Long Lankin: Stories Page 6

  —If he got to the stables he could come in through the side door. If he did I’d hide him.

  He stared at her, and feeling his eyes on her she set her mouth firmly and said:

  —I would, I’d hide him. And then in the morning I’d get him out and bring him to Dublin and put him on the boat for England, for Liverpool or some place.

  She reached out blindly and took his hand. There were tears on her face, they fell, each gathering to itself a little light and flashing in the darkness of the window.

  —We could do that if he came, couldn’t we, Mor? It wouldn’t be a bad thing to do. It wouldn’t be a crime, I mean, would it? Out there in the dark with the rain and everything and thinking about all the things — thinking and thinking. It wouldn’t be wrong to help him, Mor?

  He took her in his arms and held her head on his shoulder. She was trembling.

  —No, he said softly. It wouldn’t be a bad thing.

  She began to sob quietly, and he lifted her head and smiled at her.

  —Don’t cry, Liza. There now.

  The door-bell rang, and her eyes filled with apprehension. Without a word she moved past him and left the room.

  Mor stood and looked about him. Long ago when he first saw this room he had thought it beautiful, and now it was one of the few things left which had not faded. The shaded lamps took from the warm walls of lilac a soft, full light, it touched everything, the chairs, the worn carpet, with gentle fingers. On the table beside him a half-eaten sandwich lay beside his bottle. There was an olive transfixed on a wooden pin. Muted voices came in from the hall, and outside in the fields a shout flared like a flame in the dark and then was blown away. Mor lifted his glass, and when the amber liquid moved, all the soft light of the room seemed to shift with it. He felt something touch him. It was as though all the things he had ever lost had now come back to press upon his heart with a vast sadness. He stared at the table, at the little objects, the bread and the bottle, the olive dead on its pin.

  Liza came back, her hands joined before her, and the knuckles white. She stopped in the middle of the room and looked blankly about her, as if she were dazed.

  —What is it? he asked. Who was at the door?

  —A guard.

  —What did he want?

  —What?

  —What did he want? The guard.

  —O, the guard. He wanted to use the ’phone.

  She looked at him, and blinked rapidly twice.

  —They found him, she said. He hanged himself in the long meadow.

  She examined the room once again with vague eyes, then she sighed, and went away. He sat down to finish his drink, and after a time went out and climbed the stairs.

  Liza was lying in bed, the lamp beside her throwing a cruel light over her drawn face. He sat beside her and watched her. Her eyes were open, staring up into the dimness. In the silence there was the sound of the rain against the window. She said, so softly he barely heard her:

  —We missed so much.

  He leaned down and kissed her forehead. She did not move. He put his hand over her breast, feeling the nipple cold and small through the silk of her nightgown.

  —Liza.

  She turned away from him, and when she spoke her voice was muffled by the sheets.

  —Bring me a glass of water, Morris. My mouth is dry.

  He moved away from her, and switched off the light. He went down the stairs in the darkness, the air cold and stale against his face. On quiet feet he returned to the drawing room and poured another, last drink. Then he went and stood at the dark window, and listened to the wind blowing in the trees.

  Summer Voices

  … Shalt thou hope. His truth shall compass thee with a shield. Thou shalt not be afraid of the terror of the night, of the arrow that flies in the day, of the business that walks in the dark, of invasion or of the noonday devil.

  The old voice droned on, and the boy wondered at the words. He looked through the window at the countryside, the fields floating in the summer heat. On Hallowe’en people must stay indoors for fear of the devils that fly in the darkness. Once he had heard them crying, those dark spirits, and she said it was only the wind. But to think of the wind in the black trees out on the marsh was almost as bad as imagining devils. And late that night from the window of his bedroom he saw huge shadows of leaves dancing on the side of the house, and the circle of light from the street lamp shivering where it fell on the road.

  —Are you going to ask her?

  —What?

  The little girl frowned at him and leaned close to his ear, her curls falling about her face. She whispered:

  —Ssh, will you. Are you going to ask her can we go? He said seven days and the tide will be up in an hour. Go on and ask her.

  He nodded.

  —In a minute.

  She stuck out her tongue at him. Through his crossed legs he touched his fists on the cool tiles of the floor. The old woman in the chair before him licked her thumb and turned a page of the black missal. The thin paper crackled and the ribbons stirred where they hung from the torn spine.

  —I will deliver him and glorify him. I will fill him with length of days and I will show him my salvation.

  She raised her eyes from the page and glared at them over the metal rims of her spectacles. Crossly she said:

  —What are you two whispering about there?

  —Tantey, can we go for a swim? the little girl cried and jumped to her feet. The old woman smiled and shook her head.

  —O it’s a swim is it? You’d rather be off swimming now than listening to the words of God.

  —Ah but it’s a lovely day, Tantey. Can we go, can we?

  —I suppose so. But mind now and be careful. And you’re not to stay out late.

  She closed the missal and kissed reverently the tattered binding. Groaning she pulled herself up from her chair and hobbled to the door. There she paused and turned, and said to the boy who still sat on the floor with his legs crossed:

  —Mind what I say now. Be back here early.

  When she was gone the girl went and sat in the armchair, and with her shoulders bent she mimicked the old woman, intoning:

  —Achone achone the Lord and all his angels are coming to damn us all to hell.

  —Ah stop that, said the boy.

  —Nor you needn’t be afeared of the devil in the day. Achone achone O.

  —I told you to stop it.

  —All right. All right. Don’t be always bossing me around.

  She made a face at him and tramped from the room, saying over her shoulder:

  —I’m going to get the bikes and if you’re not out before I count ten I’m going on my own.

  The boy did not move. Sunlight fell through the tiny window above the stove. The radiance of the summer afternoon wove shadows about him. Beyond the window a dead tree stood like a crazy old naked man, a blackbird hopping among its twisted branches. The boy stood up and went into what had once been the farmyard — the barn and the sties had long since crumbled. After the dimness of the kitchen the light here burned his eyes. He moved across to stand under the elm tree and listen to the leaves. Out over the green fields the heat lay heavy, pale blue and shimmering. In the sky a bird circled slowly. He lifted his head and gazed into the thickness of the leaves. Light glinted gold through the branches. He stood motionless, his arms hanging at his sides, listening, and slowly, from the far fields, the strange cry floated to his ears, a needle of sound that pierced the stillness. He held his breath. The voice hung poised a moment in the upper airs, a single liquid note, then slowly faded back into the fields, and died away, leaving the silence deeper than before.

  —Are you coming or are you just going to stand there all day?

  He turned. The girl stood between the two ancient bicycles, a saddle held in each of her small hands.

  —I’m coming, he grunted.

  They mounted and rode slowly down to the gate, where he halted while the girl swung carelessly out into the road.
When he was sure of safety he pedalled furiously after her.

  —You’ll get killed some day, he said when he was beside her again.

  The girl turned up her nose and shook her hair in the warm wind.

  —You’re an awful scaredy cat, she said contemptuously.

  —I just don’t want to get run over, that’s all.

  —Hah.

  She trod on the pedals and glided away from him. He watched her as she sailed along, her bony knees rising and falling. She took her hands from the handlebars and waved them in the air.

  —You’ll fall off, he shouted.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him and pulled her hair above her head, and the long gold tresses coiled about her pale arms. Her teeth glinted as she laughed.

  Free now they slowed their pace and leisurely sailed over the road, tyres whispering in the soft tar. The fields trembled on either side of them. Sometimes the girl sang in her high-pitched, shaky voice, and the notes carried back to him, strangely muted by the wide fields, a distant, piping song. Tall shoots of vicious grass waving from the ditches scratched their legs. The boy watched the land as it moved slowly past him, the sweltering meadows, the motionless trees, and high up on the hill the cool deep shadows under Wild Wood.

  —Listen, the girl said, allowing him to overtake her. Do you think they’ll let us see him?

  —I don’t know.

  —Jimmy would. He’d let me see him all right. But there’s bound to be others.

  She brooded, gazing at her feet circling under her.

  —How do you know they’ll find him? the boy asked.

  —Jimmy said so.

  —Jimmy.

  —You shut up. You don’t know anything about him.

  —He’s dirty, the boy said sullenly.

  —You never saw him.

  —I did.

  —Well he’s not dirty. And anyway I don’t care. I’m in love with him, so there.

  —He’s dirty and he’s old and he’s mad, too.

  —I don’t care. I love him. I’d love him to kiss me.

  She closed her eyes and puckered her lips at the sky. Suddenly she turned and pushed the boy violently, so that he almost lost his balance. She watched him try to control the wobbling wheels, and she screamed with laughter. Then she sailed ahead of him once again, crying:

  —You’re only jealous, you are.

  The girl disappeared around a bend in the road, and he stepped down from the machine. He plodded scowling up the first steep slope of Slane Hill.

  When he came round the bend he found the girl standing beside her bicycle waiting for him, her hands at her mouth.

  —Listen, she said, and grasped his arm. There’s somebody up there.

  At the top of the hill a dark figure was huddled in the ditch at the side of the road.

  —It’s only a man, the boy said.

  —I don’t like the look of him.

  —You’re afraid.

  —I am not. I just don’t like the look of him.

  —Not so brave now, the boy sneered.

  —All right then, smartie. Come on.

  They began the climb. Sweat gathered at the corners of their eyes and on their lips. Under their hands the rubber of the grips on the handlebars grew moist and sticky. Flies came and buzzed about them. They lowered their heads and pushed the awkward black machines to the crest of the hill. Below them now was the sea, warm and blue and glittering with flakes of silver light. A cool breeze came up over the sandy fields, carrying a faint bitterness of salt against their mouths. A stirring beside them in the ditch. A hoarse voice. Panic stabbed them. They leaped into the saddles and careered off down the hill, while behind them a ragged, strangely uncertain figure stood dark against the sky, querulously calling.

  The air whistled by their ears as they raced along the pitted road. The sea was coming to meet them, the dunes rose up green and gold, sea salt cutting their nostrils, the sun whirling like a rimless spoked wheel of gold, sea and dunes rushing, then abruptly the road ended, their tyres sank in the sand and they toppled from the saddles.

  For a while they lay panting, and listened to the sea whispering gently on the shore. Then the girl raised her head and looked back up the hill.

  —He’s gone, she whispered hoarsely.

  The boy sat up and rubbed his knee.

  —I hurt myself.

  —I said he’s gone.

  —Who is?

  —The fellow up on the hill. He’s gone.

  The boy shaded his eyes and gazed back along the road. He pursed his lips and murmured vaguely:

  —O yes.

  She caught his wrist in her bony fingers.

  —Did you hear what he was shouting? Did you hear what he called you?

  —Me?

  —He was shouting at you. He called you mister.

  —Did he?

  —Didn’t you hear him?

  He did not answer, but stood up and brushed the sand from his faded cord trousers.

  —Come on, he said, and grasping her hand he pulled her to her feet. The tide is up. We’ll leave the bikes here.

  He walked away from her, limping slightly. She stared after him for a moment and then began to follow. She scowled at his back and cried:

  —You’re a right fool!

  —Come on.

  Through a gap in the dunes they passed down to the beach. The sea was quiet, a bowl of calm blue waters held in the arms of the horseshoe bay. Lines of sea-wrack scored the beach, evidence of the changing limits of the tide. They walked slowly toward the pier, a grey finger of stone accusing the ocean.

  —I’d love a swim, the little girl said.

  —Why didn’t you bring your togs?

  —I think I’ll go in in my skin.

  —You will not.

  —If I met some fellow swimming underwater wouldn’t he get a great shock?

  Giggling she tucked the hem of her dress into her knickers and waded into the sea. She splashed about, drenching herself. Her cries winged out over the water like small swift birds. The boy watched her, then he turned away and moved on again.

  —Wait for me, she cried, and came thrashing out of the sea.

  At the end of the pier a bent old man was sitting on a bollard, his back turned toward them. The girl ran ahead and began to dance excitedly around him. The boy came up and stopped behind the old man. He put his hands into his pockets and stared out to sea with studied indifference, softly whistling. A distant sail trembled on the horizon.

  —And did your auntie let you go? the old man was asking of the girl, mocking her. He had a low, hoarse voice, and he spoke slowly, as though to hide an impediment.

  —She did, the girl said, and laughed slyly. It was such a grand day.

  —Aye, it’s a great day.

  He turned his head and considered the boy a moment.

  —And who’s this young fellow?

  —That’s my brother.

  —Aye now? he said blankly.

  He turned back to the sea, grinding his gums. The boy shifted from one foot to the other. For a while there was silence but for the faint crackling of the seaweed over on the beach. The old man spat noisily and said:

  —Well, they’ve took him out anyway.

  The girl’s eyes flashed. She looked at her brother and winked.

  —Did they? she said casually. Today, eh?

  —Aye. Fished him out today. Didn’t I tell them? Aye.

  —What did they do with him, Jimmy? I suppose they took him away long ago.

  —Not at all, said the old man. Sure it’s no more than half an hour since he come in. Ah no. He’s still down there.

  He waved an arm toward the beach at his back.

  —Did they just leave him there? asked the girl in surprise.

  —Aye. They’re gone off to get something to shift him in.

  —I see.

  She bit her lip, and leaned close to the old man’s ear and whispered. He listened a moment, then turned and stared at her from o
ne yellowed eye.

  —What? What? You don’t want to see a thing like that. Do you? What?

  —We do. That’s why we came. Isn’t it?

  She rammed her elbow into the boy’s ribs.

  —O yes, he said quickly. That’s why we came.

  The old man stared from one to the other, shook his head, then got to his feet, saying:

  —Come on then, before your men come back. Begod, you’re the strange ones then. Hah. Aren’t you the strange ones? Heh heh.

  They walked back along the pier, the girl rushing excitedly between the old man and the boy, urging them to hurry. When they reached the sand the old man led them down behind the sea wall. At the edge of the waves a bundle covered in an old piece of canvas lay in the shade of the pier. The girl rushed forward and knelt beside it in the sand. The old man cried:

  —Wait there now, young one. Don’t touch anything there.

  The three of them stood in silence and gazed down at the object where it lay in the violet shade. Out on the rocks a sea-bird screeched. The old man leaned down and pulled away the canvas. The boy turned away his face, but not before he had glimpsed the creature, the twisted body, the ruined face, the soft, pale swollen flesh like the flesh of a rotted fish. The girl knelt and stared, her mouth open. She whispered:

  —There he is, then.

  —Aye, the old man muttered. That’s what the sea will do to you. The sea and the rocks. And the fish too.

  The boy stood with his back to them, looking at his hands. And then a shout came from far up the beach.

  —Hi! Get them children away from there! Get out of it, you old fool!

  The boy looked up along the sand. Figures were running toward them, waving their fists. The old man muttered a curse and hobbled away with surprising speed over the dunes. The girl leaped to her feet and was away beside the waves, her bare feet slapping the sand and raising splashes that flashed in the sun like sparks. The boy stood motionless, and listened to her wild laughter that floated back to him on the salt air. He knelt in the sand and looked down at the strange creature lying there. He spoke a few words quietly, a message, then with care he gently replaced the canvas shroud. Then he ran away up the beach after his sister, who was already out of sight.

  Some time later he found her, sitting under a thorn tree in the fields behind the beach. She was rubbing the damp sand from her feet with a handful of grass. When she saw him she sniffed derisively and said: