The Promise Seed

by Cass Moriarty

  I smell something burning on the stove and have a momentary thought – that pan’s going to take some soaking. I contemplate calling out but decide against it.

  The room is bathed in bright white light from an unsheathed ceiling lamp. I take two paces across the grimy carpet and my line of vision – until now obscured by the couch – opens up to reveal a scene that king-hits me harder than any punch.

  The kid and his mother are there, and someone else, a man, is curled up on his stomach on the floor. Everyone is very still. I realise that the man is not wearing a bright red shirt. The colour is spreading as I watch. Blood has pooled around his naked torso; fingers of blood are reaching out across the lino.

  A large kitchen knife is protruding from the lower part of his back. It’s pushed in almost to the hilt, with part of the large blade still visible, and angled upwards. Maybe it’s punctured a lung or sliced his liver. The boy’s mother is kneeling beside him, her hands attached to the knife. I can’t tell if she’s pulling it out or pushing it in. She’s just sitting there, holding it, with a very strange expression on her face.

  The boy is standing behind her. He has blood on his hands and on the front of his shirt where he has wiped them. He stands close to his mother, either to protect her or to shield himself, I’m not sure.

  Behind the boy’s head, a halo of steam and smoke as that pot is scalded beyond repair.

  I take a step closer.

  A little fountain of red gurgles from the man’s back at the place of the incision. His eyes are open and staring at me. I think he must surely be dead, but then he blinks, his eyelids lowering and raising again as if in slow motion. He has a smudge of blood on his forehead and down the side of his face, covering a tattoo. He makes a small noise, a wet sort of cough. This seems to rouse us all from our inertia. Like a spell has been broken, my senses return to me in a rush of sound and smell. I can taste bile in the back of my throat and think for a second that I might vomit.

  There is so much blood.

  The mother begins to wail, a high-pitched keening. She keeps one hand on the knife and clutches at the boy with the other. He cowers … from her? From me? She meets my eyes at last, a mask of sheer desperation and fear.

  Instinct takes over. All at once I am kneeling beside the man, my joints creaking, the warm blood soaking my trousers. I grip her hand and prise her fingers from around the handle of the knife. I have to use quite a lot of force; they are gripped tight like an arthritic’s claw.

  Leave it, I say. Leave it in. It may stem the bleeding. If we pull it out …

  My voice trails away. We are both thinking the same thing – leave it in, take it out; neither will make much difference now.

  Nevertheless, I feel for a pulse on the man’s neck, my hand slipping and sliding. His neck is slick, beads of perspiration running into the blood. I can’t think what to do. Should I give mouth-to-mouth? Has he stopped breathing? I’m not sure. Should I try to stop the bleeding? My indecision goes on for what seems like minutes but is probably only seconds. In the end, the man decides for us. He emits one final splutter, covering my arm in a spray of bright red droplets, and then becomes still.

  I’m not sure what I expect the woman to do – wail again maybe, or tear her hair, or try to bring him back – but she just sits back on her haunches and stares at me. She doesn’t say anything. The boy doesn’t say anything either, although he does slide onto the floor and lean his head into his mother’s shoulder. He looks so weary.

  So the three of us sit there like that for a time, until I realise they are waiting for me to say something, to do something. To make a decision.

  We must seem a strange sight, our tableau of four. Like something out of a gory horror movie.

  It is all clear to me now.

  The boy stares at me with such pleading in his eyes.

  I speak as gently and quietly as I can, like you would speak to a skittish horse so as not to spook it.

  I understand why you did it, I say to the woman. After what he did to your son. Any mother would have done the same. No mother could have stood by.

  She looks up at me, relief coursing across her face. She weighs my words, tries them out herself.

  No mother could have stood by. I am his mother.

  Yes, you are his mother, I repeat. You were protecting him.

  I was protecting him.

  You had no choice.

  I had no choice, she parrots. Her face is full of wonder, as if I’ve explained some great truth to her.

  You did what you had to do, I say. As his mother.

  Yes, I am his mother. I really am his mother.

  She grabs my wrist. This proves it, doesn’t it? This proves how much I love him?

  I’m not sure what she’s getting at, but I nod and fold my fingers over hers.

  Yes, I say. Yes. People will understand. You were defending your son.

  She looks around wildly at her boy, and I realise she has no-one else. There is no-one else. It is her, and the boy, and this man on the floor, and me.

  I’ll tell them, I say. I will explain.

  Hot, grateful tears began to flow. She releases my arm and encircles the boy in her embrace, as if he might float away if she doesn’t hug tightly enough.

  The boy’s eyes peer at me over his mother’s shoulder, his expression unreadable. He still has not said a word.

  I get on all fours and try to stand but my feet keep slipping and sliding on the bloody floor. I crawl towards the carpet and pull myself up onto an armchair, watching my tracks stain the pile. Then I reach for the phone.

  …

  By the time the police find us, the mother is angry and unrepentant in equal measure.

  I did it! she cries. And I’m not sorry! I’d do it again in a heartbeat! He beat my son. He bashed me.

  As if to prove the point, she wrenches her shirt up over her breasts. Her torso a canvas of hatred and pain.

  He deserves everything he got. He touched my baby. He was evil – evil, do you hear me? I’m not sorry he’s dead. I had to protect my boy. That’s what a mother does. She protects her child. I’m his mother. I’m his mother!

  A constable with crooked teeth puts a blanket over my shoulders. I realise I’m shivering. He keeps touching the back of my hand.

  I answer his questions as best I can. He seems to think I’m in shock. Perhaps he’s right. I feel disconnected somehow, like we’re all underwater, each breath requiring great effort. I catch glimpses of the boy’s face and search for a sign, but I’m not sure what I’m hoping for. The situation, the blood, what he said about me, the things he said to me, what his mother has done – it all comes swirling together and rushing like a waterfall, drowning out sound and reason. I feel I understand nothing. Seventy-four years old and I don’t understand a goddamn thing.

  58

  The biting August wind funnels through the space under the house, gathering strength, then howls out the other side and into the yard, catching leaves and papers and the empty milk containers that the boy hasn’t properly secured in the recycling bin, whirling the lot higher and higher into a dirty gust. The boy huddles further into his corner and closes his eyes against the grit. The chick sits in his cupped hands, its silky feathers tickling his fingers. It bobs its pom-pom of a head. The boy thinks the bantam is like something out of the imagination of Dr Seuss. He snuggles it closer to his chest.

  He hears his foster mum calling his name through the wind. He doesn’t move, and soon enough she peers at him over the side railings.

  Hey, she says.

  Hey.

  You OK? It’s freezing out here.

  Yep.

  Your visitor’s here. You want to come inside? I’m not sure the cold concrete’s a good place for a man his age to be sitting.

  The boy strokes the chick. He feels the insistent beating of its small heart.<
br />
  He’s here?

  Yes, mate, he’s here. Come on now, we’ve talked about this.

  She descends the stairs and squats before him. Her eyes are directly in line with his, and she waits until he looks up.

  It’ll be fine, buddy. It’ll all be good. She reaches out as if to pull him towards her, but hesitates, and settles for smoothing a lock of his hair. He seems like a nice man.

  The boy nods.

  He’s brought you something too. A present. She stands and wipes her hands on the back of her jeans. I’ll tell him you’ll be up in a sec, OK?

  Could we … sit in the pergola?

  She smiles. ’Course you can. You’ll be out of the wind there. I’ll light the brazier, should be quite cosy. He said he’ll have a cup of tea, and how about I bring you some hot Milo?

  Can I smell Anzac bikkies?

  You can indeed. I’ll pop a couple on a plate.

  When the boy makes no move to rise, she clears her throat in mock admonition. Well, come on, get off your backside and go say hello and take him down the yard yourself. I’m not bringing him out. Who was your servant last year?

  The boy smiles up at her from under his fringe.

  And don’t be too slow about it either. Leave him too long with those three upstairs and they’ll have him on his hands and knees pretending to be a horse or something.

  The boy puts his bobble-headed chick back in the cage. When he reaches the top of the stairs he hovers like a ghost. His foster mum is balancing Amber on one hip and a tray of biscuits in one hand. She pushes the oven door shut with her foot. Bailey is tugging on the leg of the old man’s trousers and babbling something about the truck he is waving about. Five-year-old Jemima is twirling her best ballerina twirls, decked out in her frothy tulle, with the old man’s hat perched on top of her head.

  He watches as the old man reaches down and fingers Bailey’s truck.

  Those Anzacs smell wonderful, the old man says.

  He turns then, and their eyes meet.

  The last six months have aged him. The boy sees the old man of his memory, but a little more stooped, his legs a little more bowed, his belt cinched tighter around his waist. A couple more wrinkles on his face but fewer wisps of hair plastered across his pate.

  Hello, mate. Long time no see.

  Hey, says the boy.

  The old man holds out his hand. It hangs there, shaking. The boy steps forward. The cool, dry skin envelops his own. He can feel calluses and the stiff hairs on the back of the old man’s hand. Sees the sunspots, brown stains of life. Then in a moment he is encased in the man’s embrace, his face against the thin woollen jumper, inhaling his musty smell, arms encircling his bony ribs, eyes screwed shut against the rush of emotion.

  …

  The pergola is sheltered on three sides. Dry leaves eddy past the opening. A large web adorns one corner, caught between wall and roof rafter, and an industrious golden orb spider picks daintily over the grey threads strung with dust. On the floor, three of Jemima’s dolls sit around an eclectic collection of teacups half-filled with dirty water, and miniature plates piled with pretend food of dirt and stones and small sticks.

  The brazier emits a circle of warmth. Small sparks crackle and sputter. The boy blows on his Milo.

  Here, says the old man, and he pushes the parcel across the slatted table. Wrapping’s not my forte.

  The paper is covered in fishing rods, dogs, golf clubs and old men’s slippers. Taped together by a crazed person with access to an entire roll.

  Didn’t they have any more tape?

  Oi, don’t be cheeky. You’re lucky it’s not in newsprint. Just open it, will ya.

  It is a red velvet box with an old-fashioned fastener. He levers open the lid. Each piece sits in a velvet indent. Knights, pawns, bishops. White onyx streaked with grey, or black onyx marbled with rust red.

  The board’s under the bottom there, see, you slide it out.

  Squares of timber, light and dark, bordered by iridescence.

  I think it’s mother-of-pearl or paua shell or some such.

  The boy runs his fingertips over the smooth surface. He touches each queen.

  Go on, take a piece out. They’re weighted. Feel good in your hands.

  He sits the two queens side by side on the board and twists them to see every detail.

  Well … say something. Do you like it? It’s not new, mind. I found it at that secondhand store in Paddo. I think a couple of the pawns might have a chip or two, but otherwise it seems in pretty good nick to me.

  Still the boy is silent.

  ’Course, my eyes aren’t so sharp, so maybe it’s got more things wrong with it than I picked up? His voice quavers, uncertain.

  No, says the boy. No. It’s perfect. It’s just perfect. I love it. Thank you. Thank you so much. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

  Yeah, well, don’t go getting all emotional on me. Are we gonna sit out here mooning about all day or are we gonna play? Set those pieces up.

  The boy places each piece on the board. The old man takes two pawns, one white, one black, and holds them in his closed fists; the boy taps the right and the gnarled fingers open to reveal white.

  Lucky choice. He smiles as the boy moves his first pawn. You’re gonna need all the help you can get.

  The two settle into the pace of the game.

  I’ve acquired a moggie, the old man mutters. He answers the boy’s questioning gaze. A cat. Or rather, he’s acquired me. Arrived one day out of the blue, sitting there on my porch, bold as brass. I opened the door and he marched right in without so much as a do-you-mind.

  What colour is he?

  Black. Black as coal.

  Black as ebony, says the boy.

  Black as the inside of a dog, replies the old man.

  Black as midnight. A shadow falls over the boy’s face.

  Hmm. The old man’s hand trembles in indecision above the board. He moves a bishop.

  The boy’s face clears. Mistake, he says cheerfully. So, you kept him?

  Don’t count your chickens yet, kid. We’ll see if that’s a mistake. And yep, he drank the milk I gave him, stalked into my room and curled up on my bed like he’d been sleeping there every day of his life.

  Doesn’t he bother the hens?

  Not a bit, that’s the funny thing. He mostly keeps his distance. But one afternoon I saw the strangest thing. Just on dusk, it was, and I went down to pop the girls in their house, and there he was, flopped in the dirt, chooks all around, and one old girl – you remember the one with the wonky eye? – she was perched right atop his head. Funniest thing I ever saw.

  The boy giggles in delight. He moves his castle. Told you it was a mistake.

  They miss you, you know. The girls. Didn’t lay for three weeks after you left. Even now I swear they still keep strutting near to your old side fence, wondering where you are.

  He smiles wistfully. They wouldn’t remember me.

  The old man took a knight. You’re probably right. Chooks aren’t the sharpest tools in the shed. Probably miss all those broken biscuits you used to sneak over when you thought I wasn’t watching, though.

  A guilty glance.

  Huh. Thought I didn’t know about that, didn’t you. Spoilt ’em, you did. Have to make do with grubs now. He nods in the direction of under the house. Given that one a name yet?

  Nope.

  Probably just as well. Weirdest-looking chook I ever saw.

  The boy begins to protest before he senses the mischief behind the old man’s words.

  The afternoon wears on. His foster mum brings more tea, and a plate of fruitcake.

  Your new family seems nice. Young Mrs Standing, especially.

  Yeah, she’s all right, I s’pose.

  Bakes a mean Anzac.

  Uh-huh
.

  Got her hands full with those littlies.

  Yep.

  I expect you find them a trifle aggravating at times.

  Oh … they’re OK. I’m at school mostly anyway, so … His hand wavers between his castle and his bishop.

  How is your new school, anyhow?

  Big. Five Year 6 classes. Got a cool playground.

  You made some friends?

  Yeah, some.

  The boy studies the board with a fierce intensity, as if it might flap away. The old man folds away the boy’s pawn in a sweep of his arm.

  You seen your mum?

  The boy is quiet for so long that the old man thinks he hasn’t heard the question. The mournful cries of crows ride the wind. The boy shivers, zips up his hoodie. Outside the pergola, the day is fading.

  I said …

  I heard what you said. He squints up against the glare of the overhead bulb that has clicked on automatically. He bats at the insects swarming in its beam, throwing themselves against the light. There’s only one of us here with a hearing problem and it isn’t me.

  The old man blinks, slowly, then his face creases into a crumpled grin.

  All right, all right. Keep your hair on. I apologise, OK? I should’ve given you more time to think.

  Nothing much to think about. Just deciding whether or not to answer you.

  The old man laughs then, a full-throated sound that bounces off the flimsy walls and returns as an echo even as he is shuddering to a hacking cough.

  I got to hand it to you, kiddo. You’ve still got cheek. He fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket and blows his nose loudly.

  The boy’s face relaxes and he sits back. He picks up a cake crumb and flicks it at the old man, who retrieves it from his shirt and pops it into his mouth. The boy laughs, and the laugh reaches his eyes, and for a moment he seems a different child.

  He looks down and moves another pawn. Yeah, I’ve seen her. Not much. A couple of times. She was in hospital for a while, and then she was … she said … He glares defiantly at the old man. She said she didn’t want to see me. That’s what the social worker said. She said Mum was having a hard time and needed a rest and couldn’t see me for a bit. He emphasises the words hard time.