Seaward

F
OR
H
UME

—
S. C.

W
esterly came down the path at a long lope, sliding over the short moorland grass. His pack thumped against his back with each stride. A lark flicked suddenly into the air a yard away from him; flew low for a few feet; dropped; flew again.

“Go home,” he said. “It's not you they want.”

He strode on without pausing, without turning to see the bird wheel and dart her watchful way back to the nest. He had promised himself not to look behind him—not more than once every mile. He had turned too often in the last few days, expecting always to see the figures prickling the horizon, far-off but implacable, following. But each time the hills had been empty.

Beyond the hollow in the moors that he was crossing now, the land rose again in a long bony sweep, purple and green, dappled by cloud shadow. But trees clustered in the hollow, and faintly he could hear water splashing. He was thirsty, and hungry too; he had been walking since first
light, and the sun was hot now, halfway up the sky. He came to a fork in the faintly-marked path, the way trodden no longer by men but written on the land by the memory of them, and he turned downhill to the sound of the running stream.

It ran fast, wider than he had expected, eddying bright round glistening grey stones. Westerly curled himself awkwardly round a young alder clump and lay flat, splashing his hot face, drinking until he gasped. Water ran down his chest as he sat up, making tiny runic letters out of the tentative dark hair that was beginning to thicken there, and his wet shirt came clammy-cold against his skin.

For a while he prowled the banks of the stream, pausing wherever a rock turned the quick water aside into a pool. Each time he lay flat beside the pool, motionless, staring down; then patiently rose again, shouldered his creased leather pack and moved onto the next. By the time he had found what he was looking for, his shirt was long dry and the sun was high overhead, hot on his back.

He went back through the trees to stare out over the hazy purple moorland, but in all the rolling miles nothing moved.

Westerly lay down again on the bank of the stream, his chin propped on a big overhanging rock, and carefully lowered his right hand into a pool fringed with green weed. His fingers moved, unceasingly but almost imperceptibly,
rippling as the weed rippled. Very soon in the cold mountain water his whole hand was numb, but gently he kept the fingers waving, waving, and his arm moving slowly, very slowly, to one side—until with a swift sure lunge he thrust two fingers into the gills of the trout that had hung there all this time resting in the little slow-eddying pool, and he rolled over stiff-armed and brought the fish out twisting silver and frantic onto the grass.

“Sorry,” Westerly said to the flailing bright body, and he hit it once with a stone and it lay still. For a few minutes he sat hunched in the sunshine, turning and twisting his stiff neck, with his cold right hand cradled in his left armpit to thaw. Then he took kindling and a long knife from his pack, made a fire, gutted the fish and held it skewered on the knife to cook. In the sunlight the fire was scarcely visible, after its beginning smoke; only its heat rippled the air. The silver fish blackened and sputtered, and the smell of it made Westerly's stomach clutch at him with emptiness. But before he ate, he went once more to the edge of the trees, to look back.

The moors were empty still. Only the cloud-shadows moved.

He picked the fish clean and stamped out the dying fire. Then he took the glistening white skeleton, tipped still with head and tail-fin, and laid it across the blackened twigs pointing back the way that he had come. He took
out his knife and raised it high, stabbing the blade down into the ground behind the white bone-arrow's tail, and hesitantly, trying to remember, he said some words under his breath.

And the skeleton of the fish called out, in a thin high scream shrilling like a cicada, and Westerly knew that there was danger, that he must go on.

He threw bone and ashes into the swift water, wiped his knife clean, shouldered his pack and set out once more, striding wearily towards the upland path that led away over the hill.

C
ally sat in the apple tree. It grew less comfortable each year, but it was still her place to be alone. Round her head, leaves dappled the sky, with everywhere among them green bud-small apples clustering. A branch poked into Cally's leg, prickling even through the tough jeans; she shifted, and petals showered round her like spring snow. “Better keep out of the apple tree,” her father had said that morning, lying frail and listless in bed when she took his breakfast upstairs. “The blossom will be setting.”

But still she went back. Whenever she climbed the apple tree, she could hear the long soft breathing of the tall poplars that filled the sky beyond the garden; her mother said they sounded like the sea. Cally had never heard the sea, or seen it. She would lie back on a branch sometimes when the wind blew, and try to imagine that she was being rocked by the waves. It was a way of trying to forget the thing she had known for six months now: that her father was dying.

A cowbell clanged from the house: it was her private summons. She slithered down, a twig scratching the back of one hand. When she reached the house a line of tiny red beads of blood had sprung up on the skin; she licked them away, tasting salt.

Her mother said, “Your father's going away for a little while.”

He stood there docile in overcoat and slippers; Cally thought again how small he seemed to have become since he had been ill.

“He's going to a special hospital by the sea,” her mother said, with a curious mixture of pleading and bravado in her voice. “The change will do him good.”

Cally saw that the front door was open, and a long dark blue car standing at the gate. She hugged her father. “Can we come and see you?”

“Soon,” he said. He patted her shoulder wearily. “That's my lovely girl.”

Cally's mother pulled up the collar of his coat, and stood with her arm around him. Then there was a tall figure at the front door, reaching down, picking up the suitcase waiting on the floor. Cally stared. It was a woman, older than her mother yet somehow more strongly alive; from the lined pale face and the frame of white hair, startlingly blue eyes looked keenly into her own.

“Hallo, Cally,” the woman said. Her voice was soft, with a lilt of accent.

Cally smiled uncertainly.

“We've met before;” the woman said, “but only at a distance. We shall meet again soon.” She took Cally's father's arm, very gently. “We'll take good care of him.”

Cally and her mother followed his slow shuffling way out to the car. A uniformed driver helped him into the back seat, and settled a blanket round his knees; the woman sat beside him. A small sudden wind blew Cally's hair across her face; then the car was gone. She felt a quick surge of fear that she would never see her father again.

Cally's mother took her hand and held it, hard.

“Are you all right?” Cally said.

Her mother said, “Let's go in out of the wind.” She turned Cally's hand in hers; both were smeared with blood. “You've hurt yourself!”

“Only a scratch,” Cally said. “And only on the back.”

But her mother was looking at the palm, as Cally had known she would. The palms of both Cally's hands were strangely marked, and had been since she was born; at the base of the fingers the skin was rough and thickened, so that it was difficult for the hand to curl into a fist. Her mother's hands were the same; it was, she said vaguely, an obscure inherited disease. Cally was used to the ugliness of it, and paid it little attention, but her mother was always
concerned that she might damage the thick, slow-healing skin. She said now, anxiously, “I wish you wouldn't climb trees.”

“Oh
Ma!”
Cally said. She looked up the empty road, after the vanished car. She said, “I meant to tell Dad—the blossom's all set. There'll be lots of apples this year.”

“The change will do him good,” her mother said.

But she missed Cally's father, and she pined for him. It was a while before Cally noticed the change in her; this was examination time at school, and from morning to night her head was full of Latin verbs and the structures of molecules. Only after the examinations were over did she look properly one day at her mother across the dinner table, and see the shadowed eyes, and the deep lines that seemed not to have been there before. Like her father in his illness, her mother seemed somehow to be shrinking; there was an uncanny look of him in her lean, hollowed face, and a sound of him in her voice, hoarse with fatigue.

Cally said in concern, “You do look tired. I haven't been helping enough.” She got up to clear the table and looked accusingly at her mother's half-full plate. “And you aren't eating, Ma.”

Her mother glanced at the plate without interest. “You always help. You're a good girl. But I am tired—it was all those months when your father. . . .” She looked up suddenly, the thin, pointed face like an appealing child's.
“Cally—would you mind if I went to see him, on my own? You can come as soon as school's over. Would you mind?”