Something of a departure for me. 'In class' we are looking at endings - I wrote this as a piece of homework thinking of it as the end of a post-apocalyptic novel.. but now it's done I think it probably doesn't need the novel in front. It's a bit darker than usual.
The gnawing hunger stirred him.
He had closed his eyes waiting for the whoops and war-cries to
recede. Then fatigue and the warm
morning sun filtering through the brambles above him lulled him into a
drowse. He dreamed himself walking down
this very track and coming upon his own decomposing body under this blackberry
bush – a skeleton with his hair, wearing his clothes.
No. He would not end
here.
He disengaged himself from the bramble vines, licking at the
backs of his hands as the thorns grabbed him.
Blood. Iron on his tongue,
further provoking the desire to eat.
Something. Anything. He started back along the track away from the
village to which he knew the ballistas
were heading. If he could avoid another
confrontation with them he would. Only
quick wits and a well-aimed rock had allowed him to escape last time. He sensed he would not be so lucky again.
Around the bend he came upon the body of Palmer hanging from a
low branch. His eyes were bulging and
there was much blood around his mouth. Something
bloody on the ground beneath him too.
Dekker turned the object with his foot.
It was a moment before he recognised a human tongue. That it was the work of the ballistas there
was little doubt.
Dekker cut Palmer down and lay him in the undergrowth at the
side of the track. He considered
covering him with the tarp but so far it had proved too useful to sacrifice it
thus. Desperate times. He had liked Palmer but he had known that his
episodes, growing in frequency and intensity, would lead him into a reckless
situation. The ballistas were not noted
for their tolerance of difference or outspokenness and Palmer’s rants would
have challenged the mildest soul.
Dekker was just wiping his hands on the grass when he heard
it. Faint. Distant.
A single plucked note.
Then another. A short pause and
then a spaced run of three notes climbing a cautious scale. To call it a tune would have been to endow it
with a greater sense of meaning than it warranted but there was intention
behind it, Dekker could tell, and this intention piqued his curiosity.
He set off somewhat stealthily into the woods quietly cursing
his tired clumsy, twig-cracking feet.
But he realised his anxiety was lifting a little as another string of
notes, descending this time, floated towards him. He quickened his pace paying less regard to
his footsteps. Then a way in front of
him he spotted a small figure with its back toward him sat hunched on a fallen
tree. A child perhaps. Yes – a boy.
A noise behind him and Dekker glanced back towards the track. A shabby blackbird was stabbing at the
ground, hunting in the dry leaf litter. Then
when he looked for the boy again he was gone.
Dekker could not understand how he could disappear so
quickly. So completely. He walked up to the log where the boy had
been sitting. Just beyond were the
remains of a small fire still smouldering.
Next to it lay a stick with the impaled, smoky remnants of what must
have been a squirrel. But of the boy
himself, no sign. Dekker picked up the
stick and pulled a tag of flesh from the skewered animal. He placed it on his tongue, allowing it to
rest there a moment as he savoured the acrid flavour before chewing it and
swallowing. Pangs of hunger woke in his
belly again, and he pulled shred after shred from the carcass, chewing briefly
then swallowing them down.
He was lost to the food.
Suddenly, he looked up, aware of a presence. The boy stood in front of him, a cloth-wrapped
club in his hand and a defiant expression.
Maybe twelve years old, thought Dekker, but old enough to believe he had
the strength to face down an adult man, albeit one as frail as Dekker now
was. He looked well-fed. He was coping. Resourceful.
Anyone who had learned to disappear so efficiently would have no
difficulty evading the crazed, bullish ballistas as they rampaged through the
landscape.
Dekker held out the squirrel.
He was enjoying this unfamiliar feeling of respect for another human
being. The boy took it, and sensing no
imminent danger from Dekker, lowered his
club. He reached into a pocket in his
shorts and pulled out a plastic carrier bag in which he wrapped the
squirrel. Yes, resourceful.
Dekker looked at the club and could see, protruding from the
cloth wrapping, what looked like wooden tuning pegs. A violin maybe. The boy saw him looking. He had
relaxed further from his bravado and was prepared to open to this man
for a while. He picked up the club. Unwrapped it.
A small guitar shaped body, a fretted neck, four strings – the whole
thing only half a yard long. He lifted
the instrument to his chest and started to pluck with his right hand, placing
the fingertips of his left carefully on to the fret board. There was no fluency in the movement, no
skill or artistry but, as the boy played, Dekker became engrossed in the
strange, inchoate melody.
The boy was engrossed too, lost in the structuring of each note,
in the placement of each finger, intent on the production of each new sound as
he released the string and sent a small jewel into the cloudless air.
