A couple of recent threads prompted me to dig this out. It's the opening to the story I was looking for help with when I joined Chrons, and I might go back to it one day. I'd be interested to see what people think of it. It's in the dreaded first-person present, so be warned, but I've tried to use that to its advantage.
*****************************************
In the distance, the Wall. So hazy, the ridgeline’s almost faded to sky, like there’s nothing between us and the desert. Twelve from seventeen, makes five years since I was up there. Every day, I used to climb it. Like an itch in my mind now, reminding me — like the Wall wants me up there again, is calling me in the silence. But that’s just today being all weirded up because a Far Trader’s coming, and it gets in the air, the idea of journeying.
And sod that. Enough hassle going to the shops.
Stairs creaks out in the common area, then Mum flaps past the curtain into the kitchen. ‘What are you doing?’
I step away from the back door. ‘Nothing.’
‘There’s a novelty.’
I sigh, slide the shutter across the spy-hole.
‘Here.’ She counts onto my palm the money she’s fetched from upstairs. ‘Five dollars. And if you see Mr Abrams, keep out of his sight.’
I bury the notes in my pocket. ‘How will I know him?’
‘If you can’t recognise a Far Trader, give your eyes to someone who can use them better. Now, I don’t know if he’ll come straight here or if he’ll go to the Council first — so no lollygagging at the Crazies, or the History-Man. And when you get back, come round the rear, just in case.’
‘Why don’t I just dig a hole in the ground and hide in that?’
‘I’m not in the mood, Yuri.’ But her dark eyes soften, a little. ‘You think I like it, having to keep you out of his sight? But it’s the world —’
‘— world we live in,’ I say along with her. ‘I know.’
‘It’s only a couple of days. And if this goes well, people will look on us differently. Both of us.’
I hope it’s true, so I nod.
Grab my hat from its hook, and out the back door. There’s a metre width of shade against the wall, with it being north-facing — enough for me to hide from the sun while I pull my hat on, and roll down my sleeves to their fraying cuffs. Then it’s out into shouting fire, the Gorgon-blast of the sky. A drongo calls from one of the orange trees as I walk round the front of our tea-house, but no other voice, no other noise in the stone-hot afternoon; only my boots scuffing dust down Voronov Street, past the turning to Jasmine Villas. Sweat sucks at my trousers; the sun beats on my shirt like Mum’s taken the iron to it with me inside. North Street is busy — kids heading for History-Man, farm workers leading animals to market. I tag behind a mule, its haunches all drowsy swaying, its panniers piled. Melons though, not persimmons. Strange to think my life-road might fork today, and what decides between the highway or the dung-track could be whether I find those squashy fruit at market. But Dad once told me, the whole world turns on an axis as thin as a thread.
Nerves twitch my stomach, thinking like that. Town centre gets nearer: houses higher, more tightly packed. Now shops, bakeries, laundries. The ranting of a Crazy grows over the chatter. North Street empties into Prosperity Square. Across the wide space, the Mercantile Council building takes up the whole southern side, whitewash on whitewash and no flaking render, with its bell tower and its bright copper spire. And there’s the plane tree with the deep shade under, where the sun can’t reach me even hatless; and there are the sweetmeat sellers and the tea vendors, samovars steaming; and the History-Man, bent-backed beardy setting up his booth, with his apprentice.
Mum said no lollygagging at the Crazies, but she won’t know. There they are, same old spot, near the East Street entrance. I stop a few metres away: no point drawing their attention.
‘Contentment to you all, is it?’ A woman’s shouting, blood wet on her forehead. ‘You’re being lied to, and you won’t even see it, won’t even look, you cattle!’
Five cages on the flat-bed cart. Only just caught them: the drivers are hitching the oxen to take them back to jail. Two policemen stand by, smoking lotus-grass, spear-blades sheathed. Once a month, this exhibition: every History-Man day, before the beardy gets his show going. Five criminals brought out to mind everyone what it’s like with no weed. As well as the raver, there’s another woman and two men, being taunted by kids who hold little cups of lotus-grass tea close to the bars and snatch them away again; and an old man at the ox-end of the cart I’m sure was here last time. A long stretch, to have no weed a whole month. Wonder what he did for that. He’s picked his forehead open — they all have, but his is gouged down to the skull, his face all fresh blood over dried, and red under his nails. Must have lost a lot of blood in a month. Lost the strength to shout, to rave, even to grab for the kids’ cups. Just sits there sobbing, picking, dying probably.
‘It’s all in the sky!’ The woman keeps raving. ‘Emptiness forever! An endless nothing! And you think it’s different down here, you think keeping your eyes down will stop it being true? We’re all as empty and dead as the sky. All of us!’
She glares around. Her eyes tangle with mine. Here we go.
‘Him!’ A finger stabs at me. ‘It’s him, right there! Why are you just standing there?’ she screams at the policemen. ‘You’ve got spears!’
Another joins in — ‘Get him! Kill him!’ — and now all the Crazies are shouting for my death, even the old guy, blood-masked faces twisted, eyes uncalmed and raging white. Gets me shaking, like it always does. Me and death, and only cage-bars between.
The taller guard hefts his spear. ‘Hoof it, unless you want this in the balls?’
I step back.
‘Three days till I’m out, you bone-white freak!’ The woman lunges her arm through the bars like she could claw off my face from there. ‘Three days, and I’ll kill you myself!’
‘Yeah, yeah …’ Soon as she’s out she’ll be puffing on a smoke or chugging a glass, and in half an hour we could pass in the street and she’d no more than give me a dirty look. But the knowing doesn’t calm me much. Could do with some weed myself, but I daren’t spend any of Mum’s money on tea, not when I might need all five dollars to get the fruit.
*****************************************
In the distance, the Wall. So hazy, the ridgeline’s almost faded to sky, like there’s nothing between us and the desert. Twelve from seventeen, makes five years since I was up there. Every day, I used to climb it. Like an itch in my mind now, reminding me — like the Wall wants me up there again, is calling me in the silence. But that’s just today being all weirded up because a Far Trader’s coming, and it gets in the air, the idea of journeying.
And sod that. Enough hassle going to the shops.
Stairs creaks out in the common area, then Mum flaps past the curtain into the kitchen. ‘What are you doing?’
I step away from the back door. ‘Nothing.’
‘There’s a novelty.’
I sigh, slide the shutter across the spy-hole.
‘Here.’ She counts onto my palm the money she’s fetched from upstairs. ‘Five dollars. And if you see Mr Abrams, keep out of his sight.’
I bury the notes in my pocket. ‘How will I know him?’
‘If you can’t recognise a Far Trader, give your eyes to someone who can use them better. Now, I don’t know if he’ll come straight here or if he’ll go to the Council first — so no lollygagging at the Crazies, or the History-Man. And when you get back, come round the rear, just in case.’
‘Why don’t I just dig a hole in the ground and hide in that?’
‘I’m not in the mood, Yuri.’ But her dark eyes soften, a little. ‘You think I like it, having to keep you out of his sight? But it’s the world —’
‘— world we live in,’ I say along with her. ‘I know.’
‘It’s only a couple of days. And if this goes well, people will look on us differently. Both of us.’
I hope it’s true, so I nod.
Grab my hat from its hook, and out the back door. There’s a metre width of shade against the wall, with it being north-facing — enough for me to hide from the sun while I pull my hat on, and roll down my sleeves to their fraying cuffs. Then it’s out into shouting fire, the Gorgon-blast of the sky. A drongo calls from one of the orange trees as I walk round the front of our tea-house, but no other voice, no other noise in the stone-hot afternoon; only my boots scuffing dust down Voronov Street, past the turning to Jasmine Villas. Sweat sucks at my trousers; the sun beats on my shirt like Mum’s taken the iron to it with me inside. North Street is busy — kids heading for History-Man, farm workers leading animals to market. I tag behind a mule, its haunches all drowsy swaying, its panniers piled. Melons though, not persimmons. Strange to think my life-road might fork today, and what decides between the highway or the dung-track could be whether I find those squashy fruit at market. But Dad once told me, the whole world turns on an axis as thin as a thread.
Nerves twitch my stomach, thinking like that. Town centre gets nearer: houses higher, more tightly packed. Now shops, bakeries, laundries. The ranting of a Crazy grows over the chatter. North Street empties into Prosperity Square. Across the wide space, the Mercantile Council building takes up the whole southern side, whitewash on whitewash and no flaking render, with its bell tower and its bright copper spire. And there’s the plane tree with the deep shade under, where the sun can’t reach me even hatless; and there are the sweetmeat sellers and the tea vendors, samovars steaming; and the History-Man, bent-backed beardy setting up his booth, with his apprentice.
Mum said no lollygagging at the Crazies, but she won’t know. There they are, same old spot, near the East Street entrance. I stop a few metres away: no point drawing their attention.
‘Contentment to you all, is it?’ A woman’s shouting, blood wet on her forehead. ‘You’re being lied to, and you won’t even see it, won’t even look, you cattle!’
Five cages on the flat-bed cart. Only just caught them: the drivers are hitching the oxen to take them back to jail. Two policemen stand by, smoking lotus-grass, spear-blades sheathed. Once a month, this exhibition: every History-Man day, before the beardy gets his show going. Five criminals brought out to mind everyone what it’s like with no weed. As well as the raver, there’s another woman and two men, being taunted by kids who hold little cups of lotus-grass tea close to the bars and snatch them away again; and an old man at the ox-end of the cart I’m sure was here last time. A long stretch, to have no weed a whole month. Wonder what he did for that. He’s picked his forehead open — they all have, but his is gouged down to the skull, his face all fresh blood over dried, and red under his nails. Must have lost a lot of blood in a month. Lost the strength to shout, to rave, even to grab for the kids’ cups. Just sits there sobbing, picking, dying probably.
‘It’s all in the sky!’ The woman keeps raving. ‘Emptiness forever! An endless nothing! And you think it’s different down here, you think keeping your eyes down will stop it being true? We’re all as empty and dead as the sky. All of us!’
She glares around. Her eyes tangle with mine. Here we go.
‘Him!’ A finger stabs at me. ‘It’s him, right there! Why are you just standing there?’ she screams at the policemen. ‘You’ve got spears!’
Another joins in — ‘Get him! Kill him!’ — and now all the Crazies are shouting for my death, even the old guy, blood-masked faces twisted, eyes uncalmed and raging white. Gets me shaking, like it always does. Me and death, and only cage-bars between.
The taller guard hefts his spear. ‘Hoof it, unless you want this in the balls?’
I step back.
‘Three days till I’m out, you bone-white freak!’ The woman lunges her arm through the bars like she could claw off my face from there. ‘Three days, and I’ll kill you myself!’
‘Yeah, yeah …’ Soon as she’s out she’ll be puffing on a smoke or chugging a glass, and in half an hour we could pass in the street and she’d no more than give me a dirty look. But the knowing doesn’t calm me much. Could do with some weed myself, but I daren’t spend any of Mum’s money on tea, not when I might need all five dollars to get the fruit.
**
