A Place of Meadows and Tall Trees (3 page)

The light is strange. The sky is too open. The flames and smoke are being churned violently by the wind and make shadows that flicker on her skin. He looks at her sunken eyes, and the flesh drooping from the bones of her cheeks. How can she have changed so much without his noticing?

‘Gwyneth needs you,
cariad
.'

She holds out her arms in silence. He watches as she tends to Gwyneth, guiding the child's mouth onto her nipple and then stares again into the fire. His gem. His precious stone. Something he should have cared for. He slumps down beside her and holds her hand in his. His fault. Every promise he made himself, he's broken. I'm sorry, he says. We shouldn't have come here.

He looks around. Desert. A cold desert of bitter winds. He squeezes her hand again. Then wraps his arm around her shoulder, holding them both to him. Sorry, he says again.

Yeluc

This I know: the world belongs to Elal. Where his arrowheads touched the ocean floor so the ground rose up. Great rivers drained the water from the land and the memory of this is imprinted in the dry gorges and wide empty canyons. This was before man came. Before man became. Before Elal thought of us. He planted forest, swept out plains with his arms, drew up mountains with his fingertips, and then he thought of us: his Tehuelche. He made us large and strong like himself and he gave us legs so we could wander around his great creation. I suppose he wanted an audience, animals who would talk more loudly than the
mikkeoush
and armadillos. So he thought of us. His people. His guardians for all that he had made rise up from the ocean. He filled us with promises and hope. He told us that when we die he would see that we would take our places in the firmament and shine as stars. Elal. A god but also a man. A giant but also small enough for us to see. It is his land, he allows us to dwell here because of his great munificence. It is important to remember this. Important to know. Important to tell those around us and to remind the children that come after us. Elal. Great one. By looking after his land so we look after ourselves.

When I saw the big swan on the ocean I knew that Elal had not sent it. Even though I know Elal is used to swans and first learnt to shoot his arrows through her feathers I could see this was not his bird, not his carriage. Of course I have heard of such things before: large birds that bring men. But I had never seen one, not in front of me, not like this, even though I am old and have seen much of the world and am wise to its ways. I watched it grow big and bigger still and then voices came to me, calling, shouting, words I didn't understand, not even the words the Mapuche use or those whiter men from the north. I am used to their words from my father and even speak them a little, but these words were full of spit, clearings of throat and growls. Later they told me it was the tongue of heaven, but no one has ever heard the stars speak.

But even before I saw them I knew they were there. I could feel them coming. Strange creatures in the air. Their spirits and their helpers making the other world restless. Disturbing my sleep. Making the
rou
skittish.

By the time they came close enough to see, the sun was high: a weak sun, doing his best to warm up the air and the wind blowing his efforts away.

From the shore there was a boom, like a small thunder, and then they detached themselves from the swan. Like fleas. No, larger than fleas. Like rats. Rats disturbed from a nest. Falling into the water and crying out when the water grasped them, swimming like rats do, frantic and clumsy, their heads above the water and then one of them stepping on the land first, jumping up and yelling to the rest who were going back to the swan. Trouble, I thought and wondered if Elal knew. Trouble, I thought then and I was right and wrong. Nothing is all one thing or the other. So it was with these men and their women, especially their women.

They unload their possessions onto the beach. There isn't much; most families have easily packed all they own into a single large trunk. They haul them up the beach to the shelter.

Silas unlocks his and peers inside – thirty-eight long years on this earth and so very little to show for it. He riffles through baby clothes, rolls of cloth, rugs, pots and pans until he finds what he is looking for – a couple of old blankets. He pulls them free and with them comes something else – a roll of old bills and orders. He briefly glances through them: small sums marking triumphs and then larger sums with accompanying demands, threats and denials. One paper is caught by the wind and carried towards the sea. He runs after it, catching it just before it reaches the water. It's nothing more than an old bill; the ink a little faded but still legible. He snorts – if he could only read it. Yet he knows every word. He walks back slowly, glancing round to check that no one seems to have noticed his sudden frantic movement. No need for anyone else to see – even though each man here will have similar secrets.

The doctor's boy had chased after him at the market. The shrill ‘Mr James' had forced him to stop and look around, and the boy had thrust the bill into his hand with a short small bow of his head.

He had waited until he was alone before breaking the seal: the doctor's scrawl had meant little to him, but the long line of figures and the sum underlined twice at the end had meant rather more: more zeros than he could ever remember seeing on a piece of paper before. They'd wobbled in front of him while the rest of the world had retreated, like a column of hungry mouths exclaiming O, O, O.

Even Elinor's placid words failed to reassure him.

‘We can help you out,
bach
.'

He'd shaken his head. He couldn't bear the thought of his father-in-law smirking as he reached into his cash box. He would do this himself. ‘Don't tell
any
one.'

‘I won't, if you don't want me to,
cariad
, but...'

‘Promise?'

She'd nodded slowly once. ‘I promise.'

Ah, Elinor – how he sometimes misses her gentle words. He smoothes down the bill and adds it to the bundle of other papers. Why is he keeping all these? What good is it all now? The demand of £10 from a man in Chester for a church that was empty each Sunday; then one for £37 from the Melrose estate to be paid by Lady Day for his one-room cottage and land; and then the smaller bills: the £3 he owed the saddler and the shillings he owed the grocer. Then those more inconspicuous chits written in Megan's hand – each one recording a small heartbreak – the sow and then his eight cows and then his dogs: Polly, Benny, Sammy.

More faithful than humans, he always told Megan.

Soft you are, Silas. My father was right.

And more intelligent too. He sits on the top of the trunk to force it closed. Well except for that night when they had followed their urges rather than their brains. That night. For a few seconds he sits still on the wooden box. If it hadn't been for that night he would still be in Wales, still in Rhoslyn. Still have a wife and three small children. Three. The day seems to darken. That night it had been cold and autumnal. There had been bonfires somewhere; he remembers smelling them. Even though it was dusk Silas could make out white fluffy backsides in his cabbage field; no doubt their owners helping themselves to supper. The dogs were on them at once of course; through the gate and yelping and barking for kingdom come.

Silas smiles at the memory. Always too optimistic, especially that Benny. Those cabbage fields were riddled with burrows, and the dogs had never a chance of catching them, but still they persevered. He'd whistled, but they'd taken no notice. He'd laughed. Daft old creatures. So he'd waited until they'd come back with their tails slunk down between their legs, and he'd given each one a friendly wallop on their backsides.

But someone had been watching. He'd heard hooves on the road, as he was telling them off, and that night Trevor Pritchard, Melrose's gamekeeper, had called. As usual he'd just tapped once on the door before barging in with his two oafish sons. They'd stood at the doorway leering while their father had crossed the room in two paces and started poking around the place with his stick.

It had taken a couple of minutes for Silas to speak. ‘What are you doing?' Then, annoyed at how ineffectual he was sounding, had quickly added, ‘Get out, or I'll set my dogs on you.' Which, it turned out, was exactly what Pritchard had come for.

Silas shuts his eyes, remembering the old cottage. There had not been much to see – apart from the large pieces of furniture everything else is with them still, packed away in the trunk. To one side was the cupboard bed with the children's low bed beneath, a small cupboard set into the wall and the bible and a prayer book propped up by a jug on the deep windowsill. In front was the great dresser festooned with jugs and plates and cups. To the other side a table and chairs, and the settle pulled up toward the fire. Apart from that there was just the ironwork hanging above the grate and a ladder leading to the small loft stretching across half the room. The floor was made from slate flags – a recent addition replacing beaten earth – and Megan had just completed a long rag rug in bright jewel colours which ran down the middle of the floor.

‘Call them, James. There'll only be more trouble if you don't.'

There was nothing he could do. The three men were large and they each had sticks. In the end it had been Richard who had called them. Richard, with his quivering little voice questioning Silas, and then accidentally calling out their names, whereupon they had appeared of course – from the only place they could be, under the bed.

Pritchard's sons had made smart work of them; cowing them with sticks before trussing them up with rope and shoving them into sacks. Then, leeringly licking his lips, Trevor Pritchard had written out a receipt with their names.

‘What are you going to do with them?'

They were moaning like pups.

Pritchard grinned nastily. ‘Not in front of the children. This won't be the end of this little matter either, don't you worry. Mr Melrose is most particular about his stock of game. He'll be here directly, to see how things stand.'

That weekend Melrose and a couple of his English friends had come trampling over Silas' crops and scaring the milk from his cows. The following week Silas had been summoned to the solicitor's in town.

‘Mr Melrose is giving you notice to quit,' the round little lawyer had said.

‘He can't do that!'

‘I'm afraid, Mr James, that he can – and has. Apparently there was some issue with the game.'

Silas had tutted and shaken his head. ‘Nothing happened. That sly snake of his, Trevor Pritchard, has been making things up.'

‘Well, he's using that... not that he needs a reason.'

‘I'm going to see him.'

‘There's no point, Silas. He won't listen. You know that.'

He'd slumped back in his chair and looked at his hands, suddenly defeated. ‘What can I do, Mr Roberts? I've put my soul into that place.'

‘I'm sorry Silas.'

‘Is there nothing that can be done?'

‘We-e-ll...' Roberts had fiddled with the gold chain which always looped out of the watch pocket on his waistcoat. ‘Maybe he would consider your renewal if you would agree to an increase in rent.'

Silas had gasped. ‘I can't. I can barely afford to pay what he wants as it is.'

‘Well, then...' Roberts had yanked at his watch chain until a large gold watch had landed in his small white palm. ‘Stopped again, damn it. I'll have to take it into Thomas' again.' Then he had risen to his feet and clapped Silas on the shoulder. ‘I'm so sorry, old man. There's not much else I can suggest.'

‘But I've a young family, and that land is all I have, all I had...'

‘I know, I know. You're not alone. It's small consolation, I know.'

‘What can we do?'

‘No one is allowed to become destitute in this day and age. The council will...'

‘We're not going to the workhouse.'

‘Well, you'll have to find something else then.'

‘What?'

‘Really my man, I have no idea.' He was looking at his watch again and frowning. ‘I did hear there is a good living to be made on the coalfields.'

‘Down the pit?'

‘Yes, it's hard work, I know, but there's money to be had.'

‘But there are accidents, explosions, people are killed...'

‘Well, if you don't feel you can do that you'll have to find something else then.'

‘What?'

But Roberts was clearly not listening. He'd given his watch a few careful winds and was now examining its face. ‘My father brought me this, you know. All the way from London.'

But Silas had gone, slamming the office door shut behind him.

Yeluc

They took their time to disgorge themselves from this craft. Now it was close, twisting and straining the sinews that held it where it was, I could see that this was just what it was, a craft, a distant relative of the ones I'd heard about, the ones the bowlegged ones use in the colder lands. Not like theirs though, no, not like theirs at all. This was large, several
toldos
sewn together floating on a raft of trees. And between the
toldos
and the wood were the people.

Signalling to Seannu and her sisters to keep down, I crept closer to see; my hair part of the thorn, my body close against the ground. There were people waiting. Two men and a woman, the swimmers and then some others I hadn't seen before, emerging from their own
toldos
, a few horses and a few other animals rounded up and chomping at the ground. Why had I not seen them? They ran along the beach to welcome them, their arms waving, shouting their language the same words again and again, running into the surf and out again, pulling at ropes that were thrown at them, then pulling at the small craft that had been born of the large one and followed the people that swam like rats into the water.

Step back. Close my eyes. Time is a god too, powerful but he can be tamed. Sometimes I can make him stop, go back and he will show me again what I know.

It is dark. How long have I been here? Seannu and her sisters have stolen away, following some quest of their own and left me here. No matter.

Their great swan is whispering to itself in the waves: creaks, sighs, promises of return. They have built a fire on the beach below me. Over the fire the women have assembled poles and pots and now things spatter, jump and boil within. Meat. It is something one of them killed.

Ah yes: a great roar from one of their sticks and then a small cry from something nearby.

Trouble, I said to Elal and he answered me in the wind. Yes, Yeluc, trouble. He prefers the silence of the
bolas
, the calmness of an arrow.

The spirit in my stomach grumbles at the smell and I begin to crawl backwards, my old legs snagging branches, making them crack but the sound does not matter. Eventually I stand but they do not notice. I am thin, dark against the sky. There are many of them clumped together in groups around the fire. They talk without meaning, words changing into songs and songs into chants. And something changes within me. The spirit that grumbles is suddenly quiet and still. I listen. Many voices entwining becoming one. Something loud, something strong. Something that clutches at the spirit inside me and makes him strong too. Elal. It must be Elal. They know him too.