The Promise Seed

by Cass Moriarty

  The boy took it and squinted hard to make out the subject. A child. A girl of no more than a year.

  She your daughter?

  Yes. A beat. No. I mean no. Not my daughter. My sister. That was my sister.

  Huh. That’s a really old-time tricycle. I saw one like that at the history museum.

  The old man peered over.

  How about that. So it is. Never took much notice. I guess that would’ve been mine. I must’ve been about five at the time.

  She’s cute.

  She was. She was very cute.

  She still alive?

  No. She … she died.

  How’d she die?

  The bluntness of the question seemed to astonish the old man. He quivered and his rheumy eyes filled with tears. He pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his trousers pocket and blew his nose, a loud honk.

  She … she just … she just died. Kids died back then. Here, gimme that. I need a cup of tea.

  He snatched the photo from the boy and headed into the kitchen.

  The boy watched his retreating back. He wondered what it would be like to have a sister. He wondered if it would be worse to have a sister who died, or to have no sister at all.

  …

  The boy was thorough in observing his surroundings each day. He wanted to have something of note to share with the old man in the afternoon. He related funny things he had seen or a witty comment made by the class clown. He described his teachers’ shortcomings and his classmates’ odd habits.

  He spoke rarely of his mother and the old man didn’t ask.

  One day he broached again the subject of the photograph.

  So when did your sister die, anyway?

  What? The old man alert, nostrils flaring.

  Your sister. In the picture. Was she, like, an old lady? Did she live around here? Did she have kids and stuff?

  The old man appeared to shrink inside his skin, his body retracting into a smaller space.

  No, he whispered. No. She didn’t have … she died a long time ago, boy. A long, long time ago.

  Was she a grown-up?

  Was she what? No, she never … she died when she was a baby. I told you. Not long after that photo was taken, actually.

  Oh. That’s sad.

  The boy sniffed and dug at something inside his nostril.

  So you were only a kid when she died?

  The old man pulled at a thread on his cardigan.

  Yes, he whispered, without looking up. Six years old. Yes.

  So do you even remember it? I mean, what happened? Was she sick or what? I don’t remember anything from when I was six. Well, not much anyway. How do you even remember her if she died so long ago?

  The old man gathered his breath. Oh, I remember her all right. I remember everything.

  He was still whispering, his raspy voice thin and trembling.

  So how’d she die—

  He cut off the boy with a fierce glance, his eyes suddenly hard and glittering. She died, all right? She just died. I told you before, that’s what happened back then. Kids died. They were born and they hardly had time to draw breath before something bad happened. There was always something bad that could happen.

  He had raised his voice and it carried through the frigid air. His hands gripped the armrests tightly, his knuckles white. Spittle flecked the corners of his mouth. He glared at the boy. Then his demeanour shifted, as if he was a balloon with the air escaping. He sank back.

  Bad things happen, he said, his voice lowered again. You should be careful. You think you can trust people, but … but bad things happen.

  The boy shivered, though he couldn’t tell whether from the creeping cold in the room or from the chill in the old man’s voice.

  …

  Yet on his next visit, the warmth had returned to the old man’s expression.

  Fancy a game of chess?

  It was a slow, lumbering game, especially at the beginning, when the boy didn’t know a pawn from a bishop. Their first game had stretched into the late afternoon, with the old man trying not to win, trying to teach the boy the rules and rudimentary moves. The boy had grown frustrated at his ignorance, his short-sightedness compared to the old man’s skill. But gradually, as his knowledge of the game increased, so did his confidence. The games picked up pace, battles between more worthy adversaries. And then, after weeks of sitting opposite each other across the chequered board, the games had become slow and ponderous again, but filled with a completely different energy. Now, each opponent drew with vigilance on his mental resources, played the game ahead in his head, foresaw moves, planned sacrifices. The game’s slowness became a thing of beauty, a dance, a silent and thoughtful battle. When the old man rose to flick on the overhead lamp, banishing the shadows, the boy would wonder where the time had gone, how it had passed so quickly.

  The day he brought his treasure box, he had thought about it for weeks beforehand. He had pictured himself bringing it out from under his bed and carrying it under his arm, over the vine-covered fence and up to the old man’s back deck. But each time a niggling anxiety had prevented him from getting the box any further than the bedroom door. Until today.

  As they sat in the lounge room, the old man looked from the box to the boy and back again. The boy waited. Waited for the question about interesting things. He sat on his fidgety hands. Sat and stared at the faded lettering on the box.

  The old man said, Fancy a new game then? I only just beat you yesterday. That was a good game, that. Three days, wasn’t it?

  The boy squirmed until the old man put him out of his misery.

  I’m only teasing you, son. Let’s see what you’ve got there. Something interesting, I’ll bet.

  The boy removed the lid and, one by one, placed the objects on the arm of the chair. The old man leant forward, his eyes bright with interest.

  May I? he asked.

  He handled the contents with reverent care. He ran his fingers over the surface of each rock, commenting on the type of rock it might be, or what sort of country it might have come from. He tested the give in the wishbones, and blew softly on the feathers. He rolled the ring in his cupped palm, and raised his eyebrows at the boy, an unspoken question. He admired the toy engine and the marbles and the drawings. He examined keenly each and every treasure, as the boy had hoped he would.

  The boy’s apprehension faded with the sharing.

  Afterwards, as the boy was packing away the last of the feathers, the old man heaved himself off the couch, with a creaking of joints as of something rusted being wrenched loose. He made his way to the solid oak dresser, opening one drawer and then another, muttering to himself.

  Now where did I put it? I know I had it here somewhere …

  At last, with a triumphant hoot, he reached into the back of one of the drawers and retrieved a brown paper packet. He slipped his finger under the flap and peered inside before emitting a satisfied grunt. He gestured to the boy, his rheumy eyes flashing.

  For you, he said, and placed the packet into the boy’s hands.

  The paper was yellowed with age. Disintegrating sticky tape fell apart as the boy lifted the flap. He tipped up the envelope and some small, dense objects fell into his hand.

  They’re … they’re like letters, little letters, but in 3D … and they’re backwards. What are they?

  The old man gave another snort as he settled back into his chair.

  It’s type. Linotype. That’s what they used back in the old days, before computers. That’s what they printed newspapers and books and such with.

  But how?

  By hand! All by hand. Some poor fellow had to sit there and pick out each little letter for whatever it was you wanted to say. I’ll show you.

  He collected a few in his hand.

  Say you wanted to write Big Storm in your newsp
aper. Well, you’d get this upper-case B, see, and then next to that you’d put a lower-case i and then a lower-case g. Then you’d use a spacer. I don’t have any of them here, but they were blank, to leave a space like. And then you’d start again with the S for storm, see? And they’d all sit on a special holder to keep them nice and straight, and the ink would go onto them, and then the paper, and when you pulled the paper off – he mimed with his hand – the writing would be the right way around! See?

  The boy held the letters in his palm, felt the weight of them. He was silent with astonishment.

  In fact, said the old man, I used to be one of those poor fellows, huddled over the type. But no longer. That was all a long time ago. Keep them. Add them to that box. They’re yours.

  19

  Other than my night in hospital as a lad, I’d never been inside of one before, not into the real workings of the place anyhow – and I found it a little on the disturbing side, to be honest. Strange mixture of sounds and smells. Ungodly clatter and hoo-ha one minute and people shushing you the next. The smell of antiseptic, so cloying it made me feel nauseous. Lots of officious nurses in starched white uniforms, their sneakers squeaking on the green lino that was all over the place, even halfway up the walls. I wondered what circumstance would require them to hose down the walls that far up. Decided not to think about it. We were bustled through the maternity entrance and I was made to feel like the fifth wheel right from the get-go. Basically told to get myself a cup of tea and wait. Which suited me just fine, I have to say. By that stage, the pain had set in, and Edith’s eyes were frightened, like a horse when it’s spooked. Thank God Mrs E wasn’t there; she would’ve about fainted on the spot, I reckon. I had one last moment with Edith before they wheeled her in. She gripped my hand so tight I thought for sure she’d broken a finger or two, but I didn’t say a word about it. I figured that whatever she was about to go through would be a helluva lot worse than a couple of fractures. The moaning had pretty much become screaming by then, and I don’t mind saying I was relieved when those double doors swung together and I could massage my fingers and drink my tea.

  The waiting room was set aside for expectant fathers, and there wasn’t another soul there, so I guess there weren’t that many babies planning to be born that day. I drank my tea and read a six-month-old Women’s Weekly and drank more tea and paced around and drank more tea.

  Finally, after a few hours that seemed like days, a busy nurse with a face full of smiles marched right up to me and said, Congratulations, you’re the father of a healthy baby girl. Seven pounds, six ounces. All her fingers and toes. You can go right on in. Third door on the left, room number five. And she swivelled on her heel and left.

  Now this next bit is kinda hard to explain without me seeming like a complete idiot.

  I’d had about seven months, since Edith had told me, to get used to the idea of the baby. I’d had many discussions with Mrs E and Joe about the subject, and my role in it. I’d escorted Edith in the taxi to the hospital. I’d watched her face transformed with the pain, and I’d heard in her voice the uncertainty and the fear.

  And yet, when that nurse announced those words to me – you’re the father – I couldn’t for the life of me take in what she was saying. The word father reverberated in the sterile air and it seemed devoid of meaning or context. In my mind’s confusion I thought she was speaking of my father, lost to me so many years previously. The word echoed around my head … father … father … father …

  No images, positive or negative. Just a great void. Father. It was like I had no experience in which to place that word so that it meant something to me. It was quite unsettling.

  But I needn’t have worried. Not at that stage, anyway. Once I knocked on the door of room five and ventured inside, any idea of me being a father and what that might mean went right out of my head, pushed out by the vision of the little miracle before me. Edith was sitting up in the bed, drawn and tired but with a grin plastered all over her beautiful face. And in her arms she held the tiniest, most delicate elf-like creature I’d ever seen. Her skin was mottled and her hair could’ve done with a good wash, but her round blue eyes were tinged with soft, dark eyelashes and her smudge of a nose was cute as a button. Sure enough, she had ten fingers and ten toes (I counted, to be sure) and when she opened her mouth to yawn I could see her pink tongue. She looked for all the world like she was saying, in a bored sort of way, OK, here I am, enough fuss, what’s next? I felt a surge of love tug at my heart.

  Isn’t she beautiful? Edith whispered. She held her like she was a piece of fine china that might break if you dropped it. She stroked the pearly shell of our daughter’s tiny ear; she touched the delicate fingernails.

  She sure is.

  And her arms. See how strong her arms are already.

  Yep. Strong arms, that’s for sure.

  I think we’ll call her Sarah.

  That’s a fine name.

  Yes, Sarah. Sarah Emily.

  Sarah … Emily. That’s … that’s a mighty fine name.

  Welcome to the world, Sarah Emily. Welcome home.

  Edith was staring down at her, captivated. And I stroked the soft downy skin on Sarah Emily’s cheek and I thought about all the hundreds of thousands of baby names in the world, and I thought of the other Emily I’d had in my life, and I wondered at the chances of Edith choosing to give our baby the name of my dead sister.

  20

  It had been a harsh winter. The biting winds continued to tunnel through trees and whip their branches almost horizontal. Birds huddled in their safe places, their heads tucked protectively under their wings. Dogs planted themselves in the dust and dirt under verandahs; cats hid in washing baskets. Occasionally the wind caught in a treetop or under an awning and called out to itself in a cold, sad moan.

  The boy dropped his bike and scuffled his way through the piles of brittle leaves that danced across the yard in ever-changing patterns. He spotted a piece of scribbly-gum bark amongst the detritus, and stuck it in his pocket to add to his collection. He took the front stairs two at a time, avoiding the dodgy one. Last week it had partially given way under a bloke’s hefty tread, his leather motorcycle boot the only thing stopping the wood from piercing his calf.

  The front door was closed to the elements, the screen banging noisily in the wind. He turned the knob and went inside.

  The boy sensed the man’s presence before he saw him. He hadn’t come around since that night, but now he was sprawled on the lounge, the TV remote in one hand and a beer in the other. When the boy stopped in the doorway, the man flicked his eyes from the television, dropped the remote onto the couch and shifted slightly.

  Hey.

  The boy stood, mesmerised by his strange stillness. Hey, he replied.

  Then silence.

  Want a beer? The man gestured to the can in his hand.

  No. No, I’m … I don’t drink beer.

  Aw, come on. Bet you do. Bet you’d like it if you did. I’d sure as hell had a few beers by the time I was your age. How old are you, anyways?

  The boy’s eyes shifted uncomfortably from side to side. Where’s Mum?

  Where’s Mum? Now that’s a good question. Well, see, your mum has to work this arvo and later on tonight, so I kindly offered to come over and sit with you after school, watch out for you.

  I don’t … I don’t need looking after. Mum’s always out. I look after myself.

  You do, huh. Well … I thought we could get to know one another better. Your mum thought it was a good idea, to have a man around. You’re growing up. You need some time with the big boys.

  The man extended his hand. Snake’s the name.

  On account of the tatt, he added.

  It was so obvious the boy didn’t know how he had missed it the first time. The snake wound around the man’s torso, appearing and disappearing through the boundaries of his singlet, and vani
shed in a coil around his neck.

  Snake had an expression on his face that the boy was unable to decipher. He glanced around again, judging the distances, considering the safety of his bedroom, contemplating what food might be in the kitchen. His stomach growled. Then, he walked backwards slowly – one step, two steps – before throwing open the door and bolting down the front stairs. He could hear the man calling to him.

  He dashed into the street and hid behind one of the hibiscus shrubs that dotted the footpath. When he was certain that Snake was not making any attempt to follow him, he circled around to the old man’s side yard and snuck through the tangled bougainvillea on the far side of the house. He had never gone this way before; he swore quietly as the thorns needled his skin. He finally pushed through to the familiar space of the backyard. He didn’t risk even a glimpse at the chickens, creeping immediately up the back stairs and into the house.

  It was then he remembered that it was only one-thirty on a Tuesday, and the old man never expected him before half-past three. Their unspoken agreement was about to be tested.

  Inside the house, he could hear the wind buffeting the weatherboards. There was no milk waiting. The boy hesitated. He could leave, slip out as silently as he had come, and go back towards town, or down to the creek. But he would need his bike, and that would require going back across to his front yard to get it. He lifted each foot and tentatively placed it down, feeling like an intruder, even though he had been inside the tidy kitchen dozens of times before. He reached the archway that led to the living room and peered inside. No-one. The chessboard was still set up from yesterday’s game. This was as far as he had gone before – kitchen, lounge room. It felt wrong to linger. He called softly. Nothing. He called again, a little louder, and then let his foot drop with a thud. Something – a sound, a muffled sound. He crossed the room and stood before a door that was ajar. After a beat, he pushed it open and peered inside.

  It was a bedroom, musty with the smells of unwashed clothing and sour breath. Dust motes hung in the air. At first he thought the room was empty, but another sound, a faint sigh, came from the direction of the bed. The boy moved closer. The old man lay curled up in the middle of the bed, covered with a worn, discoloured blanket. He hardly made a bump in the huge bed; he seemed so much smaller than when standing up. The boy listened for the old man’s laboured breathing and was relieved to discover he wasn’t dead. The old man’s eyes opened a slit and regarded the boy wearily.