat in search of a treasure we had been told about in the port we had been besieging. But there was no treasure.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I have been so close so many times, but the treasure is always somewhere else, in someone else’s hands. One day, it will be different.’

  ‘Treasure?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye!’ he said. ‘It’s out there, lad. More treasure than you’ve ever dreamt of.’

  My uncle grinned and leaned across to tousle my hair. My mother carried the pot to the table and ladled some of the stew into my uncle’s bowl.

  ‘Is no one joining me?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve already eaten,’ said my mother, but, seeing my pleading face, she fetched another bowl and put it in front of me.

  ‘That’s better,’ said my uncle. ‘We need to feed you up, lad. Look at you
. Skin and bone.’

  ‘He’s only a boy,’ said my mother. ‘Leave him be.’

  We tucked into our rabbit stew and a contented silence reigned for a few minutes.

  ‘Are you a soldier, then?’ I asked.

  He smiled a strange smile and fingered the cross around his neck.

  ‘I have been many things, lad,’ he said. ‘Not all of which I’m proud of. I’m a mariner first and foremost. But I’ve had my fill of fighting other men’s battles.’

  ‘Good,’ said my mother. ‘There is always a home for you here.’

  ‘Here?’ said my uncle. ‘No. I love you dearly but I cannot stay here. I’m not made for this life. I never was.’

  My mother looked away, as though remembering old arguments.

  ‘No,’ continued my uncle. ‘I am going to seek my fortune. There are riches to be had in the East Indies and why should it not be me who grabs them?’

  He saw my eyes widen. Not at the mention of riches, but at the mention of the East Indies – and my mother saw it too.

  ‘You are sailing to the Pacific?’ I asked excitedly.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘That I am. The Spice Islands. Japan.’

  ‘You’ve been before?’

  ‘Aye. I’ve sailed to the East Indies and Japan. China too. I’ve stood inside the pleasure dome at Xanadu that Kubla Khan had built at his decree. There are wonders in the East – wonders no opium eater could ever hope to dream of.’

  My eyes were so wide I feared they might pop out of my head.

  ‘But that means sailing round Cape Horn,’ I said. ‘They say it’s the most dangerous voyage there is.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, as though danger was a fine wine to be savoured. ‘They do. And with some good cause.’

  He smiled and leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.

  ‘I sail with a group of adventurers,’ he said. ‘They are rich – which is necessary for such an enterprise – but they are also peacocks who are more at home with their jewellers or tailors than they are slitting a man’s throat.’

  ‘You’ve slit a man’s throat, Uncle?’ I asked, startled.

  ‘When it has been necessary to do so.’

  ‘I’d rather not hear this kind of talk,’ said my mother with a frown.

  ‘You’re right,’ my uncle said. ‘It’s not anything to talk lightly of. Every man’s death is a sacred thing.’

  ‘Surely it is life that is sacred,’ said my mother.

  My uncle shrugged.

  ‘The same thing in the end.’

  My mother sighed but said no more.

  ‘Maybe you’d like me to teach you how to fire a crossbow, lad,’ said my uncle.

  ‘Yes!’ I said excitedly.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing if I –’ began my mother.

  ‘Peace. No arguments.’ My uncle held up his hands. ‘I’m not here long. We sail in a few days.’

  ‘So soon?’ said my mother.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He reached out and touched her arm with his long fingers. ‘But I shall be rich one day, I promise you, and then I shall send for you both and –’

  ‘I shan’t leave,’ said my mother. ‘My mother, father and husband are all in the churchyard and I’ll join them one day.’

  My uncle laughed.

  ‘Look at you!’ he said. ‘How old are you now? You can’t be more than twenty-five years old.’

  ‘I’m thirty-eight, as you well know.’

  ‘There’s time enough to talk of dying, all the same,’ he replied.

  ‘This is my home,’ said my mother. ‘I’ve never wanted more.’

  My uncle smiled.

  ‘I know you haven’t,’ he said and he winked at me. My mother saw it and scowled.

  My uncle leaned over and gave her a kiss.

  ‘Peace,’ he said again. ‘I’m teasing you. Some are made to wander and some not. There’s no right or wrong. We’re all made different.’

  My mother smiled, but I knew that smile – it was a keeping-the-peace smile. It said, ‘I have more to say, but I’m choosing not to.’ I knew it well and I had the impression that my uncle had seen it a few times himself.

  He proved himself to be a man who is happy with the sound of his own voice, and we were happy listeners, as he told of his adventures in exotic places we had scarcely heard of.

  We’d not quite heard the story of each scar he chose to show us, when my mother said that she must away to bed and that I must do the same, for we had a buyer coming by close after dawn to collect some crabbing pots.

  My uncle declared he was tired too, but refused my offer to give him my bed, saying that he wasn’t sure he could sleep in a bed after years of sleeping on rocks and in ditches and the holds of rat-infested ships. He swore that our barn would be luxury in comparison. And with more embraces and a noisy yawn, he said his goodnights and retreated to the barn.

  I went to my room and looked out of my window, out past the roof of the barn in which my uncle made his rest and towards the woods and the hermit. All the warm glow that had built up in our kitchen seemed to drift out through that round window and be replaced by a sudden chill.

  The words of the pilot’s boy came back to me and, though I should not have let his foolish talk upset me, it did. I spent a restless night, my dreams troubled by those pictures scrawled into my uncle’s skin and by the thought of the air alive with demons.

  IV

  I woke very early, before anyone else stirred, and lay in my bed in a waking dream and ahead of me, in my dreaming, was the open ocean. I had always felt in my heart that this was where my future lay. The menfolk of our family had all been mariners for as long as anyone could recall.

  And I don’t mean fisherfolk. Don’t get me wrong – I’ve nothing against fishermen. They are brave enough and do a job that’s needed. But I’m talking about true mariners here.

  My family had sailed the seven seas. They’d served in the navy and fought for their country. They’d crewed merchant ships trading with distant empires. They’d seen things most men only dream of – and more than a few things that most men would be glad to dismiss as a nightmare and nothing more.

  My own father was a mariner and, like so many of that kind before him, had lost his life to the sea, swallowed up by it in a storm that likewise took the lives of most of his crew. I knew many of them and had known them since I was a little boy and my mother had taken me down to the harbour. I would be there to see my father sail out and cheer him as he came home.

  I couldn’t wait to get a chance to climb aboard my father’s ship and would have sailed away with him when I was five, had he or my mother let me. I sailed with him often on shorter voyages and learned many of the skills and crafts of sailing men. I should have sailed with him on his last and fatal voyage, but I was ill and could not go.

  Another ship saw my father’s go under and, though they tried to come to their aid, the seas were too high and they managed to pick up only a handful of men, and my father was not among them. I was twelve years old when we heard of his death.

  The news hit my mother like a bolt of lightning. She cried and cried until I feared she would never stop, and in looking after her and looking after the business when she was too beaten down to work, I could hide the fact that I did not feel the same pain.

  I did feel pain, but it was a bitter pain – it was the pain of feeling I had never really known my father and that now I never could. It was the pain of not feeling the pain I knew I should.

  I wished I could have loved him as the mourners at his funeral had loved him, but I had never seen what they had seen. He’d never shown that to me. He had taught me all I knew about the sea, but the man himself was a mystery to me.

  My mother was sure it was providence that I had been spared my father’s fate and refused to let me sail again. She had her own business as a basket maker, selling baskets and crabbing pots to the fisherfolk, and she made me learn the skills of their making and hel
p her in the selling.

  Inside, I felt that this was no work for a man – and certainly not a sailing man – but I couldn’t bear to give my mother any further sadness, so I kept my complaints to myself and helped her as best I could. In time, I came to enjoy my days with her and miss the sea as something I’d known once but would not know again.

  Now my uncle was here, home from wandering and ready for more, and I was once again filled with a terrible yearning to see the world.

  V

  When the sun’s rays began to light my room, I got dressed, crept past my mother’s room and went stealthily into the barn, where my uncle still slept. He looked like a dead man. He barely made a sound with his breathing and he made no movement at all. He lay on his back, hands clasped together across his chest.

  He was fully dressed, the purse and dagger still round his waist. The crossbow was leaning up against a wooden post. My mother would never let him teach me to fire it, I knew it. I looked at my uncle and then reached for the crossbow.

  As soon as my hands touched it, I felt myself dragged sideways and something sharp pressed against my neck. Looking up, I saw my uncle leaning over me, his dagger pointed at my windpipe. He shook his head and let me go.

  I scrabbled backwards through the dirt until I reached the wall and then sat staring at him. He was putting his dagger back in his scabbard.

  ‘You’ll get yourself killed, creeping up on a man like that,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry,’ was all I could think to say.

  He turned and smiled.

  ‘No – it’s me who should be sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived my life among thieves and scoundrels. I’m not fit for decent people.’

  My heart was still leaping about like a rabbit in a sack.

  ‘You really do have a look of your father about you,’ said my uncle, stretching and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  ‘Did you know him well?’ I asked.

  ‘Know him?’ He said with a laugh. ‘Of course I knew him. he was my brother! He was a good man. He was a tough man too, despite his gentle ways. I liked him. He never had too much time for me though.’