A Place of Meadows and Tall Trees (29 page)

It is still raining. In fact it has not stopped for hours. Just a few steps outside and they are immediately soaked, their clothes and boots heavy. Each step is hard work. The short journey to the Jones' house and back makes Silas feel tired and old.

‘You're not old, husband,' Miriam tells him later as they peel away their saturated clothes and put them on the rack to dry in front of the fire. Myfanwy is asleep already. Silas and Miriam sit on the settle and listen to the rain. It drums on the roof, the window, the track, the cart outside, then they hear it hissing along gullies, gurgling around the house and finding places to escape to the river. Miriam shivers. ‘Too hot to move just a few hours ago,' she says, ‘and now this!'

All night it rains and the day after that. And the day after that. On and on.

‘Fine summer this is,' Selwyn says to each person that passes. He is the proud father of two boys now, each one resembling him in face and their mother in build. The neighbours smile back and then look wistfully at their fields; the sheaves of wheat are drenched in rain and there is no chance of winnowing yet.

Jacob delivers sermons on the flood, emphasising the fact that God had found it necessary to start again because of mankind's wickedness. ‘We should take this as a lesson,' he says darkly. ‘It is our Lord's way of telling us to look to ourselves, and examine our consciousnesses. Have any of us done anything of which we are ashamed and not yet asked the Lord for forgiveness?' He looks around the chapel picking out faces and settling on those he seems to think are transgressors. The colonists shift uneasily in their pews.

‘What about the other flood, brother?' says one member of the congregation during the afternoon tea that follows. ‘Was that God punishing us too? What had we done?'

Jacob doesn't answer. He smiles his tight smile and moves on. Now that he is settled back in Patagonia he has re-established his ridiculous beard. It stands out stiffly from his face like the mane of an old lion, the rest of his face scrupulously shorn. He socialises with no one but Edwyn and Caradoc. He delivers his sermon, supervises prayer meetings and takes lessons in his school, but mainly he is alone, often seen tending the grave of his sister, an isolated figure, rarely meeting the eyes of anyone in his lone walks through the village.

After the service he catches Miriam alone and asks her if her husband has made his peace with the Lord.

‘And what did you say?' asks Silas when she returns home.

‘I said that you didn't need to. You had done nothing wrong.' She pauses, and looks at her hands. ‘I think he has gone a little mad, Silas – and I think he hates you.'

They sit quietly. The rain beats down against the glass. There is something dripping somewhere out in the kitchen. It beats as steadily as the clock ticks.

‘It's bad to hate,' Miriam says suddenly. ‘Yeluc told me. He told me that it was bad for the soul.'

‘I sometimes think Yeluc knew more than anyone.'

‘Once he told me that one day all the Tehuelche will die and all that will be remembered of them are the pictures they drew.'

‘Why?'

‘I don't know. He said he could see things, he could travel into another place and in one of these places there were no Tehuelches at all. Their tongue was forgotten and no one could remember who they were. Then he travelled a little further and all the Galenses were gone too, and the Cristianos, and all anyone spoke was one tongue which he didn't know.'

‘Did he mind?'

‘No, he said all that mattered was that Elal knew where everyone was so that he could take them on his white swan to live with their ancestors in the stars. He said that it didn't matter what tongue anyone used, that Elal understood them all.'

‘Did you speak to him a lot?'

‘Yes, when he came to Mam's kitchen. He used to like to watch her cook. I think he liked the scraps she used to feed him.'

For a few minutes she leans against him. Outside the rain spatters against the new glass in the window.

‘One day, I told him about the angels in the clouds, and he said they were like Elal's birds and that it was good to see such things. It helped you to remember that the world belongs to Elal and that we are only here because he lets us stay.'

Something blows against the window making it rattle in its frame.

‘Sometimes I think Elal and God are the same thing.'

Silas smiles and nods. ‘Sometimes I think that too.'

The window rattles again and she huddles against him. ‘It's getting fierce,' she says.

A crack of lightning illuminates the room with a sudden blue-white light, then almost immediately a roar of thunder answers it. The rain smashes at the glass with a new intensity. Silas hurries to the window and looks out, but of course the moon is hidden by clouds. He squints through the glass and the rain but it is too dark to see. All he hears is the rain, falling into water.

In the morning he reaches out but there is no one there – just Myfanwy standing by his bed with a doll.

‘Where's Miriam?' he asks.

‘Gone out to look at the water. She said not to worry. It's drowned the field but it won't drown us.'

Miriam is standing behind the house just looking. It is something they have seen before. Instead of a river in its valley there is a wide lake, rain still splashing down into it, the heads of the stacks of wheat just poking through.

‘It can still be saved, can't it, Silas?' She seems to know he is there beside her without looking at him. ‘Dadda says maybe we can fish it out, and it will dry when the sun returns.'

He slips his hand into hers. ‘Yes, my love, all will be well.'

Someone is watching. Silas turns around. Edwyn is standing at the open door to the kitchen silently watching them. Silas wonders how long he has been there and what he has seen: Silas helping Myfanwy to dress in front of the fire then taking the kettle from the stove; Miriam smiling at him when he gives her some tea, and that small kiss he gave her, just a touch on the cheek.

‘What do you want?' Why does the man just stand there at the doorway just watching them?

‘Your help, Silas. Everyone's help. Did you hear the cows?'

Silas glances at Miriam and they both shake their heads. ‘Well, they're getting restless. They don't like the water coming close and I don't think the pen will hold them.'

‘What do you want from me, Edwyn?'

‘To help me shore up the pen.'

‘In this weather?'

It is still raining. A sudden gust of wind causes Edwyn to pull up his collar. Silas has not asked him in.

‘Well, there's no use waiting until it stops, is there? They'll all be gone by then.'

Silas glances at Miriam. She tells him with a brief nod of her head to go.

Silas hears it now: the distant lowing of cattle beneath the patter of the rain on mud and the moaning wind.

He considers telling him he has too much to do, but Edwyn looks at him so appreciatively when he puts on his jacket that he changes his mind.

In the end there are just the two of them – everyone else is too busy rescuing what they can from the flood.

The wind is picking up as their horses reach the village. Water has covered the fields, but the wheat sheaves are still intact. There are little waves on the surface of the water and for a few seconds Silas is fooled into thinking it is flowing backwards inland, but then the wind changes direction again and the waves head out to sea. It is cold. Even though it is still January and midsummer it is cold. Yet just a week ago Silas felt too hot to work even in his shirtsleeves and Miriam had stripped down to her chemise and complained that decency did not allow her to go further. The thought of her peaceful presence makes him yearn for home. ‘Just a couple of hours, mind, then I'll have to be heading back.'

Edwyn nods his head once, then after a few minutes adds, ‘Thank you, Silas.'

The cows are east of the village on a patch of land that is a little higher than the rest. Silas can hear their lowing clearly now he and Edwyn have gone beyond Rawson – a continuous mournful groan – grey like the sky, depressing his spirit, making him long for the warmth of his living room. Maybe the cows can smell the river as it creeps towards them. They are milling around at the end of their pen opposite the river, as far away as they can get from the water. The flooding has churned up new black silt smelling of sulphur and airless decay. They snort at the air, beat up new mud, and then one or two of them lower their heads like bulls and charge at the earth wall that holds them.

‘Look,' says Edwyn, ‘it's crumbling.'

The mud is slippery in the rain, and the ground is waterlogged. The horses are slithering so the two men dismount and, armed with spades, walk the rest of the way on foot. After a couple of steps Edwyn grunts and falls to the ground. Silas starts to help him then falls flat himself. He struggles upwards then looks at Edwyn and then down at himself and laughs. ‘Look at us – we're like two brown, fat elephant sea lions – all we can do is shuffle forwards on our stomachs.'

For a minute Edwyn just looks at him, then a large broad smile erupts on his face. He throws back his head and falls back into the mud, snorting like one of the pigs the colony slaughtered at Port Madryn four years ago. He sounds so much like an animal that Silas laughs back.

They stagger to their feet, still laughing. ‘I knew I should find a good companion in you, Silas.'

‘You did?'

‘Yes. Last night I...' He stops, reaches out and presses his hand down on Silas' sleeve. ‘We're too late,' he says.

The cows are now bellowing in triumph. One of them has managed to demolish a piece of the earth wall and is forcing her way through to the outside. Behind her the cows are milling about, pushing and mounting each other in their anxiety to escape. Silas and Edwyn wade as quickly as they can but progress is difficult. They keep slipping over, struggling to get up and then falling over again. At last Silas manages to find a piece of ground more solid than the rest and staggers forward. A few of them have escaped and are making for the northwest where the ground is higher and firmer, but the rest are slower and more timorous. He shouts at them and they back away, then with his spade he begins to dig, one small plunge and then another. The mud is wet and heavy; it is as much as he can do to lift each small spadeful. Soon Edwyn joins him and they work together silently, repairing one section of the wall and then the next.

At last they rest, straighten their backs and groan.

‘Good. We've done well, Silas. That should keep them safe for now.'

‘But we'd better keep a watch.'

Edwyn looks back at their work. ‘No, it'll hold – better to give chase to the rest.'

Silas shakes his head. ‘I'm telling you, we'd better keep a watch. Better to keep an eye on what we've still got.'

Edwyn regards him steadily.

‘It's easy to lose track of them if you can't see them.' Damn the man, why does he just keep staring, making him talk, making him give excuses. ‘You think it's all right, but it's not.'

‘The sheep?' Edwyn smiles.

Silas nods.

‘Those damned sheep, eh? Nothing but trouble. In the end they didn't matter, did they?'

But they did. He didn't look after them. He let them go. He let everyone down. A sob rises so suddenly to his throat he can't hold it in.

‘Do you think anyone cares about a few sheep now, Silas?'

He can't answer.

‘No. It's not the sheep that matters,
ffrind
, but this.' He spreads his arms. ‘This country, this place, our new Wales.'

‘But without the sheep we almost lost everything. Everything!'

‘No, without
you
all would have been lost.
You
, Silas. Don't you see?'

Silas shakes his head. And Edwyn smiles. ‘Come,
brawd
.'

Their horses are sinking into the mud. Silas and Edwyn pull at their reins but their struggling just sends them deeper. Eventually they find some stones and slowly make a path for the horses to clamber out, neighing and snorting, onto firmer ground to the north. The cows are long gone. There are distant bellows but nothing close. After he has allowed his horse to drink, Edwyn eases himself onto its back.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Going after them, of course. If we're quick we might get to them before the Indians do.' He looks down at Silas. ‘Are you coming? It won't take long, I promise.' He holds out his arm, smiles and then trots away. It is too cold and wet to think. Silas mounts his horse and allows it to follow.

The horses' backs are laced with rain. It dribbles down their necks and onto the blanket underneath the saddle. Silas sniffs. He has always liked the smell of a wet animal. He pats the horse and whispers into the animal's ear, ‘Good boy'. They follow the mess of footprints up onto the higher ground and then out of the valley into the barren plain above. It is raining here too but more gently. The horses' hooves make a ringing sound on the ground as if they are treading on the skin of a taut drum. Silas has the impression that they are treading on something hollow and he leans forward, urging the horse to be careful. The cows' tracks peter out and soon they have to get down from their horses to examine the ground. Edwyn puts his ear to the ground as they have seen the Indians do but reports that he can hear nothing.

‘Maybe we should be getting back,' Silas says, looking around them. The rain has stopped and it is getting dark, the sun close to setting, and it is still very cold with the wind whipping their faces.

‘Just a little longer. Look, I think I see something moving over there.' Edwyn points to where there is a clump of pale-coloured rock and shadows moving around them. They carefully move a little closer but the shadows turn out to be just the branches of an old dead bush moving in the wind.

It is dusk now and they have had little to eat since breakfast, just a couple of old crusts Edwyn found in his saddlebag. Silas climbs to the top of the rocks and looks around. It is the highest thing for miles. Towards the west he can see some dark dots moving together across the plains – and around them some other dots, browner and more widely spaced, stealthily circling around them. He motions to Edwyn who scrambles up beside him.

‘Indians.'

Edwyn nods.

‘Is it worth going after them?'

Edwyn shakes his head slowly. ‘Up here they'll be seen as fair game, belonging to no one.'

‘But they know they're ours.'

‘I don't think that will matter,
ffrind
, not if they are Gallatt's men.'

Closer to them something is moving through the undergrowth, tail twitching.

‘What's that?'

‘Shh.'

It is a cat, too big to be one of the small wild cats. This one is a sandy yellow and moving quickly. A puma. Silas has heard stories from the Indians of course, and even seen distant small fast movements, but this is the first one he has ever seen close and it terrifies him. Edwyn motions for them to sink onto the rock and they do so quietly. Only a couple of small pebbles grind against each other as they crouch but it is enough for the animal to stop and for his ears to swivel. His head turns and his eyes glare at them – oddly uninterested and antagonistic at the same time. Arrogant, Silas thinks, and coldly vicious. For a few seconds the animal doesn't move, but then he comes slightly closer. He is silent, his soft paws seem to know exactly where to go not to make a sound – each movement slow and powerful. Silas thinks he can hear the animal's breath. Just the wind, he tells himself, just the wind. Beside him Edwyn is rigidly still. The puma's head disappears. Silas moves slightly, craning to see if he has moved closer towards them or further away. A branch of gorse immediately in front of him shifts. He breathes out. It is a small armadillo carelessly dislodging gravel as it makes its way though the undergrowth.

‘It's going.' Edwyn's voice is barely discernible above the wind. But still they do not dare move. It is becoming rapidly darker now the sun has set, and the wind is howling. Shadows are turning into faces and the ends of twigs into twitching tails. Silas has lost feeling in his legs. He shifts a little then falls to one side.

‘Hush!' Edwyn hisses and Silas stays where he is, awkwardly supporting himself with a forearm on the ground.

At last Edwyn indicates with his hand that they can move. It is almost night now and they can see only as far as the nearest bush. Silas thinks of the puma creeping around them, biding his time.

Edwyn stands and briskly starts to gather twigs.

‘What are you doing?'

‘There's no point in trying to return now. We'd only get lost. The best thing we can do is try to light a fire and wait until daylight.'

He's right, of course he's right. Silas thinks about Miriam waiting for him and worrying.

  ‘We shouldn't have gone after them,' he says, not moving, ‘we had no chance of catching them.'

‘You didn't have to come.'

Silas feels a strong compulsion to hit him. ‘Why do you never apologise? Never admit you're wrong?'

‘I wasn't wrong, it was the right thing to do – there was a chance we might catch them.'

But Silas isn't listening. ‘Why do you lie? Do you enjoy deceiving and tricking people?'

‘I do not lie.'

‘The meadows, the tall trees – why did you say they were here? Why did you pretend we were coming to a paradise, when this was all there this?'

‘I do not believe I mentioned trees. Those were the words of Captain Fitzroy, and I saw no reason to doubt them.'

‘But you'd been here, man. You'd seen this place for yourself.'

Edwyn stands and looks at their collection of twigs and then stoops to rearrange it. ‘Yes, our land, a new Wales.'

‘But it's a desert!' His voice is too loud. His words will travel even in this wet wind.

‘No, Silas, not a desert. You,
ffrind
, have shown that it is not a desert.'

Edwyn kneels by the heap of twigs and dry kindling they have managed to find and strikes at flints, but it takes him several minutes to produce smoke and then a small flame. They pull blankets from the horses over their shoulders and sit beside it. Silas takes a twig and begins to trace pictures on the ground. He thinks of Myfanwy's pictures and the way Miriam has hung them so carefully on the walls of their house, and a small thrill of pleasure makes him want to hug himself. When he gets back he will try to make some paint. Next time the Indians visit he will ask them what they use to daub on their cloaks. Megan used to admire those cloaks. She said that one day she would like to own one for their walls. The thought of her is not so raw now. Sometimes he feels guilty that he can prod at the wound where she was and not feel pain but just a poignant gladness that at least he knew her once, at least they shared time together and were happy. Then he remembers Edwyn's woman: her pale small face, and her indignant anger on behalf of her husband. She had seemed so much more vulnerable than Megan, as brittle and as fragile as a doll, and yet Cecilia Lloyd still lives. He looks up at Edwyn wondering how he can bear to continue to live here without her. It must be a strange existence – as if he is married and widowed at the same time. Or maybe he welcomes her absence.