Please Help Support CTTA By
Checking Out Our Sponsers Products
According to Mr.
Philips everything has a price it seems… even paradise. by JOHN PHILLIPS During the Plague years, crows filled the air with their incessant
chanting. For the crow, the Plague was a caw to arms. Yet this was not the
squawk of birds quarrelling over scant food. It was a cry of jubilation, the
raven's ode to the infection. The black bird's belly was full and would remain
so for centuries. To the carrion eater, the Plague was Paradise. And while the crow sought out the disease, Englanders retreated into
their row houses, bolted the doors, and hid like lepers in the rank darkness,
praying to a deaf god. People not only shunned one another, they learned to
shun themselves. Some went abroad. Others took to a road of endless misery upon
which they hoped to find that one merciful soul who might take them in. But for
a group of rich businessmen and their families -- known as the Elders -- their
Plague years took them to a new world. Every adult within the Elders was a parent, and every parent
suffered a paralysing anxiety over how they might better protect their children
from infection. Reviled by these Elders was how certain other parents --
the commoners -- had begun mistreating their own flesh and blood. That the Plague would prey upon children was inevitable. That untold
numbers of parents had begun to neglect and forsake their own was a cruel trick
of nature. The infection was particularly brutal on the young, and the thought
of burying a child so deeply loved was... Well ... it was enough to make a
mother wish she had never brought children into the world. So this cruelness
forged a kind of protective layer -- an armour -- around the hearts of many
mothers and fathers and acted to diminish their agony and pain when the Black
Death came to their door. And so the Elders with their families escaped the red crosses, the
plague pits, the miasmic stench in the streets, and fled by sea to a faraway
land where disease could never follow, where children could play and not be
plagued ... to where God would never go. Deep in the bushland of the new country, the godless Elders
discovered a lush valley, or were discovered by it. There, they encountered a
merciful soul who took them in and gave succour and safety and promised to
protect them. Only birds feathered in radiant, full-of-life colours like the
rosella and lorikeet flew amongst the gumtrees. Crows did not fly here. Exhausted from years of wandering -- perhaps it had been decades --
and desperate beyond all measure to find sanctuary from God and plague, the
Elders struck a bargain with this soul of the bush, known simply to them as
Gardener. And to commemorate the pact, a rainbow appeared in the sky.... # "Wake up!" The boy's squealing voice cut through the
village, and the morning mist gave a shiver. "Somethin's bumped the
ground! Wake up!" His cries raised the hackles of the valley, spiking its
restful grasses and rattling eucalyptus trees, which had a smouldering blue
haze over their leafy crowns. And villagers too, sprang up from their beds with
ironing-board stiffness in their backs, eyelids slack with slumber. Despite the hue-and-cry raised by the boy, the bluish haze continued
to bloom over the eucalypt woodland. He tore a path through the foggy grounds
and sent curlicues of mist spiralling up into the air. His red-knuckled hand
clenched a wooden fishing pole, which had minute notches along its crooked
length. A scream roared up from the pit of his gut, but he could not quite
bring himself to scream; he was his father's son after all. In his frenzied rush to escape the goliath of a thing that had
dropped out of the sky, he kicked over his tackle box and spilled its contents.
This was no ordinary fishing box. It contained his homemade hooks, one of
which, he reckoned, was magical and would someday pierce the lip of the Proud
One, a giant old fish rumoured to lurk the depths of the river Everflow. And
who could forget his fishing lines spun mostly of flaxen and made by the
village spinster woman "who wove a wicked weave," as the saying goes.
How terrible it was to have abandoned it all on the red-soil banks of Everflow.
He carried his little heart around in that tackle box. He had to go back and
rescue it. With that, the lad came to a bum-skidding halt on the slick grasses.
Drawing a lungful of air, he climbed to his feet, wiped down his shorts and
shirt, both made of a faded red flannel and now smeared with grass stains, and
took up his fishing pole. Little by little, he turned to face the thing, but
his nerve failed and his eyes went elsewhere. He instead looked at a nearby ghost gum with its white paper-bark
flaking like sunburnt skin onto the ground. There, he saw a grass-chewing
wallaby, a common enough sight in his valley home. But still his eyes shunned
the strange, crescent-shaped thing down by the river. His gaze sailed across the valley, over amber-toned wheat fields to
orchards of passion fruit and pineapple. Other crops stretched beyond, to
mountain slopes still hidden by the morning haze. Leviticus 19:19 forbids the
planting of two different crops in one field, but that law, as with others like
it, did not apply here in the valley of Gardener. There was but one law. "Go back and get it, Matthew," he muttered not too
persuasively. "What'll yah do if yah can't go fishin'?" To the young
angler, the thought of this was bleak beyond misery. So he turned, he faced it. And when he looked, he cringed to the ground, hugging his knees,
trying but failing to hide his face; his eyes seemed positively magnetized by
the thing. His body shrivelled like poisoned weed. His arms and legs folded in
on themselves. He felt the cold arms of Death enfold him. His lower jaw had instinctively pulled open so that his body could
breathe during the paralytic terror. Whatever it was, it was still there, piled
up on the ground, mere inches from his spilled hooks and tangled lines. And try
as he might, he just could not pry his eyes from its strangeness. With eyes fixed helplessly, he watched as his fat, juicy worms
squirmed free and made a wriggle for it. And the thing, which was
crescent-shaped and looked like a big smile, the kind of whopping great smile
that might have just dropped off the face of God, was a mixture of luminous
colours slurring and shifting. Despite its miraculous colouration, the malice
and apprehension looming over it made Matthew feel sick to the bone. Shuddering, he abruptly came back to himself, perhaps by some mental
finger snap. Whatever the cause, fear began to slip away, defrosting his blood,
returning life to limb. Slowly he unfolded his arms and legs and rubbed them.
Clutching his belly, he then climbed to his feet and breathed a rather
exaggerated, blown up sigh. Everyone knew this pledgling lad was a natural born angler. Not a
day had gone by in recent memory without his attempting to imagine that moment
when a fishing hook -- perhaps his -- landed the lip of the Proud One -- the
Phantom, as the older, more jaded fishermen call it. Matthew's large brown eyes closed with a tearful flutter. The danger
in going forward was much too great, and his courage was unconvincing even to
himself. Life in Garden had always been wonderful. Strangeness was
incomprehensible to him, to all villagers. There were no "events" in
Gardener's valley. Harmony was a birthright. Yet here was something, an
incident, an accident, an event right before his eyes. With a violent, tremulous shiver that might've reshuffled all the
bones in his body (his collarbone now connected to the thighbone), he turned
from the abominable lump on the ground and fled. # Panting, he dashed cottage to cottage and banged on doors and shook
window shutters. No fence, dike, or ditch enclosed the clay-hardened
homesteads. Door locks, bolts and bars, did not exist. Humans and livestock
roamed as they pleased. There was never a stray animal or unwelcome villager.
All in the valley were good mates. "Wake up, chooks," clucked Matthew, stumbling by a rounded
structure where chickens roosted. "Please," he whispered
breathlessly, "wake up." I gotta get my tackle box back, he
thought with quiet urgency. "What is it, boy?" asked a shivering man with goosepimply
arms. "Where's everyone going?" "Down Everflow, Stew'
John!" shouted Matthew, stopping to pay respects to Garden's custodian.
The steward's cottage was one of two stone structures in the village, the
second being the stone dairy where milk was stored in earthenware jars. "No need to shout," grumbled the steward from his grand
circular veranda. The red-haired man stood broad and tall but cut a rather less
regal figure with his breezy nightshirt and big toe wiggling every so often
through a hole in his sock. "And what's so special about the river this
morning, hmm? You catch the Phantom?" The lad jerked his chin up, thrust
his shoulders back. "I wish I had caught the Proud One. I wish that
was my news..." Slow-tongued and still squeamish, Matthew looked sidelong
back at the river. "Somethin's back there ... somethin'-" His tongue
went limp. "Yes...?" prompted the
steward. "There's somethin' stroonge." Matthew could not
quite say it. He had never had occasion to utter the word "strange,"
or ponder its meaning, so his mouth fumbled it. A slender, milky-skinned woman with mahogany-brown hair raggedly
pinned up, and wearing a lacy wrap-over garment of white, appeared in the
doorway. She leaned sleepily on the doorframe, crossing her arms to ward off
the morning air, eyes half lidded. "What's str-" she slurred, tripping over the word that had
vanished with disuse from local dialect. "John...?" The man glanced at his wife and then turned back to the young
herald. "You're the tanner's boy?" "Matthew, first and only of Will' and Marge Tanman!" he
proclaimed, switching the rod from hand to hand. "Tell me, young Tanman, you reckon this ... thing might
be an old wombat? They're quite robust creatures in Garden, you know." "Naaah," scoffed the lad, "it fell from up
there," he said, with a thumb to the sky. "A koala, then...? Maybe one who's eaten a few too many gum
leaves and dropped from his tree-" "Never seen a koala that big. Fattest one I ever saw was
in the old manna down by the gully. Even then," he added, "it weren't
any bigger than Mrs Cartwright's tummy just before she laid the twins." Steward John stroked his neat, carrot-red beard, which he wore in
the old, Elizabethan fashion of the Round. "And it ain't the Phantom
washed up on the banks?" "Nope; Proud One would never do that," asserted the young
angler with a firm nod. "What do you reckon it is, then?" Matthew just flipped his red-flannelled shoulders. "Can I go
now...? Haven't told mum and dad yet." The steward nodded, and his beard
gathered into woolly folds around his neck. Matthew scooted away up the path,
apparently now taking some pleasure in his role as herald. "Wake the children, Marion," the man groaned.
"There's something str- Just wake them." And he and his wife and
their five daughters and two sons joined other cloudy-headed folk tramping the
sunken lane that led through the village and down to the banks of Everflow. # The rising sun glinted through the airy foliage of gumtrees,
highlighting the soft, succulent edges of the valley; blue, vaporous air ever
hung over the forest of eucalypts. In the gumtree woods, morning dew glistened
on a stand of gigantic umbrella ferns, the drops of dew slipping frond by frond
to the ground. Steward John hardly spared a glance for the troop of grey kangaroos
grazing down by the gullies, nor did he heed the cackle of the kookaburra,
whose custom it was to laugh with the rising sun. His wits were leaning towards
the thing, which was now ringed with the kind of crowd that might form around a
schoolyard fight. Ahead, he heard the squeal of cartwheels and children as families
arrived on emu drawn carts, a few ginger-coated dingoes yowling at the day as
they trailed alongside. Steward John tried to steady himself by breathing
deeply on the bracing aroma of gumtree, which twanged at his nostrils, but not
even the blue, eucalypt air, could ease the slimy, churning sensation in his
gut. He watched his village-mates shove and jostle for position. Their
faces had grown wild with anguish, their eyes pitted and staring at the ground.
And he heard pained groaning sounds, and the cloying, unmistakable reek of
vomit crawled inside his nose. "What've we done!" shrieked a woman in the crowd.
"What'll happen to us?" Steward John's eyes flashed at his wife's, and she glanced at their
two youngest daughters, who wore red shorts and matching shirts and were far
too busy skipping along to "Ring-a-ring o' roses" to care. Their five
older children strolled ahead and were not dressed in red; they wore trousers
and shirts of brown or taupe. The steward heard a dull thump on the ground and a great intake of
air and saw a rippling of bodies. "Calm down." He wrestled through
jabbing elbows. "Calm down. What is it? What's the fuss?" "Don't yah see?" cried a
young woman, who had taken a faint spell and was now helped to her feet. Her
eyes flashed upward. "Look!" Her finger trembled at the sky, to the
spot that had always bore the sign of the covenant of the people with Gardener.
"Look, Steward John. Look!" she shrieked, her voice shrilling in high
octave, a scream that made the quiet roar of Everflow seem like a trickling
brook. "Look with yer eyes! The sky's got nothin' in it!" "Wha-" Steward John gasped
up a lung. "Where's-" He gaped skyward. "Where's our
rainbow?" The crowd parted. The young lady shuffled aside. Her voice broke
into tearful snivels. "This must be it ... on the riverbank." His eyes swelled egg-like, and he
felt the gulp go down his throat as if he'd swallowed an egg whole. "Is
this someone's idea of a prank? Where's that Tanman boy? He's the one who
started this!" The steward glanced face to face. "Where is he?" "He's with me," said a
gravel-throated man nudging through the crowd, which continued to shift and
surge, because those who couldn't see it -- IT -- wanted to see the thing in
all its naked, grisly strangeness, even if that meant turning sick at the very
sight of it. "Me son's 'ere." The tanner wore his sleeves bunched up
around his elbows, revealing blotchy brown forearms carved in muscle and brawn.
A large blunted knife used for fleshing and unhairing hides hung at his side. "Me boy reckons 'e knows nothin' more than what 'e's already
said," continued Tanman, who rested a huge hand on Matthew's shoulder. The
red-faced lad had just finished crawling about after his fishing gear. Although
his hooks and lines would have to be untangled later, his tackle box was now
safe in his arms -- he could not quite say the same for his trampled worms! Steward John shook his head with unprecedented disbelief. The sight
of a fallen rainbow right there on the ground was sickening and
incomprehensible, abominably strange. His stomach churned as if a nest of worms
squirmed inside. How could the eyesight of a mortal man make sense of it: a
broken rainbow? a dead rainbow? The rainbow had been there in the sky,
night through day, rain or sunshine, always. As the sun rose and spread its dappled light over the valley, the
shattered rainbow began melting. Its effervescent colours faded. The steward's
breathing came in stiffer, ever quickening gasps. He vaguely heard sniffling
tears. Someone fainted: another bodily thump on the ground. The crowd pushed
hard against itself and then stirred back into position. Sickness stunk up the
air. Steward John was in his second year of a three-year term as
custodian of Garden, and that position carried with it certain expectations. He
felt, rather than saw, the eyes of the community turn to him and watch for his
reaction. So he turned his gaze from woman to woman, man to man, to all the
mothers and fathers of Garden. Had someone denied Gardener? Was it too soon for
such conclusions? William Tanman's wife stood a full head shorter than her husband.
She wore her hair tucked under a baggy nightcap and had managed to lash on a
dressing gown before rushing off to the river. Her red-veined eyes began to
express something other than bewilderment. "Perhaps someone's ... you know-" She cleared her throat,
caressed her swollen, baby-filled stomach. "What I'm trying to say
is," she continued in a shy, frail voice, "maybe Gardener's ready to
Weed again. Maybe Gardener put the Fog on someone's door and that someone
didn't quite notice. Maybe the time's come." William Tanman tugged his son closer, and asked, "Who ignored
the Fog...?" The crowd began to divide, shift away. He tilted his gaze
from husband to wife, mother to father. He too, laid a hand on his gut and
tried breathing off the queasiness with a few sharp drawn breaths, but nothing
seemed to help. "Come on, own up! It's yer civic duty." Steward John raised a hand. "I'll ask it once; for our pact can
ne'er be compromised, lest we risk our very way of life. Has anyone this night
denied Gardener?" Silence answered. "Then there must be another reason for this." But what?
he thought, dumb with bafflement. "We're talkin' 'bout our way of life," Tanman put in,
"our 'appiness! Someone 'ere's denied Gardener its right to Weed. Who
was it?" "We'll have no more accusations, not now -" and quietly,
the steward added "- not yet." He folded his disgusted eyes
shut as he turned his back on the washed-out rainbow. "Return to your
homes. Go about your day..." His voice trailed away, for he could not
explain or begin to understand what he had seen. Parents herded their older children away. The younger ones, those in
red, seemed to fall aimlessly behind, as if their families shunned them. But
not the Tanman boy. He walked side by side with his mum and dad, and happily
hugged the tackle box to his chest. Steward John looked at his own two youngest daughters -- themselves
of pledgling age -- and saw his wife's hold on them tighten, her hands cuffing
their delicate little wrists as she snapped them along at her heels. He nodded
slightly, breathed a rueful sigh, for he knew that the one law in Garden was
absolute. # Folks returned home, and in forced,
blissful ignorance pursued their livelihoods and crafts. The spinster woman
took her place by the distaff where she dragged a thread of wool, twisting and
winding it onto a bobbin in her hand. The herder rounded up sheep and drove
them to graze on harvest stubble. Anglers dipped their rods upstream, away from
the puddled remains of the rainbow. As usual, not a single fisherman could
boast even a single nibble from the Proud One. And lingering in the backs of
their minds, from the spinster to the shepherd to the fisherman, was the dread
fear that the village had somehow betrayed Gardener, that the vow had been
broken. That afternoon, Tanman and his son stood by the gate of the tan-yard
shed situated behind their cottage. They watched a gang of dark clouds rumble
across the sky and cloak the valley in shadow. No longer did they feel that
same sickness while they had stood near the strangeness, yet there was still a
vague throbbing in the gut. Tanman scrubbed his brown-stained hands in a bucket of water.
Matthew regarded the man's face; it crawled with emotions unfamiliar to the
boy. The lad was young -- still of pledgling age -- but was certain of one
thing: his dad was fiercely worried about something, maybe cross at him for
finding the rainbow. Matthew's chin dropped forlorn to his red-shirted chest. Water droplets arced through the air as Tanman flicked his hands
dry. "No worries," said the father to the son. "Ain't yer
fault." He put an arm round the boy and led him across the yard to the
cottage, for it was custom to retire indoors whilst the clouds rained their
sacred waters on the valley, as it was custom for pledglings to wear red. A deluge of rain shortly after the sun had crossed its zenith was
the daily routine. If villagers had been able to watch a clock and time the
arrival of the clouds, they would have seen that these clouds to a second were
never late. They would also see that it never rained for more than four minutes
and forty seconds. And if they had possessed the modern devices with which to
measure rainfall, they would find that to a millimetre the volume of rain never
changed. But what they did know for certain, which clocks and barometers could
never tell, was the importance of the rainfall to the upkeep of harmony. The
Rain supported their paradise. Tanman exchanged a nervous glance with his wife as he entered the
cottage. He kicked off his boots and plonked down on a stool. As his wife
dribbled mint sauce over thick slices of mutton and heaped warm, steaming
potatoes on a plate, the Tanmans heard the familiar pitter-patter on the roof.
The Rain had come. "Dad, can I go fishin' after Rain?" "I dunno, mate." Tanman looked to his wife, his face no
longer taut and carved in worry but made peaceful by the storm. "Ask yer
ma." "Mum...?" "Once you've eaten, and Rain's done, you can go fishing,"
she said with a radiant, sunrise smile. "But don't go near that ... puddle
thing." So Matthew gobbled back lunch and took off through the door like a
dog busting to relieve itself. His parents listened to the familiar, comforting
sound of their son grappling for his fishing rod, which he always leaned
against the outside wall, and they heard him scoop up his tackle box, which he
always cubby-holed under the veranda. They then smiled at his soggy footsteps
as he scampered away to Everflow to do battle with the Proud One: the Phantom,
as non-believers called it. Blessed rains had come. Their way of life would go on. No one had
betrayed Gardener, or so it seemed. Steward John was right. There must be
another reason for the rainbow. # Tanman's eyes whipped open in the
darkness. He panted and gasped his way out of a breath taking nightmare in
which he dreamt he breathed fog -- as dragons do smoke and fire -- and soon the
valley became lost in the stuff and people suffocated. Tanman sat up and took tally of his senses. He looked across the
family bed and saw a mound of blankets shifting so ever slightly with Matthew's
every sleeping breath. He looked then to his wife's side and saw that it was
vacant. He swung his legs out and was about to check the rest of the cottage
when she shuffled back into the room. "What yah doin'?" "Will'?" she gasped, her
hand jumping to her bosom. "What's wrong?" whispered
William. "Wrong...? Nothing's wrong.
Just had a mug'a milk." Tanman grunted as he listened to his
wife ease herself back into bed. He rolled onto his side and drew the blankets
up around his neck. We don't have any milk in the house. He did not
question her. He simply closed his eyes, but sleep was slow to return. # Every day in Garden had been the same since the Elders arrived more
than seven generations before. Folks took great pleasure in their crafts and
trades, eagerly pursued hobbies and sports, married, raised families, and
enjoyed the year-round picnic weather. For the first time since settlement,
only yesterday had been different. And today, yet again, change would bring
disharmony. It had been an enjoyable lunch for the Tanmans. Matthew pretended to
fall asleep with his head slumped forward in a bowl of euca-soup, snoring away
as steam wafted up around his reddening ears. There was laughter and smiles and
a loaf of euca-bread shared by all three. But in the midst of their private joy
came an unfamiliar sound. It was not the usual tapping of Rain on the roof. It was noisier, like
marbles raining down, and made conversation of any kind impossible. Whatever it
was, it threatened to bring down the roof. Tanman's thick forearms tensed on the table, and his hold on his
wooden spoon tightened until the spoon splintered. "What is that?" The fierce downpour ended abruptly, and before silence could breathe
again, they heard the cry of a villager and then another. Tanman snapped open
the front door. Instead of opening it to the usual wet, soggy grounds, he
looked out to a land blanketed in stone. He rushed outside and was able to see most of the upper slopes of
the valley. Small stones like gravel smothered the land, turning the green
landscape into a powdery grey. Along the trail, he saw a man jumping wildly
about and pointing at the sky. Tanman leaned from beneath his porch roof. His eyes thinned and then
blinked wide open with illimitable wonder. Right above, all across the sky over
the valley, hung the dark clouds, stiff and motionless, and turned to stone. # Unlike the clouds on every other day, today's canopy of stone would
not clear, nor would it yield rain. The southerly wind, which always appeared
after Rain, could not budge them. So the craggy sky hung there and kept the
land in dehydrated darkness. Tanman feared the whole cloudbank might just
shatter downwards in a violent, devastating storm of stone. It took time and
tremendous courage before anyone ventured from their homes. And when they did, they headed to Red Gum, a majestic gumtree whose
roots had clenched deep into the earth millennia before the Elders. Towering up
from a hilltop at the edge of the village, Red Gum's enormous torso stood with
the roundedness of a king's paunch. But the tree now sagged with a kind of
scarecrow's limpness, its trunk and limbs battered by the stone showers. Yet
this was where the village decided to hold its meeting, in the outdoors, under
the sighing branches, to enforce the one law of Garden. "Look!" An enraged man stabbed his finger at the
woodlands. "The whole valley's dryin' up. We've no Rain, no water.
Livestock's fallin' over buggered-" "The stones ruined our wheat," croaked an elderly man, who
rubbed his temples. "Gardener's punishing us, alright." "And what's next...?" shouted a lady, who glared up at the
sky. "Will it be blood from stone tomorrow?" Seemingly trapped, many villagers crouched with hands and arms
wrapped over their heads. A few cowered under the tree for fear of a cloudburst
of stone shards. And with the arrival of these stubborn clouds, the sounds and
smells of sickness had returned, and to add to their existing bodily
afflictions, they now suffered brain-grinding headaches. Bent slightly, Steward John clutched his worming gut. He turned to a
man's voice in the crowd: "I've seen our orchards,"
that man said. "Everything's destroyed." There was a piercing gasp
from the crowd. "It's a plague ... a plague of stone!" "How we gonna get rid of it?" asked a woman, dabbing a
hanky to her eye. "The land can't breathe under that muck." "I think-" The steward
hissed at the white lightning in his temples. "The Rain might wash it
away." "But the Rain's
disappeared," noted Tanman, squeezing his eyes shut and sucking air
through locked teeth. "It's the Rain we need alright," added another in a faint
voice. "But more to the point: Gardener's returned and someone here's
denied Him. The only way we'll purge the valley of this ... stone, and
get our rainbow back, is by giving it what it wants ... what it needs." Steward John, William Tanman, and others nodded. "We've got a traitor amongst us!" hissed someone. Villagers threw glances. "It's true," groaned the steward, "someone's
obviously denied Gardener. Whoever saw the Fog at their door last night and
ignored it -- whoever you are -- you must make your pledge to the one who
gardens by night. Heed the Fog. Give it what it wants. That's what the
forefathers vowed. Gardener won't rest 'til it's weeded its garden. Now
go." And parents with their families -- the younger children wearing the
red uniform of the pledgling, older ones in plainer attire -- left without
word, only the crunching of boots on the gravelled earth. # Once indoors and away from the sight of stone, the headaches and
tummy aches receded to faint, sporadic throbbing. Few parents slept that night.
Only mums and dads whose children were older and no longer of pledgling age
could sleep, and even those parents struggled to sleep out of wonder and
curiosity at who had denied Gardener. When Margaret Tanman slipped out of bed
and crept off for another mug of milk -- milk that William Tanman knew they did
not have in the cold-box -- he followed her.... In the ink of night, with no lantern lit and no candle flickering,
William and Margaret stood like pillars of salt on the plains of Sodom, their
eyes petrified by the unspeakable. The Fog crawled over their front door. And in their cold-blooded state, they vaguely heard a low rumbling.
It might have been the wind breezing through the veranda and rattling its loose
wooden joints, or perhaps the sound of cartwheels on gravel. But there really
was no mistaking the Fog's low rasping voice, snarling wolflike at their
door.... # "Dad, can I go fishin' after lunch-" "Nope." "But-" "Not today," added Margaret in a faraway voice, the gaze
of her dark-hooded eyes lost in the hearth's flames. She stood bent over the
fire stirring a stew, her free hand supporting the weight of an unborn child. Tanman glared at her. She seemed much too complacent, aloof in a
way, as if the abysmal thing asked of them had drained all agony, all despair,
from her heart and left her a void. Tanman began pacing. "Where's the Rain?" He stared out the
window at the grey-stone land, and the throb in his gut redoubled.
"Where's the goddamned Rain?" The valley still lay in shadow, as it
always did when the afternoon clouds rolled in, yet there were no raindrops on
his roof. He threw back the door, stepped out, and almost tripped on Matthew's
fishing rod, which was always kept outside. Tanman squinted at the sterile
earth and bit down on the renewed throbbing inside his skull. He waited for
rain to come and clean it all away: the rainbow puddle, the wretched stones,
the death that now lay within his heart, the cruel demand that he and his wife
deliver their only child to the Fog. For that was what Gardener wanted, a child
no older than twelve -- a pledgling -- but Rain would not come. "Oh doom!" came a cry from a nearby homestead. The
shoemaker and that man's wife rushed outdoors with their eight or so children.
All gawked heavenward. "Look!" And Tanman did, and the sight was so ghastly, so abominable, that it
made him stagger. Panting and dizzy, he muttered: "Crows?" # Villagers felt no kinship or kindness towards one another; someone
was destroying the harmony. So they made haste to Red Gum. Their very lives now
stood in peril because black sores had begun to fester on their faces. Lumps
appeared under their arms, and people's joints -- most notably the jaws, knees,
and elbows -- had grown stiff as boards, as if they were stricken with rigor
mortis. Stories of old passed down from the Elders, which told of the Black
Death, had been vivid enough in the telling. Here and now, the telltale signs
were everywhere, even a noxious miasma hung in the air, the stench of which
could collapse a man's nostrils. And the spotting on the skin was surely the
black eyes of the pestilence. Without question, the Plague had come, and crows
are followers of death. High above -- beneath the roof of stone clouds -- the dark liquid
mass of their murder stirred like an obsidian cyclone. The blackness had
thickened fast, a tar and feather cesspool, and the pall cast down by their
numbers threw an orgy of twisting shadows over the entire valley. With every
beat of their wings, another appeared, and another, until the sky roiled in
blackness. The crows' rank cry writhed like a clutch of worms inside villagers'
ears. Ten thousand beaks snapped with the scent of disease in the air. The
battle cry poured down on the valley like the plunge of a waterfall, a roar of
sound that left villagers mute. People clamped their ringing ears, and did
nothing else, until the black laughter subsided. And for short spells, it did
fade, as if the birds paused for breath, or to lick their lips. During one of those spells, a rambling voice from the crowd made
itself heard. An elderly woman by the name of Mary shuffled forward, a
shepherd's crook in her hand. "You all know," said she, barely able to move her lips
because of her locking jaws, "that I bear no ill-will towards anyone, as
is custom in Garden." A few nodded stiff, impatient nods. "This morn,
before sunup, as I took our sheep down to the southern gully by way of the
tan-yard trail, I saw-" The screeching returned with the rush of a battle
cry, silencing the shepherdess. During the swarm of sound, Steward John could only gape stupidly at
others. He winced at their black pustules dripping snot-like ooze down their
faces, and he gagged at the reek of putrefaction, of living bodies in
decay. "Out with it, Shepherd," he bawled, as the sky again fell
silent, "before crows peck our eyes out!" The old lady looked sheepishly at the Tanmans. "Forgive
me," she murmured; and then proclaimed, "I saw the Fog shrouding their
door. It's the boy Matthew that Gardener must Weed." The crowd surged and began shoving
and shouting. "Steady...! Quiet!" The steward's voice snapped and
trembled with a mixture of dread and crowd-induced mania. He turned to the
Tanmans. "Will'? Marge? Is it true?" Tanman slowly lifted his head and then widened his stance. Despite
the hardening of his joints, his hand seemed to glide to the haft of his knife. The steward crossed his arms in passive defiance. "Your boy's a
pledgling. It's your civic duty to deliver him to the Fog-" "For Gardener sake, Tanman, look at us!" implored another.
"We're rotting as we speak. It's your turn to pledge." "You're gonna have another," supplied a woman cheerily, as
if this crass optimism might ease the Tanmans' so-called predicament. "Yer
hearts'll be healed in a day or two. That's what Garden does. I should
know," she claimed, thumbing her chest. "I've twice pledged." Tanman heard none of it. Who among them could truly empathise with
his position? Everyone but the Tanmans had litters of children. And although
his wife Margaret was now with child, they still had but one -- a fisher-boy,
perhaps the greatest angler since settlement. "Harmony, William: We take, we give back," explained the
steward, nudging a loose piece of flesh on his cheek. "The life of a
pledgling -- one or two in a year -- out of the many that go on to adulthood is
all Gardener asks." "Matthew's my son, not my pledgling." "I don't give a damn what yah think he is!" barked a
village-mate. "We're all gonna die if yah don't pledge!" "This village raises sacrificial lambs," Tanman hissed
back, "not children! And the more you've got, the softer the blow when Fog
comes to yer door." He stared back with a look of mockery and daring.
"You're nought but breeders." He awaited their outcry, braced for an uproar, but it did not come.
In fact, many just shrugged, but their shoulders had grown so stiff they
managed no more than a twitch. There seemed not a shred of shame amongst them. "Pledglings are what they are," said Steward John,
"and Gardener wants what it wants. It's the one law. We have no other but
that." "You don't understand!" howled Tanman; but the wall of
diseased faces just gawked back like so many animated, soulless corpses. His
rigid shoulders seemed to slump. "Why don't they understand?" His
body seemed to sag into sorrow. Yet his wife, in spite of her frailty, stood tall, her face un-stricken,
perhaps more resembling the blank expressions around her. "It is not for
us to understand the law," she whispered, her voice peaceful in a manner.
"It is only for us to know that it is there." "Then let the Fog take
me!" bawled Tanman, ripping at the hair over his temples. "It won't work!" Steward John's wife Marion shot back.
"It doesn't want you." The crowd assented with murmured yeses.
"Everything we have," she continued, with her sullen gaze spanning
the once pristine valley, "depends upon our pact with Gardener, and so we
must abide its one law." "Stew' John, don't yah remember that story the Elders spoke of?
You know the one," urged Tanman, "where mums and dads of the ol'
country forsook their children just because they reckoned the Black Death was
gonna take 'em away." He looked to all of their eyes for a glimmer of
understanding. "Don't yah see?" "See what?" snapped Marion, rubbing her flinty jaw
and now struggling with speech. "That we ain't no different than them parents back then."
The human wall stared. "We left one plague behind and found another."
Snorting, he added, "We turned our backs on one god and we found-" He
blinked, seemed to reconsider his words. "Some thing else found us."
He turned towards Steward John. "I'll no sacrifice me boy for a- for a way
of life, goddamn it! I won't. I'll burn the whole godforsaken place down
before that." The murder's cry returned in one ripping howl and might have
ruptured eardrums. With hands raised in the air, Steward John defied the
deafening pain and stepped towards Tanman. The tanner half slid the knife from
his belt. "Yah touch my son," he seemed to say through the laughter
of crows, "and I'll flesh yer bloody hide." Just then, Matthew barged through the crowd and came face to face
with his parents, tackle box and rod in hand. Despite the white pain that
pulsed in his temples and regardless of the soreness of his joints, and the
spotting, little Matthew had stood patiently at the edge of the crowd waiting
to ask his father if they could go fishing. As the chanting sky again fell
silent, Tanman jerked his cheek away and hid the agony that was plain upon his
face. "You promised," sniffled Matthew, a rivulet of bloodied
snot leaking from a nostril. In gasping horror, Steward John recoiled at the sight
of the nosebleed, for a bloody nose was a sign of certain death by plague.
"You told me Fog would never come to our door," cried Matthew.
"You told me Gardener wouldn't take an only child." He glowered at
his mum's big belly. "You said I'd be safe-" She reached out with uncertain arms, but he squirmed from her casual
embrace, and of the pressing crowd, and shoved his way free of them. Despite
the flintiness in Tanman's limbs, he took off after his son. "You're threatening all our lives, Tanner!" Steward
John nudged his way through. "The life of one pledgling ain't worth the
happiness of an entire community. Pledge him to the Fog ... before your
coward'ness kills us." No one pursued Tanman or his son. All knew at some subliminal level
that like a wing-clipped bird raised in captivity and finding its cage door
left open and choosing not to escape, it would not occur to the Tanmans to just
get up and leave. Like every villager, the Tanmans were clipped of all desire
and notion to flee from paradise. Matthew flopped onto his stomach by the river, blood streaking his
upper lip and cheek. He couldn't hear the quiet roar of Everflow, that smooth
soaking sound. Without Rain, the river had dried to depths of one or two feet. Hugging his tackle box, he saw multitudes of fish arching and
wriggling in the shallows. As if to scream, his mouth drew open with the wooden
stiffness of a castle's drawbridge, but he could only breathe a terrified
silence. There, towards the opposite bank lay a giant creature, perhaps three metres
in length. What he had taken for a huge boulder was an enormous fish foundering
in the remnants of Everflow. Its gills throbbed sporadically, and its
silvery-green scales dulled to a clammy grey. Huge rubbery lips formed
intermittent O's as its body clutched for water. There, in the open shallows,
lay the Proud One, defeated and dying, without so much as a hook in its mouth. "He's alive!" cried Matthew, climbing awkwardly to his
feet. "Everyone look! He is real!" I've gotta save him.
He started down the embankment to the opposite shore but a great clamping hand
seized him by the shoulder. "River's prob'ly poisoned," grunted Tanman, wrestling him
into his arms before taking the lad back up the bank. "Let me go! I gotta... I gotta get him to deep water!" Back by the tree, Steward John
sneered at the boy's snivelling cries to save the Proud One. "They'll give
in," he assured village-mates, who passively watched Margaret Tanman join
her family and start for home; "it's their civic duty." # Next morning awoke not with the
kookaburra's laughter, or with the yapping of dingoes, but with the quiet roar
of Everflow. The eternal river had returned. As the significance of that distant
watery sound soaked in, Tanman's eyes flicked open. His hand slammed down on the
kitchen table. His gaze flashed to the sleeping form of his wife across from
him. His headache was gone. No stomach-ache, no stiffness in the arms and legs.
Healthiness imbued him. "Look!" came a voice
outside. "The stone clouds are gone!" Blood shrieked through his veins. He
surged erect, turned for the bedroom ... saw an empty bed. "MATTHEW!" Tanman shot glances from one murky corner to the next. While
everything else had blurred, the bed loomed unmistakably clear in his vision,
utterly lucid in his mind. He saw the childless bed with a terrible clarity. "The rainbow's back in the
sky!" came another distant cry. "The pledge is made. We're saved.
We're saved!" Tanman turned back to the kitchen
where his eyes might have melted in their sockets. Although he missed it
earlier, he now saw that the chair that had bolstered the door had been moved
in the night. Tanman gripped his wife's shoulders and, despite her condition,
wrenched her up. "Where is he? Where's my son!" "I don't know. I- I fell
asleep- I don't..." She flashed a glance to Matthew's rod and tackle box, which now
stood by the door, inside the cottage. Her eyes skidded back to her husband. He gaped at the fishing gear, which may have been a message from his
boy, a suicide note of sorts: The Proud One must live, so that the hunt may go
on.
THE PLEDGLING