The Wish Kin (7 page)

‘Then the townsfolk began to really worry and some of them packed their bags and their trucks and their barrows and made their way out of the town to start a new life where there was no fire. But the fire continued to burn, swallowed up houses and post offices and village shops and followed the fleeing townsfolk to the west and to the south. The townsfolk, though, travelled faster than the fire, and were able to get away. But the fire has been burning now for quite some time, is hotter and hotter, and, they say, is wreaking destruction across the country. It will come here one day, of that there is no question.'

The door opens and Sylvan enters. ‘She is asleep,' he says.

‘Good,' says Parsefal. ‘And we should be too.'

He takes the children into a small room off the kitchen. Three of its walls are lined with empty wooden shelves. Against the fourth are stretched two small camp-beds.

‘This was the pantry in more abundant times,' says Parsefal. ‘Now we can keep all of our food in a small box in the kitchen.'

‘Oh,' says Lydia. ‘We have a sausage we should give you before it spoils.'

‘We'll cook it up in the morning,' says Parsefal. ‘Sleep now.'

Lydia shrugs out of her clothes and climbs into one of the little beds. A moment later she is sighing the soft breath of sleep. Parsefal pulls the covers over her shoulders and closes the small window, checking closely its lock.

‘Strange that you haven't heard of the fire,' says Parsefal as he is leaving. ‘It is no small thing.'

‘Our father is very protective,' says Colm. ‘And our home very remote. Our father wanted us to be safe from raiders – and we were for a long time – but it meant, too, that we were mostly cut off from outside news.'

‘Your father is wise, I think,' says Parsefal. ‘I wish I could do the same for Manon.'

There is silence but for the faint mewing of kittens in the adjoining verandah.

‘Well, son,' says Parsefal. ‘I bid you goodnight.'

‘Goodnight,' says Colm. And then – ‘Parsefal! Do you remember the name of that town where the great fire started?'

Parsefal stands in the light of the half-closed door. ‘Yes, I do,' he says. ‘I remember it well. The name of the town is Wonding.'

Colm shifts and stirs on his camp-bed and dusts away the insect he feels creeping across his cheek. It is early morning, he knows: he can hear the creaking of footsteps in the other room and sense the softening light upon his eyelids. He moans slightly and rolls onto his side. His bones are aching and tired, and he wants to sleep some more.

The room is airless, warm. Colm pushes the blanket down around his waist, feels the air upon his back. He breathes deeply, slowly, willing sleep to come upon him once again. He folds himself up into the foetal position, imagining that he is inside his kind glass cube, imagining that he is spinning slowly through space, through the still, buoyant sky. In his mind there is only the whispering of the stars.

He feels the insect creeping across his shoulder and
brushes at it again. His hand is met, suddenly, by another, and his eyes snap open.

‘Manon!' he exclaims, and he sits up and draws his hand from her grasp. The woman is looking at him, smiling, her teeth a ragged line of yellow in her mouth.

‘Did you think my hand was a little ant creeping across your skin?' she asks, her face doughy, her voice high and childish.

Colm nods, uncertain. Manon laughs, a girlish, melodic laugh.

‘So soft is my touch, yes?' she says, and laughs again.

Colm says nothing.

‘Is it soft?' she asks. ‘Is it like a little ant, or a tiny beetle?'

Colm nods.

‘Yes?' asks Manon.

‘Yes,' says Colm.

Sylvan appears in the doorway. ‘Manon,' he says. ‘Have you fed the kittens this morning?'

Manon does not answer but continues to stare intently at Colm. Her fingers move lightly across the covers.

‘Manon!' Sylvan says again, this time more sharply.

‘No,' she says, turning to look at him. ‘I feed them every day. It is your turn.'

Colm sees Sylvan's shoulder slump ever so slightly. His face looks as though it is stung from a slap.

Lydia emerges from under the covers and she rubs her eyes.

‘What is it?' she asks. ‘What's happening?'

Sylvan, rousing himself, steps into the room and takes Manon firmly by the arm. ‘Manon and I are going to feed the kittens,' he says. ‘If you get dressed quickly you can see them.'

They leave and Colm and Lydia are alone.

‘Are you gander?' Lydia asks.

‘I'm gander,' says Colm. ‘Are you gander?'

‘I'm gander.' They smile at one another, dress quickly and hasten outside. Manon is sitting with the kittens in her lap, holding tiny droppers of milk to their pink mouths.

‘But they are so tiny!' says Lydia. ‘Where is their mother?'

‘We don't know,' says Sylvan. ‘Manon found them in the woodpile a week ago. But there was no sign of their mother.'

‘Poor little things,' says Lydia. She sits down on the bench beside Manon. ‘May I feed one?' she asks.

Manon places the smallest of the kittens, a little grey tabby, into Lydia's lap. The kitten at once begins to purr loudly. He lifts his tiny face and smiles up at Lydia.

‘He likes you,' says Sylvan.

Lydia laughs, pleased. She looks at Manon. ‘Does he have a name?'

‘Colm,' says Manon.

‘Don't be silly, Manon,' says Sylvan. ‘You know that's not his name.'

Manon is quiet, does not look up. Colm looks down, scuffs his bare feet about in the dirt.

‘Tell them his real name.'

Manon is silent, only turns her face to the side.

Sylvan draws a breath then says loudly, ‘Otik. His name is Little Otik.'

Nobody speaks. Little Otik continues to purr and smile. After a moment, Lydia hands him back to Manon. She glances at Colm and the two head indoors.

‘She's strange,' says Lydia.

Colm sits down heavily at the table. ‘We're going too slowly,' he says. ‘The chances of our meeting Father on the way are slim. So now we've just got to get to Wonding as quickly as possible. If it's still there,' he adds.

Lydia looks serious. ‘What if it's not?'

‘I don't know,' says Colm. ‘But I can't see what else we can do. It was always our plan to meet Father there. We have to at least try.'

The front door opens and Parsefal appears with a small arm of kindling. ‘Morning!' he says brightly.

Lydia rummages in her pack and produces the blood sausage.

‘Perfect,' says Parsefal. He chops it up and browns it in a pan with some onions. Colm goes to him and leans against the wall at the side of the stove.

‘Parsefal,' he says. ‘Is there a way out of here other than by foot?'

‘There is,' says the man. ‘But it's not cheap.'

‘A truck?' asks Colm.

‘Where do you want to go?'

‘Northish. Or east.'

Parsefal stops stirring the sausage and looks at the boy.

‘Everyone is going south,' he says. ‘Or west to the coast. There's nothing north or east.'

Colm shrugs. ‘It's where we have to go.'

‘Weren't you listening last night?' says Parsefal. ‘I told you, there's a fire underground. There's nothing left up there.'

‘Please, Parsefal,' says Lydia. ‘Please help us.'

Parsefal takes the pan from the heat and spoons its contents onto small plates. He calls out the window to Manon and Sylvan. The five of them sit around the big wooden table and eat the sausage and onion with cuts of fried bread. Manon pours a pale yellow infusion into chipped china mugs and they wash down their breakfast with thirsty gulps of the stuff.

‘My daughter wants a child, don't you, Manon?'

Manon looks at her father, then at Colm and Lydia seated opposite her.

‘I do, Father,' she says, in a voice more level than any she has used since the children arrived. ‘I do want a child.'

‘The kittens are not enough, are they?'

‘No, Father. They are not.'

There is silence. Parsefal exhales loudly and pushes his plate away. He scrapes his chair back from the table to make room for his belly.

‘What if you stay here?' he says suddenly to Colm and Lydia. ‘At least for a while. There is nothing north or east but danger. You are young, you cannot look after yourselves. Stay here with us. Manon will care for you.'

Colm is unmoved. ‘We must leave,' he says. ‘We have made arrangements.'

‘There is nowhere to go,' Parsefal reiterates. ‘There is no point going anywhere except south. We may head that way ourselves before long, who knows. And you'll make my Manon happy.'

He takes his daughter's puffy hand, touches the sleeve of her blouse lightly. ‘Then we'd all be happy,' he says.

Colm looks at Sylvan. The young man is curling Manon's long brown hair around and around his fingers. Why doesn't Sylvan give Manon a child? he wants to ask. Surely that would make sense.

But he keeps the thought to himself. Instead, he says, ‘Thank you very much for the offer, but we can't accept. Please, won't you tell us how we can leave here?'

‘You won't leave us,' says Manon, her voice deeper now than before, her face a little harder. ‘You are here now. You must stay.'

‘We can't,' says Lydia. ‘We have a very long way to go.'

‘Just how far north do you expect to get?' asks Parsefal.

Colm shifts slightly in his seat. ‘As far as we can.'

‘You are meeting your father?'

‘Yes.'

A crackling is heard in the distance, the sound of gunfire. Manon gasps, and clasps her hand to her mouth. There is a brief silence then the sound comes again. Sylvan leaps up and crosses the room quickly to the door. He wedges a huge beam of wood across it and secures the windows on either side. Parsefal, too, is up, slamming shutters and fastening them with beams of wood. He drags a shotgun from a corner cupboard and loads it quickly. Manon extinguishes the fire and drags Colm and Lydia under the table. The two men take their positions on either side of the door, Parsefal with the shotgun at his shoulder peering through a sliver of window, Sylvan with his hands wrapped around the handle of a shovel.

There is silence for a few moments, then the gunfire sounds again, this time a little closer. Colm feels Manon's grip hard against the flesh of his arm. He looks at her and does not know her.

The minutes tick slowly by. The sound of gunfire edges slowly closer, creeps along the road from town, around the mouth of the old quarry, towards the top of the steep stone steps carved into the rock face beyond the front door. The gunfire is accompanied now by the sound of sputtering engines: a convoy of ancient auto-bikes, Colm thinks, or an old jeepney or two. Manon pulls the children closer to her and Colm feels a bruise begin to fill out his skin.

‘Is there no trapdoor?' he whispers to Manon. ‘Is there no way out?'

Manon stares at him. ‘Out!' she exclaims, shocked. ‘Why would you want to go out? We will stay here. We are safe here.'

‘But they can get in,' said Lydia. ‘They are clever and strong. They got through the firewalls into our valley.'

‘We are safe here,' says Manon again. ‘Lie still against me. Imagine I am your mother, that I will shield and protect you. Then all will be well.'

They are quiet, lie still against her, and watch the two men by the door. The sound of the convoy draws closer, stops outside the front door, and Parsefal raises the shotgun to his eye. There is shouting, a demand for the children and a wild hammering at the door.

‘We can't keep them out, Manon,' says Colm. ‘They are too strong.'

‘You have not seen my father at work,' says Manon, and even as she speaks Parsefal hurls his great weight against the front door and acts as a cushion against the force coming to it from outside. His body rocks and shudders, his face grimaces with every blow, his bulk resounds dully as stone and metal strike heavily the wood softened by flesh.

‘What is he doing?' cries Lydia. ‘They will kill him!'

Sylvan seizes the gun from Parsefal and takes aim through the sliver of window beside the door. He pulls the trigger and the sound of the gunpowder exploding in the barrel is so loud that Colm feels his skull will
split with it. A moment later a burst of semi-automatic rifle fire splinters the window, sends the glass as a storm of silver shards across the room. A second round rips across the door and Parsefal's face turns white. A bloom of blood appears on his belly.

Manon screams and presses her hands into the floor to raise herself and run to her father. But now it is Colm who is gripping tightly, and he restrains the woman, keeps her down by his side under the table. Sylvan fires another shot and another. Parsefal, amazingly, maintains his stance, his head upright and determined, his hands holding firmly the lintel, his legs strong pillars beneath his bleeding body.

The rifle fire ceases, and receding footsteps are heard. The air stills. Sylvan lowers the shotgun from his shoulder and turns to the great man leaning against the door. Parsefal's head rolls slowly forward, a gem of blood falls from his lip. Manon goes to him, presses her dress against his wound to staunch the flow. Still the great man remains standing, his knuckles white, his fingertips bruise-black from the effort of holding the raiders at bay, from the effort of keeping himself upright. Even when Manon tries to coax him into sitting he does not move.

Colm and Lydia crawl out from under the table. They pick their way carefully through the broken glass and gather linen and towels for Parsefal's bleeding. Colm passes by the back door. He thinks of the kittens, hopes they are not harmed.

‘Won't you sit down, Papa?' pleads Manon. ‘It is over. They have gone now.'

Colm wonders how she can say this when clearly there has been no sound of receding vehicles, only of footsteps. Parsefal himself, he decides, thinks so too; the great man does not relinquish his hold, despite the blood that falls now without any stopping, both from his belly and from his mouth. Manon's dress is soaked scarlet.

Lydia, crouched beneath Parsefal with towels, coughs. She straightens her back and drags air to her lungs. Colm, by the table, feels an irritation in his throat. He looks at Sylvan and sees that the young man's eyes are red and weeping. His own begin to moisten, his chest to tighten. He coughs, and so too does Manon. Parsefal splutters air through blood. Lydia's eyes stream with tears.

There's a funny smell, Colm thinks, and he covers his nose and mouth with his hand. He looks again at his sister and, strangely, finds it hard to see her. He closes his eyes tightly for a few seconds and opens them to see the room filling with smoke.

‘Fire!' he shouts, and then all of them have their clothes clamped over their faces, and breathe stiffly through fabric. Flames poke at the corners of the ceiling, find their way down the wooden walls and across the splintering floor. The room blackens and heaves. Colm drags Lydia to the broken window that they might take air more easily, that too they might find
a way out. Sylvan and Manon prise Parsefal's fingers from the lintel and the man staggers forward. They catch him on their shoulders, crumpling beneath the size of him. The door is painted in blood. Colm and Lydia haul the great beam of wood from across its face. At the back of the room a section of the roof crashes flaming to the floor. Sparks fly upwards and the fire is fuelled further by the fresh rush of oxygen from above.

And then Colm and Lydia between them have the door open. They run out of the burning house, Manon and Sylvan bearing the wonder of Parsefal still upon their shoulders. All five of them come out of the house, all five of them breathe now without smoke in their lungs, cling to each other for the fear of their flesh, forget the previous fear that kept them locked up inside. They turn and watch the house grow bright with fire, watch it crumble into broken, blackened pieces lit with orange and yellow and blue.

A clicking is heard from behind them and they turn again to see five men standing in a half-moon around them. Two of them bear guns, cocked and ready. The others stand sentinel, their brows a menacing black. The two with guns press forward until they are on either side of Colm and Lydia. The men's bodies are heavy with dirt and sweat, the smell from them thick and low. They do not speak but gesture that the children walk forward. The others part for them, making the way straight that they might be escorted from the front of the house to the small rusted jeepney
at the bottom of the stone steps. Colm and Lydia step up into the vehicle. The guns are pointed to their heads. They cannot look back, but hear only a long, low wail: Manon's. Colm does not know if it is for them or for Parsefal. There is too much blood for the great man still to be alive. Colm feels a wail of his own beginning like a slow season in the pit of his stomach, working its way up through his gullet and into his throat. But here he swallows it, presses the thing back down. It would not do to cry now.