Tomato Cain and Other Stories

by Tomato Cain

  About half a mile from his cottage he was chilled by the night air and beginning to notice things.

  He felt that he was being followed.

  He stopped and turned. There was no sound but a sheep’s cough far away on his right. He scraped his foot sharply in the loose surface.

  A few yards away something slithered. Curphey could see a black patch against the light darkness of the road. Too small for a dog.

  “Shoo, cat!” he said loudly. For a second his back tingled at the odd stillness of it. Possible horrors bobbed in his mind. He stamped towards it with a hollow-feeling foot.

  The thing moved, and as it moved, it flapped. And spoke unmistakably.

  “Quaa!”

  That was how Lot Curphey met the duck.

  It followed him along the road, stopped when he did, shuffling along behind at a respectful number of small paces. Twice he tried to chase it home, taking it to be a stray from the yard of old Skillicorn, who was unpleasantly litigious. Each time it scuttled close again as soon as he turned his back.

  He came to the cottage where he lived alone, and went straight in and lit the oil-lamp.

  An eye glittered in the flare, low down on the threshold. He stooped, lamp in hand, and the duck grew clear.

  The creature was amazingly ugly.

  It stood on the rough slate step boldly, but with its right leg oddly twisted, like a bored corner boy. One eye looked in his face; the other was closed and hollow. Its feather lay many ways; in patches there were none. Those that remained were a shiny black.

  After a moment he picked it up, careful about where he touched it, and it was quiet in his hands. Thin, with skin loose in his fingers. A glance by the lamp showed that the damage to its leg was old, and no treatment needed. And it was too skinny to eat.

  He tossed it outside and clapped his hands loudly. A little later the door opened once more, for a green crust to follow it.

  In the half-light of the next morning, Curphey found the black duck among the seedlings in his front garden patch. He shouted and flung his hat at it. having to clamber sleepily after his hat, he trod on three brussels sprouts. He swore, loud in the clay air, and tried restore them, and swore again; threw a handful of gravel at the duck with seeming effect, and set off up the side path that pointed to Quilleash’s farm.

  The duck came behind, running crookedly. It trailed him as determinedly as in the darkness, using its wings when the man gained.

  Curphey came into the farm street hurriedly, readily to be embarrassed, with a glance behind an a nervous dab at his hat. At his limping heel scrambled the duck. It ignored the other birds that watched curiously from the midden.

  “It’s taken a fancy to me,” said Curphey to the rest of the hands. He felt more comfortable when their laughter turned safely on to the duck. “Mus’ think I’m a - a charity for ol’ twisty ducks!”

  That day it followed him everywhere. When he went on the plough, a black head bobbed down the furrows a couple of yards behind, puzzling the hovering gulls and crows. He was uneasy. His mind ran vaguely on catnip and aniseed, and once, feeling uncomfortably traitorous to Quilleash, on the properties of his yellow coat; he stood, in a quiet moment, among the farmer’s fat, preening Aylesburys to try its effect on them. But they seemed immune.

  During the break he gave the creature a half bun that had fallen in a puddle. At dinner-time it waited outside the kitchen door, menaced by a striped cat. It accompanied him to the stables and pigsties, and was chased by a dog as ragged as itself. And in due time it trailed Curphey home.

  By the end of the second day he had come to accept it as a whim of his own invention. He had also been made familiar, to the point of exasperation, with the habits of Mary’s Little Lamb.

  People would come to come to cottage doors as they passed, grinning slowly. He discovered small audiences at cross-roads. Boys sniggered on the hedges. A carter reined in his horse and raised his hat ironically as the ugly bird twitched along the roadside. Some were alarmed: an old woman pulled a shawl over her head, and hid in a field clutching a charm-herb, till they passed; a pair of small girls on a garden patch were pulled suddenly indoors. Dogs barked. Nobody claimed the duck.

  Lot Curphey found a habit of waving his yellow-coated arm broadly, with a certain fluttering of the fingers and jerk of the thumb; meant to convey a bright humour, rich with enjoyment of the situation, and the duck as a witless butt. A new, exciting self-consciousness ran through him. His limping foot felt as if it danced.

  On the evening of the fourth day, the duck went with him to the village pub.

  It was timid among the houses, and used its wings to keep a safer, crooked course; but never far behind.

  At the door he stopped, winking and waving to the sunlit loungers. He stooped over the bird, picked it up, and went into the pub with a conscious air of making an entrance.

  Inside, he stood, duck in hand.

  The place was bright, with smoke deadening the mellow beeriness. The bar had half a dozen round it. One turned, wiping his frothy moustache pleasurably.

  “Well, it’s himself! An’ will ye look what’s at him!”

  They swung round. Big Moughtin the smith prodded a too-absorbed drinker. “Take y’r face out o’ that! The man’s brought his duck!”

  Curphey approached, pleased.

  “Is that the one they’re all on about?”

  Kermit Kermode, behind the bar, drew Curphey a pint on the house and screwed up his eyes.

  “It's an ugly devil. Did ye hatch it out of a bad egg or what ? Come on, stick it down here an’ let’s have a sight.”

  And the duck stood among the wet rings left by glasses, leaning on its crooked leg, the one eye fixed on Lot Curphey. “I had a book of ducks’ illnesses,” said little red-faced Quirk, looking round the bar. “By the look of it, she hasn’t left many out, eh?”

  “Who are you, insultin’ me prize bird!” said Curphey.

  Amused, they treated him to a second pint, then another, and he warmed inside the yellow coat. The room grew still brighter. The others watched him, letting their interest ripen.

  “Did ye train her up,” said big Moughtin, “to follow ye? In the place of a dog, like?”

  “Hardly at all,” said Curphey, and winked. “The power o’ the human eye, it was. Me havin’ two, and her only one, give me natural advantage.” He stretched out a hand and chucked the bird’s black bill. It scarcely moved.

  “Aw, it’s the funniest thing y’ ever seen,” he said, “when it gets goin’.” He giggled.

  He put the duck on the floor and let it follow him round the room, jerking among the iron table-legs, past the spittoon. Moughtin began to laugh, slowly at first, then deeper and more painfully, without stopping. Round and round they went, Curphey twisting and dodging, and urging the duck on. He was beginning to enjoy the act. In a tiny, false voice he called, “Come on, then! Who’s an ugly funny bird then? Come to daddy an’ have y’r oul’ neck screwed! Where's the pie-dish, then?” He began to pull faces.

  Quirk gave little amused barks. Moughtin was shaking.

  Curphey went faster, glass in hand. He pretended anger at the duck’s performance, handspike furiously and hoarsely, knowing it would have no effect. “Put a move on! Ye one-eyed insect! Left, right, left, right! Don’t ye know which is y’r left? Me handsome man-eater disgracin’ me!”

  Moughtin had tried to drink, and was being thumped on the back.

  “Halt!” Curphey thrust his head out at the duck. It stared at him without expression. “What are ye lookin’ at me that way for? Eh? O-o-oh, I see! Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. Ye see’ - a stage whisper - “y’re not really strong enough to be killed. An’ I haven’t the time just at the present, though I’m sorry to disappoint ye!”

  He turned to the bar, and from his pocket brought a handful of ripe corn, rattling on the varnished wood.

  “Will ye dip some o’ this in a drop o’ gin, Kermit?”

  Big Moughtin, grasping the ide
a, sighed with exasperation.

  The duck was replaced among the glasses. In front of it was the doctored corn. Curphey offered a few grains in his hand. After a moment hesitation, they went quickly.

  “Aw, she’s used to it!” said somebody.

  The duck was nuzzling after the grains among the slopped beer.

  “A bit more, Kermit! An’ I'll have another pint meself.”

  They placed the duck on the floor again. It waddled a few steps after Curphey, then staggered on its sound foot.

  There was a howl of delight.

  “Whassa marrer?” Curphey shouted at it, with a sham hiccup. “You shay I wash drunk?”

  The duck’s bill opened and shut. Its eye blinked. One wing drooped. A grey foot groped, slipped back to safety. It could not walk.

  Curphey grabbed it by the neck and swept it high. “By yer leave, Kermit!” he giggled, and stuck its head into his own beer mug.

  After a moment there came a quiet guzzling.

  They clustered around to watch, laughing. Two or three fresh customers stood in puzzlement. “Drinks f’r both of them on me, Kermit!” shouted Moughtin. “The bird can down it like a right fella!”

  For the rest of the evening, Lot Curphey tormented his duck.

  It was soon helplessly drunk. Set on the bar counter, it could only gaze into his eyes with a love-lorn fixity, while its head swayed and its legs slid.

  For a long time he addressed it in monologues, pretending sometimes to listen and receive offensive answers.

  “What did you say? Did you say that? Ye wicked ungrateful creature, I wonder ye can look me in the eye! Stand up straight when ye speak to y’r elders will ye! Now, as I was sayin’, strong drink is detrimental to the soul an’ the linin’ of the gizzard —“

  They treated him again and again, keeping him going.

  “Ye sorry fowl! I know why y’re followin’ me around - I can read ye like a book. Ye want me to learn y' how to swim.” More laughter. “So I will, so I will, have no fear! Ask, and it shall be given unto —“ Wait a minute, though!” A doubtful scratch at his chin. “Ye might drown!”

  The audience responded.

  Curphey frowned at the ceiling through the bottom of his glass. He swung round with a secret whisper. “l’ll tell ye what! Didn’t y’r mothers once tell ye about th’ Ugly Duckling?” A nod at the dozing duck. “‘This must be himself! He’s passed the time to change into a swan an’ he wants help - forgotten how to do it! Here, give me strength, Kermit. Fill up!”

  Gradually the sense went out of his talk.

  “Aw, y’ve had enough.” said Kermode at last, “or ye’ll never get home to-night, man.”

  “Li’l duck,” murmured Curphey. “Whad say? Now - listen, li’l duck —“

  “Y’d better take y’r clever duck away now, Lot!” said Kermode loudly in his ear. “Let her sleep it off. It’s hard on closin’ time.”

  The comedian bought him into focus.

  “I will Kermit, I will.” He picked up the duck and buttoned it inside his coat. Once again, Moughtin began to laugh, wheezily now, at the two heads looking muzzily out of the yellow coat.

  “‘Night, boys!” said Curphey, and moved unsteadily towards the door.

  It was then that big Moughtin did a tactless thing. He named the cause of all their laughter.

  “Look at it!” he said. “The thing is; he - he’s the bloody spittin’ image o’ the duck!” And wheezed enormously. His own joke pleased him most of any during the evening.

  Curphey stopped, suddenly quiet. There came a stillness in every part of the room. Only Moughtin’s wheezing.

  Curphey looked round the bar. His lips made a movement, then closed. He turned, and went from the pub, leaving the door swinging.

  His steps were quick and unsteady in the darkness.

  He went faster, hot-faced and limping. In a few minutes he was above the village. His breath came tightly. Against his chest he felt the warmth of the duck.

  Curphey stopped, dragged it savagely from his coat. Its bill gave a little guttural sound. “By God!” said Curphey. He shook it.

  In a sudden fury he flung it from him. Its wings opened before it hit the ground, and it fluttered crazily in the darkness. He raised his foot to kick.

  It dodged drunkenly.

  He began to chase it. First in clumsy, set rushes, then snatching here and there; tripping over the heavy wings of his coat, swearing and growling. He could not see it, and listened for its pattering. Once he trod on it, and it cried out and flapped away.

  In the first weak moonlight they came to where the hedge was low.

  In a frenzy, the duck scrambled aside over ditch and hedge, into rough, open turf. Curphey splashed after it, clawing fiercely.

  He could see it in the dimness, exhausted.

  As he sprang, his foot gave under him. With a great, smacking squelch, he fell flat on his face.

  He lay quietly on the boggy earth. The bird crouched, still, in a patch of reeds; until the tiny bubbling and sucking noises ceased.

  The moon rose higher, and whitened the stone that had stunned him. His face lay in a puddle of brown mountain water, so shallow that it barely covered his nostrils.

  When he did not appear for work next day, Quilleash sent to his cottage and found it locked.

  Searching down the road to the village, they sighted his boots among the rushes not far away on the other side of the hedge. They turned him over, and were shocked and curious at the manner of his death. “Found drowned, it’ll have to be,” said one.

  Presently he was wrapped in two grey blankets and carried to the road. A hand-cart waited to take him down to the village. It set off, soaked blankets flapping heavily in the smart spring wind.

  A short distance down the road ahead, something moved at the ditch’s edge. “There it is!” said a man.

  The duck looked up as they came near; leaning sideways. Its black eye ignored the cart and stared past, up the empty road.

  When they were far down the hill, one glanced back.

  A tiny shape, the duck was still standing there. Its head seemed to jerk from side to side, looking for something.

  The day after the inquest, it was stabbed with a long-handled pitchfork, by the son of the old woman who gathered charm-herbs. He wore a bunch round his neck.

  END

  Chapter 17

  The Terrible Thing I Have Done

  Iranamet! I’ve got to speak to you, no matter what! Please, it’s terribly important!

  Never mind your list of dishes - it won’t be needed! I know what I’m talking about. Iranamet, there’s hardly any time left - quickly, into this room here!

  No, I’m not fussing; that you’ll soon see. I’ve hardly ever asked a favour of you before, come to think ; and after this —

  I think I’ll sit down. Feeling a bit rocky. Oh, don’t fret; for once people aren’t going to mind Pharaoh’s taster taking it easy in an ante-room. Somehow I don’t think they’ll notice.

  Let the clock flow a little farther, and they’ll have other things on their minds.

  Iranamet! I want to ask you something that worries me very much. Give me your hand.

  I want you to promise me that when I’m dead - oh, never mind reassuring me! - when they take me down river to the embalming place, promise me you'll see that my copy of the Book of the Dead is a good one, with all the instructions. I know the embalmers often slip a dud scroll into the burial equipment, with mistakes in it, and pieces left out.

  When I’m on the other side, you see, I’m going to have difficulty enough in passing all the tests, without being misled by wrong instructions.

  What's that - somebody coming down the passage? No, I don’t hear any one, yet; it isn’t time. I’ll have to talk quickly; and I know my words are tumbling over each other already.

  Iranamet, I’ve done a terrible thing. Terrible.

  I think I’ll have time to explain, just briefly. Perhaps you've noticed that I’ve been on edge lately?
Perhaps not; come to think of it, I’m not a person people notice a great deal.

  Yet it’s been the way that Pharaoh - may I be forgiven! I mean the Good God - the way he’s been watching me that’s upset me.

  You - you remember the time his father died? Not so very long ago, was it? And you know what they gave out; that he was killed by falling downstairs from the loggia? Well, it wasn’t strictly true. He wasn’t the sort of person to tumble about. He only fell that time because —

  I mustn’t tell, as I’m under an oath. Perhaps I can say he - drank something. And when he reached the stairs it was just taking effect. I mean, when people found his head smashed in, they thought that the fall had killed him. But a few minutes later, wherever he’d gone, and whatever he’d done, he’s have been found —

  But I can’t say that. I can’t say who did it, either; or who instigated the plot.

  Oh, no, it wasn’t the present Pharaoh - oh, again! I mean the Good God! He doesn’t know a thing about it. I suppose they didn’t trust him because - may I be forgiven! - because he’s weak. Or so that he wouldn’t be able to use it against them if he fell out with them.

  But they told me.

  Oh, how I wish they hadn’t! I’m only a servant; but they said I ought to know because of my position. That was when I became the royal taster. Taster to the new Pharaoh - the Good God.

  But I wasn't to tell any one, not even the Good God. They made me kneel down and swear an oath I wouldn't. It frightens me to think about that oath! It was more of a horrible prayer; that when I should die, I should have no trial by the gods but be taken straight by the Eater of the Dead and drawn on his claws, and ground under his weight, and then crunched in his crimson teeth on every third day for ever! And that my screams and my pain should gradually take form and settle beside me in dreadful shapes.

  If I broke my word.

  It’s so frightening! I do hope I haven’t let anything slip.

  You know I’m only a quiet man. Certainly I could never have done what - was done. Intentionally. But they insisted on telling me about it, and the knowledge tortured me.