26. The Valley
The valley is in deep shadow as the day draws its final, fitful breath. Colour bleeds from tree and rock and stream, leaving the land wan and lifeless. Fingers of darkness creep from hidden corners, from burrows and tree hollows, coalesce, lay claim to meadow and mountain.
At the bottom of the valley, an orchard stands in unnatural rows. Bare branches claw at the fading light, shifting in a breeze laced with woodsmoke. Grasping shadows stretch and creep toward the wide stream that cleaves the valley. Hidden currents swirl in inky pools that swallow the light. On each side of the valley, a wild forest crouches; beyond, sheer cliffs loom like fortress walls. Outside the valley, past mountains and grassy plains, past crumbling cities and the vast empty sea, the dying sun is smeared against a bruised sky.
On a low rise at the upper end of the valley there is a small farmhouse. It might be described as a cabin, although this would imply an element of comfort that is, in this moment, unattainable. The flickering firelight in the windows does not speak of welcome. It is a warning light and only serves to deepen the darkness crouched in the corners of the porch and the surrounding garden.
Inside the house, in the largest room, the fire burns. The flames consume the wood but not the darkness. The fire is silent, subdued, apart from an occasional pop and hiss as it discovers some vestige of life deep within the wood. The shadows in this room dance in response to the fire; they appear to creep forward, only to dart back, as if wary of the flames.
The man slumped in the chair does not stir.
The darkness is deeper in the hall leading to the bedrooms.
Inside the smallest of the three bedrooms is a rough timber bed covered with worn blankets. A single candle burns on a stool by the door. The stool is scarred by old wax, although the candle is newly made. The outline of a body can be made out beneath the blankets, although it seems too small for the bed. Above this, a tiny head is propped up on a pillow. Even in the dim candlelight the child’s face looks pale, doll-like. A woman is curled up in a threadbare chair beside the bed. She is threadbare. Her eyes are shadowed, so it is impossible to tell if they are open or closed.
The child’s breathing is shallow. Imperceptible. His hold on life is as tenuous as the stuttering candle across the room. The child expels a soft sigh; the woman shifts in her chair. Leans forward. She is still, her eyes locked on the boy’s chest, waiting, watching, as the agonising seconds slip by. An eternity. Until the tiny chest rises and falls once more, mechanically. The woman allows herself to breathe again. She resumes her tense watchfulness.
The candle burns low and the darkness in the room deepens. The stool remains as it was. The shadows shift and swirl, transform into reaching hands and towering, hooded figures. The blackness beats against the cowering candle flame until, in the early hours of the morning, it succumbs.
The woman wakes in the pre-dawn cold. She cannot see for the darkness, but she knows the room is empty.
They bury the body the next day.
The family gathers at the edge of the orchard. Two adults and two children bundled in layers of clothes. Their warm breath wafts and wanders in the still air, a distorted reflection of the chimney smoke at the other end of the valley.
A space has been cleared of leaves and fresh black soil marks where the ground has been torn. The grave is small, shockingly so. The man has spent the morning shovelling and preparing the site. He has collected stones from the stream to mark the grave. In a way, the doing of things is his way of grieving, although he does them so as not to be alone with his thoughts. It is a contradictory grief; he mourns for his child, and yet, he feels shameful relief. This feeling will linger and haunt him in the depths of the night. It will ambush him at times, as he goes about his life.
The children try to be stoic. They do this for their parents. The eldest tries to be strong for her brother, as eldest children are wont to do. She mistakes her ability to hide her grief as strength, as if disengaging and holding it at arm’s length makes her strong. The younger brother mimics his sister as best he can, although his tears flow freely. The children are not shocked; they have been prepared for this moment by their parents. Although it does not relieve the weight of their grief.
The woman has spent the morning preparing the body and is spent. There has been no wailing, no screaming, no tears. No lamentation. She has swaddled the tiny body tenderly, as she did not so many years ago. She cannot bear the thought of her baby being cold and alone, so she has wrapped him warmly in the itchy wool blanket and placed a well-worn toy by his side.
She speaks simple words. The children listen; they cannot speak for the lumps in their throats. The man is silent. He stares at the place where the ground has been violated. He stares through it. An outsider would assume that he is not listening. But there are no outsiders here.
The woman speaks of her child with a composure that belies her broken spirit. She describes a boy who loved this orchard more than any other place in the valley. A boy who played in the fallen leaves and ate apples in the summer. The family know these things but she is not speaking to them, not really. She is speaking to the wind and the sky and the sun. Never to God; He has long since abandoned them.
The woman speaks about how her youngest was the only one of the five to be born in this valley. It is fitting that he is also the first to be buried here. Perversely poetic.
They each place a stone on the grave. The stones are polished and smooth and somehow too perfect. They don’t seem natural. Even in the muted winter sun they appear to shine. The children hold items delicately in clenched fists. They place them now upon the stones. A favourite stick. A blue marble flecked with green. A beloved song. A family joke. They lay their memories down on top of the stones. Impress them into the stone. They each feel that these will provide comfort and protection, although it is an unspoken feeling.
They hug in silence, these four.
Soon, later, eventually, they make their slow way along the path beside the stream toward the house. The man can smell snow upon the air and considers how their preparations are not complete. Their lives have been consumed and now he can selfishly turn his mind to unfinished tasks and daily chores, hoping they will consume him in turn.
Their evening meal is shrouded in silence and sorrow. They eat out of habit more than hunger. A desire for distraction. The woman has become accustomed to eating alone, consuming thoughts. The food laid out before her is unappealing, tasteless. It cannot fill her. She probes the hollow inside, like a tongue probing the space left by a lost tooth, but it is too raw.
They pack away dinner and wash up with quiet efficiency. They feed the animals and bring in wood for the night. By unspoken agreement they leave the boardgames packed away. There is a bone weariness that comes with grief and it overwhelms them now. The children crawl into the big bed between their parents, finding comfort in the circle of their arms. The bed is crowded, yet hollow.
They drift to sleep wrapped in fond memories of a life lost. They do not speak of a future; it is as shrouded as the valley from which they have wrested a gentle existence.
Jim Gill is an autistic writer and poet living on Gumbaynggirr Country. He holds a PhD in archaeology, as well as degrees in cultural heritage and education. Jim's writing appears in Verandah, Oystercatcher Two, and From Eternity to Here.