by Lucy Treloar
Makings things
-Ploughshare, found on a windowsill
-A length of fairy lights
-Weathervane
-Old cracked boot
-Antlers, from a shed
-A squirrel skeleton, found curled under a mossy rock ledge
-Acorns
-Feathers
-A tiny toy excavator, found behind a curtain
I thought about Irina in Essex, who moved about for so long. I felt closer to her now I was without a home, though my troubles were nothing compared to things she endured. She had been broken and was yet together. She was her own making – what a thought. Sometimes I put together a making with the things I was leaving behind. I mostly used grass to hold them together. They’d fall apart by spring. I liked to think of that happening – they were like living things in that way – and drew quick sketches of them and things that caught my eye in case I forgot.
I stopped beneath a bridge a little further along that afternoon. A woman had a hubcap over a fire and someone else had stolen a chicken and someone had killed and plucked it and more than one person ate it. (Hurtle had the backbone and the gristly bits at the joints.) Sometimes we talked. The roadside wood-edge life cut off the rest of the world. It was a ribbon that carried me. One place after another passed by and the ribbon remained intact. It seemed like no one else knew about it except the people who needed it. It was ours. People thought they could see us, but they were wrong. They had no manners, looking into our wall-less homes, sometimes staring. They couldn’t see the courtesy, the many courtesies that we lived within. We had our different reasons, but etiquette prevented us from asking each other prying questions. If you waited, a few words or a scar or a crooked leg might tell you something of a person’s life.
Some people had been on the ribbon for years. It was different from Rosie’s skimming way of living. People on the ribbon felt the land around them. They were part of it and did not pretend otherwise. I asked one lady what was her thinking. She said, I am here and I am alive. Pickings are not good, but it is the time of year and things will improve. I said everything tastes better outside and she agreed. Everyone did. It was hard getting the food to eat, and I was hungry and Hurtle was too. I was rationing the dog food. I found some young shoots somewhere, and picked them and ate a couple and put the rest in my pocket and ate them on the way. I learned to look out for rosehips. They weren’t bad. Hurtle wasn’t sure but she tried them anyway. Beggars can’t be choosers, my mother said. Remember that.
Sometimes I’d watched cooking shows on the island. Animals would get killed – fish and goats, cows, octopuses, crabs, enormous lobsters, rare creatures: eels writhing while their bodies were being split, lobsters thrashing and banging while they were boiled alive, pigs struggling as they were bound for slaughter, their eyes looking out of their basketware cages as their bodies shivered with terror and then with the loss of blood, when their lungs could not fill with air. Every one of them tried to get away, understanding well what was happening and fighting with no expectation of winning. Yet we hold our own life so dear. I enjoyed the chicken and didn’t lose sleep over the chicken’s lost life, though I don’t like to think of its death: the way the man laid it on its back and stood on its spread wings and held its head and sawed its neck with a blunt old knife; the way a woman held a margarine container beneath its neck to catch the blood; the greedy horror of the people watching. I don’t excuse myself. I was hungry. I watched.
Chapter 24
We walked along the black lace edges of deep woods and fallow fields. Winter crops were sparse; a few geese moved about on them. It was cold. Another time, I’d make sure to walk in summer. There would be fields of corn to lie within and watch swaying overhead. I would reach up and pluck a cob and peel its taffeta husk and eat its milky kernels, and pass one to Hurtle who would be appreciative. I came upon a reserve, with signs pointing to marshes and swamps, and boards explaining how people had been getting lost there for hundreds of years, by accident or design. I half expected to find bones laid neatly to rest, arms folded across chests and trinkets about bare skulls, a stone at head and foot to hold a body in the open space, or to come across a person curled against a log with their knees drawn up and their clasped hands to their chins so they had something at their backs when exhaustion and hunger defeated them: a prayer, a baby, a dead body. I was not at that point yet. I thought I was getting closer to home judging by the flat, watery land, the standing pines, and the hummocks out on open water.
I didn’t know how far we’d have to walk, or even if I’d find Doree or Hart at the end, or how I’d feed Hurtle after the bag of dog food Rose had left behind was finished. I kept heading south as best I could, following the coast, looking out for signs to make sure I didn’t roam onto one of the tendrils of land that jutted into the sea, which would likely become islands in due course. There are many similarities between people and land.
I thought of Doree on her dock, the water rising around her spit of garden. It might see her out. I thought of Cat and Luis and Alejandra, Treasure, even Josh. It was like they walked into one side of my life and walked across it and out the other side taking a little bit of me with them, changing everything.
The next day in heavy woods – a shortcut, I hoped – I came across two hunters, fit-looking, younger than me, one with a goatee, their ears sticking out like sycamore seeds beneath their caps, and wearing combat fatigues. They were as startled as I and threw their weapons to their shoulders. Hurtle rushed at them, barking. ‘Hurtle,’ I said. I held my hands up, though I had my gun in my pocket, right there; I could feel the drag of it. ‘Hey,’ I said.
‘You doing out here?’
‘Passing through, heading south. I’m looking for my wolfdog. She ran off the road.’ I called out, ‘Girl,’ and looked about to make it feel real, to me as well as them. Hurtle came over as if to say one name was as good as another. ‘Where’s she gone, Hurtle? Where?’ Girl would have lifted her ears and tilted her head. Hurtle looked at me and sniffed at the ground in case I’d dropped something there for her to eat. ‘She headed after something. Might have been the noise you were making. She’s a good hunter. You didn’t see her?’
‘Ain’t seen a wolfdog,’ the older of the two, the one with the goatee and the growing-out side-whiskers said.
Hurtle barked again, hoarse and random. ‘Well, see ya,’ I said and lifted my hand and we went on. Finally I looked back and they were gone, I didn’t know in which direction. I thought I heard a shout, and then I did for sure.
‘We’re coming to get you’ – a singsong jeering in the cold air, followed by raucous laughter. I was spooked. It would be easy to shoot someone and say it was an accident if that sort of thing entertained you, to hold someone under water until they drowned. I kept on, quiet and fast as I could, stopping behind trees to look back, walking on soft mouldering leaves. Once I thought I heard their breathing, but two are noisier than one and I was able to steer away. In fading light a shoreline came into view, and two cabins perched on a point alongside a couple of boats. Further out was one of the squat old lighthouses, dark but for a red light on its pointed roof. I heaved a boat free, persuaded Hurtle in and dragged it into the water and rowed out, taking care not to splash with the oars, tethering it to the steps, and with some difficulty heaved a reluctant Hurtle out again. She growled, maybe from some tender spot I couldn’t see. She had plenty of scars. We climbed the flight of steep metal treads, and beneath us the water moved dark and uneasy, catching and breaking the moonlight. It was dark at the doorway; the wind buffeted, that hollow sound. Hurtle pressed close. I found the handle, turned it, and pushed the door open.
It was quiet inside and the darkness was mottled and approached in waves that darkened and darkened but never absolutely arrived. A rustling came from above. It smelled of wood smoke and burned oil and candlewax, and was not unpleasant, though close.
‘Hello
?’ I called softly, even though no one could be there since there was no boat when we arrived.
Hurtle barked.
‘Shh, Hurtle.’
She looked at me and moved her tail. I stroked her cheek. There – as long as I had a living creature beside me I could repel the darkness, the same as when I was a child. My eyes began to adjust and we started up the narrow corkscrew stair cavity I found behind a low door. My hand traced the chill walls – timber slats by the feel. The small doorway at the top was open and a lighter grey bled from it. We climbed through. It was a tiny space almost filled by the vast refractive light at the centre, its unmoving, unlit facets gleaming. Windows all around looked onto seething water, a star-filled sky and the masses of dark pines I had come from, their toothed outlines biting at stars and sky. I shut the small door and latched it, and opened and bent to climb through one of the windows onto the narrow walkway and lifted Hurtle through. The cold wind struck my face, but it smelled good out there. Hurtle looped the lighthouse tower. I looked onto the world obliquely, at the flock of oil derricks further up seeming to stalk our way, one or two warning lights about their edges. A raucous cry sounded across the water. ‘We know where y’are now.’ And there was a splash, and another, rowing.
‘Hurtle,’ I whispered. ‘Not a sound.’ I pulled my gun from my pocket. The water was slippery looking, heaving, as if searching for something to swallow. I waited until I could see them, a denser black moving in that stuttering way of rowboats. ‘I see you now,’ I called. ‘And I will shoot if you come closer.’ I detected some hesitation in the rower’s stroke.
‘You haven’t got a gun – or a wolfdog. Bad day for hunting, but it’s not over,’ the voice taunted. And they began again. ‘Like shooting fish in a barrel,’ one of them shouted, and the other laughed and said, ‘Pigeons in a loft.’ They were getting closer.
‘I don’t want to shoot, but I’m not afraid to,’ I shouted. ‘I won’t warn you again. I prefer not to kill.’
‘Ha!’ And they came faster.
I lifted my gun and took aim. The conditions were not ideal – I could barely see them. I could see where they were not, though, and I didn’t want to hit them. I shot. They bellowed their alarm. ‘That should have holed the boat, fellers. The light’s not too good. One more to be sure—’ I shot again, and heard a sort of thud.
‘Fucking crazy bitch. Can’t take a joke.’ Their boat was drifting now and one of them was fumbling – for his own gun, no doubt. So I shot again – still aiming for the boat. I didn’t want any more people on my conscience. I hoped they could swim.
‘Is your boat filling? It should be. Head for shore is my advice,’ I called. ‘You come closer and I’ll shoot again. You going to waste time when your boat’s going down?’ It was wallowing and dragging in the water now, like that seagull Josh shot. All their muttering and cursing, which I could still hear, was only for themselves, and their boat kept drifting, carried heavily by the blackness.
My heart was skipping around. When I put my hand to my chest I could feel it, and wondering if I might faint, I sat for a moment, watching their inexorable slide away, and then lay looking at the stars, at all their untouched patterns. I had not killed them.
Hurtle made a sound in her throat. ‘Okay,’ I said, and in a couple of minutes we went back into the lighthouse. Downstairs, I scooped out a handful of dog food for her and had a few pieces myself (it’s not so bad if you’re hungry). I shone the light around. There was some timber in the wood box by a small pot-belly stove, and tucked to one side some paper and candle stubs. I lit the fire. I remember this night so well, it kept me going for so long, the security of it, the knowledge that I had seen off danger and not hurt anyone, and had a little warmth and the company of my strange dog, and I vowed that if I got back I’d try to provide the same for other travellers. Food as well, not only here, but in other places too. I briefly dreamed of lighthouse life; what is a lighthouse but another sort of island? A dog will always be in need of a garden and a walk, though, and I could not imagine life without a dog. I sat cross-legged before the fire and brought my notebook up to date as best I could. I got things wrong and out of order and felt bad already about my early feelings towards Hurtle, which I tried to be honest about in my words. I stroked her head and her ears.
She made another sound, a soft groan. ‘Okay,’ I said, and when I lay down she flopped against me like I’d thrown down her bed and we curled up close and she promptly went to sleep. It got cold in the night and I wrapped my coat across and around Hurtle and put my hood over my head. She breathed her warm dog breath on me and I can’t say it wasn’t welcome. The fire burned out and one of us would shiver and we’d squeeze tighter together and come good again. We needed each other, something that Girl and Sweetie and Missy and the others had never taught me.
Hurtle’s whining woke me at first light – she’d be needing a pee. It’s easy to think of letting a boat drift in the hope it might find another island, but a dog changes things. You can’t not take them into consideration. They make you; it’s the blessing and curse of them.
I was cautious returning to shore, and I kept watch for a long time, moving through the edges of woods rather than along the roadside. Once I thought a truck that drove by was the huntsmen’s, but I couldn’t be sure, only saw that the men in it had guns on their laps pointing from the windows. I wasn’t what they were looking for – a woman with a dog and no home, but they might kill for sport and agree afterwards to be silent. It can easily happen. People get a little hunting lust up and it has a drive to come out so the host can settle again. No point in taking chances. I stayed still and waited until they’d passed from sight. I had a little food for Hurtle and therefore for me and we walked through that day and stopped only a couple of times. I found an abandoned house that night. There was a woodpile at the kitchen door, but not a match to set it going. I searched until it was too dark to see, then Hurtle and I curled in the bottom of a cupboard upstairs to be out of the drafts and ate the last of the dog food. It was a long uncomfortable night. I made a list in my head of things I wished I had.
Emergency survival pack
-Matches / lighter
-Energy bars
-Dehydrated food
-Soap
-Small towel
-Space blanket
-Quick-dry change of clothing
-Can opener
-Miniature gas stove and a tiny travel saucepan, like the one I got from the camping store and left behind
-A few coloured pencils
-Powdered milk
-Small jar instant coffee
-Narrow-gauge wire
-Strong string
I didn’t know how much further there was to go, but feeling hollow inside, I set myself up outside a library in Manahope, a name I remembered, so I was getting closer to home. The library was a fine old red-brick building, puffed up with white pillars and fancy lettering. Hurtle curled up in a cardboard box I’d picked up from a store. It kept the wind at bay; her fur lifted and occasionally an eyelid and occasionally her ear and occasionally her reproachful gaze. She was not a dog to inspire giving but she was my dog and she needed food so I did this for her. Before us I placed my woollen scarf formed into a nest for money. It lit up on the sidewalk like a fallen sunflower.
I began calling, at first quietly, and then louder, taking care not to use my island accent, and really not caring after a while what people thought and how they judged me or my homely dog. ‘Hungry dog here. Still got a way to go.’
Two police officers wearing dark glasses and thick jackets approached with more caution than I thought necessary for a woman down on her luck and her sleeping dog. Their hands rested on their holsters. ‘That a wolfdog, ma’am?’
I thought of saying something smart, like, ‘Does it look like a wolfdog to you?’ or, ‘Do you suppose a wolfdog would fit in a box that size?’ Pure reckless
ness. ‘No, sir, it is not. No idea what she is. Someone dumped her on me, can you believe?’
‘Well,’ one said. ‘We’re looking for someone who’s got one.’
‘There’s a few of them around.’
He showed more interest. ‘You seen some?’
‘Not around here, no, sir. I have seen them in the past, I mean.’ I spoke in a dull way and didn’t look in their faces in case they’d remember me, or glance at my scarf in case they took note of its colour, or speak to Hurtle in case she stood and growled or snapped and became memorable.
‘We don’t like this sort of thing in this town.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Begging, ma’am. We do not appreciate it.’
‘Oh, okay. It’s for my dog. You won’t see me again. We’re moving on.’
‘Which way’s that?’
‘North, heading north.’
‘See that you do.’
I picked up the few dollars we’d gathered and we kept on south. At a convenience store at the edge of town I bought some bread and a piece of only slightly mouldy cheese from the discount shelves, some matches and a bag of dog food – a different flavour.
I wish I had pictures of the car graveyard that Hurtle and I slept in that night and of the four or five teenage girls we found living there. Runaways, not runners, they told me. They were hard, fierce, lean things, and came and sat with us in our car, moving like cats using all their limbs to crawl over the seats. Their eyes darted around us so fast. I gave them the rest of my cheese, which they ate wolfishly. ‘My God, cheese,’ one said. ‘I know, right?’ another said. It went down in great chunks that I could see the shape of in their throats as they swallowed and swallowed, stretching their necks to help it down.