Out of Time (18 page)

We stop at dusk every night and Randolph lights a fire to keep away the wolves and keep us warm but I’m cold, my body trembling, uncontrolled and uncontrollable, no longer mine. I crawl under the cart, don’t want to see the stars, prefer the blackness to the open sky.

I can’t blame Joe for going, I should have known that a new-born couldn’t inhabit our skin and know what it means to live so many years, watching the past mist over as though wrapped in veils. We carry youth and the shadow of a no longer existing old age in our minds and bodies, looking and feeling oh so young, for the experience and wisdom accumulated over the years dies away. Only Otto holds on to it. He’s altogether different, like his grandfather, a terrifying figure when we were children and adults too, his utterances like orders proclaimed by an all-powerful spirit; not that Otto is terrifying, far from it, he’s tender and vulnerable because he knows...what does he know? He won’t tell and we don’t ask, perhaps because we don’t want to learn what’s going to happen before it’s happened. He alone is burdened with the future, helpless to alter it, able only to guide; people will do what they will do, their fate is in the stars and in their characters. Otto is not a divine meddler, only an observer. Did he observe Joe’s coming, did he know that this stranger would drop out of nowhere and change my life, our lives forever, and could he see the ripples of his alien presence and how it would touch us all?

All the years, have they changed me? I feel no different, I don’t think I do but how can one tell, how hold in the memory how one was, what one thought at any past moment? We alter every second, every minute. There is no present, time moves inexorably forward, even for us, it’s the equation that’s different, one hour a miniscule fraction of my life while each hour and day brings Joe significantly closer to death. I now remember what I had long forgotten, the urgent desire to take the drug, the power of it driving us crazy, the beckoning chimera of indefinite life, of out-staring death.

We boasted we had found the unfathomable elixir; but we didn’t know the price we’d have to pay. We didn’t realise we’d made a bargain with evil. We posture and exhibit our young minds and bodies but maybe we are deluded like my poor mother gazing into the glass and putting her fingers to the creases in her face saying, ‘It’s odd, I feel like I did when I was in my twenties, thirties.’ But she wasn’t a young woman any more, the years had changed her imperceptibly, crept up on her, stealing time. We’re done with all that, but the truth we have to recognise is that however much events from the past are lost from memory they have occurred, small layers of experience are added, subtly changing minds and perceptions. I failed to take this into account in my relationship with Joe. Or did I understand it only too well, deliberately not telling him the truth because I feared the thing that has now happened? I allowed one mystification to lead to another, gave permission to our relationship to be normal, that of two ordinary people who happened to fall in love and would spend the rest of their lives together. It was a lie, a deliberate obfuscation, Joe convincing himself that he was with us forever when we both knew he could disappear without warning. Oh yes, we discussed it as a possibility but never truly believed it would happen; and I willingly played ‘the teenager’ because I thought that was what he wanted me to be. I was so confident that our love, our passion could make the differences drop away like chaff.

I was wrong, should have known that in the throes of first love an ideal is formed, a crystal tower that seems impregnable but shatters if the smallest crack appears. Though I have loved before, I have never loved like this. Joe is my destiny.

We should have lived with the truth, but the truth was too painful.

The mine is the closest source of salt both to us and to the townspeople and we’ve tried to avoid using it but the alternative is to travel to the coast in the spring, dig salt pans within reach of the tide and return in the autumn to collect the deposit. It’s two long journeys for two people during spring sowing and during harvest, absences we could afford in the past when there were many of us, but not now. So we have to come here for our salt, despite the risk of confrontation.

We approach the mine with caution, not really believing that fate could be malign enough to bring us face to face with the townspeople but our belief was misplaced. We draw back in shock.

Skeletal figures unrecognisable as humans are moving blindly in and out of the mine, staggering with rocks too heavy to carry. It’s a refined method of killing them, men and women turned to waste, kicked aside, dead or alive while others take their place. The green, grassy valley of death is bathed in sunshine as we watch guards drive the prisoners with whips and batons and harass them with dogs; yet they keep going, an inspiring example of man’s determination to hang onto life at all costs. It’s difficult to understand. Why don’t they accept their fate? That’s what I would like to do, to bring an end to my suffering. But there’s no freedom for that decision. I and the others have voluntarily taken on the burden of years and responsibility towards one another for time everlasting. If I needed a reminder, it lies in the fate of the miserable wretches below who have brought me humbly to my knees, unlocked my heart in pity and, in the face of death, offered me the gift of life.

*

The prisoners are at the bottom of a dark shaft, hacking with the last of their strength at the unyielding rock face. They stand knee-deep in water, for the walls are dripping, and they are faint from the stench, so intense even the guards won’t come inside, of damp, defecation and decay. The prisoners do not talk to one another, all their remaining energy goes into hewing the rock, knowing that unless they emerge with a burden of salt they will be instantly killed. It would be far easier to give up and die but life’s spark rarely admits defeat. The prisoners hang onto the forlorn hope that they will be rescued at the last moment.

Susie’s mother and father harbour no such illusions and can see little point in obeying the guards and even trying to hew the impregnable rock. Better to hold on to what little dignity remains and accept their fate for they cannot survive this ordeal. Instead, with one accord, they put down their tools and, holding hands, struggle up the tunnel and emerge defiant into the light.

*

One couple, a man and a woman, come out of the mine holding hands. It’s clear they are defying the guards for they are not carrying rocks and I can see from the way they hold their heads high on their emaciated bodies that they are refusing to be cowed. The guards recognise their defiance and beat them ferociously on head and shoulders, the dogs attack them; I start to run down the slope but Randolph holds onto me and we huddle together, forced to watch, for I cannot turn my head away. I see how they remain upright until the last moment when their bodies give way and they fall, but this is more than I can bear and Randolph signals that we should back away. In any case, the guards’ dogs are sniffing in our direction. So we retreat and lead the oxen and cart across the stream to the other side of the hill where we cannot be seen and where the water has obliterated our scent.

We dare not light a fire in case its smoke and reflection on the clouds gives us away, so we huddle together beneath a tall ash and listen to the rustle of its leaves in the still night, disturbed only by the cry of dying prey, nature asserting itself in its timeless rhythm, one organism living off another. But surely none is as cruel as man, no animal is meeting its end like the unhappy creatures below.

I find myself getting up, stealing away from Randolph on a mad scheme of rescue. He is asleep and does not hear me go. I reach the crest of the hill and look down at the embers of fires in the encampment and I make a plan. If I only rescue one man, one woman, my life is justified. But now Randolph is at my side. He does not try to stop me going down to the encampment, does not take on responsibility for my life, leaves that to me; he just stands and watches me, a sad look on his face. It is enough to bring me back from the brink of making a useless sacrifice. I owe allegiance to him and to the others who still live, small band that we are; and to the memory of the many who lost their lives in our battles against Helmuth.

I think about how elated we all were, wild with hope and excitement, when the drug made its first appearance. There was nothing we couldn’t do, no aim too high. For a time we lived in a state of exultation, even after the riots began. We were so confident they would die down and things settle; then Otto’s grandfather died and Helmuth took over and the world turned black. Nothing would ever be the same again. Many of us escaped the fighting and made our way to the wild region that is now our home. We built our house, carrying bricks one by one from wrecked villages, we captured feral animals, we cultivated the ground, we made a pact that we would fight back, free the captives and restore peace; but an epidemic struck, many died, all the children and Otto’s father. It was a sad, tragic time. We feared that fate was punishing us for defying it with the drug. But later hope revived, we rallied as one must and trained in warfare. A band of twenty left for Bantage one stormy autumn day, intent on organising the dissidents - we know there are some still in hiding though we don’t know where - and instigating a rebellion to bring down Helmuth, a man we once revered, a saint turned devil. Was it power that corrupted him or evil hidden in his heart? Ten more of us were to follow after a smoke signal was sent up from the hills. It never came. A group went to the town and found it heavily fortified. There was no sign of our companions. We were forced to retreat to save the remnants of our community and have never learned what happened. They never came back though we hoped and waited. Later, the townspeople began attacking us at irregular intervals, though they never claim more than one life at a time. They want to wipe us out but they don’t want us to disappear. Some remnant of the past binds us to them.

*

Ian has appointed himself the head of a committee and shares out extra food between the twenty or so children incarcerated in the dungeon. The group also devises means of escape and ways of contacting other children still in hiding. They all know how difficult this is going to be. Many people have been assassinated, killed by slave labour, tortured to death. Fear is the strongest element that holds the township together. But as there is nothing to lose they plot and plan.

There is no way out of the sewers that is not guarded day and night. They can’t ask Margaret’s relative to help them escape. They have to be careful not to expect too much from her. She is already frightened by the risks she is taking.

One day Susie tells them about the diary hidden in her old room. Ian and Margaret are amazed. They have never learned to read or write and want to know who taught her but Susie explains that no one did, she taught herself and has evolved writing and symbols of her own.

Ian sees this as their breakthrough and they try to make writing tools but for the moment do not know how to go about it. Susie shows them her letters and symbols by drawing on the wet floor with her foot but the imprint is quickly washed away by water.

*

We have watched the townspeople leave the valley, their oxen pulling the rock-laden carts while the prisoners, shackled and bound, walk behind, a pathetic sight that wrings my heart; but it has strengthened my resolve. I have put my selfish sorrows behind me and will hold onto my belief that we can keep our community alive and one day restore peace to the land. I have to keep faith.

The guards and prisoners were at last out of sight. When we ventured down the slope to the carnage below, we found five bodies lying round the mine’s entrance in pools of blood. Two were that of the man and woman whom we saw being beaten to death, their arms stretched out to one another, fingers touching. Their upturned faces were bloody, their bodies black and blue. We loaded the corpses onto the cart and took them to the wood below and there, under the arching branches of the trees, we dug graves, three to hold single bodies, and one double for the couple who will now lie together for eternity. We erected a small cairn of stones to mark this small impromptu graveyard and I stood before it and fleetingly wished it were me and Joe, that here would stop our suffering - a thought to be banished.

I am turning my face towards the limitless future.

Too exhausted to start mining that day we waited until the next morning to go down into the earth’s dark interior and hack the rock. But there was little to do. Some of the prisoners, unable to carry the weight, had left large rocks lying in the water, for the mine is still flooded from the winter rains and wet underfoot. We loaded as much as we thought the oxen could pull and were out of beautiful death valley by the third day and on our way home.

We had a slow return journey. It rained all of one day, leaving the track a sea of mud on which the oxen slipped and slithered with their heavy load. Wheels stuck fast and the cart was in frequent danger of overturning. These unforeseen delays eroded our supply of food and we lost further time hunting for game and allowing the exhausted oxen to rest and graze.

It was not until well after we were expected that we drew towards familiar landmarks. I was sure that the others, worried at the delay in our return, would be looking out for us. Sure enough, I could hear his approach, Meredith, good, steady Meredith who never falters, never lets one down.

But it was not Meredith who appeared. It was Joe.