‘They came to fight,’ he said, his voice now very soft, ‘Popolac and Podujevo. They come every ten years —‘
‘Fight?’ said Judd. ‘You mean all those people were slaughtered?’
Vaslav shook his head.
‘No, no. They fell. I told you.’
‘Well, how do they fight?’ Mick said.
‘Go into the hills,’ was the only reply.
Vaslav opened his eyes a little. The faces that loomed over him were exhausted and sick. They had suffered, these innocents. They deserved some explanation.
‘As giants,’ he said. ‘They fought as giants. They made a body out of their bodies, do you understand? The frame, the muscles, the bone, the eyes, nose, teeth all made of men and women.’
‘He’s delirious,’ said Judd.
‘You go into the hills,’ the man repeated. ‘See for yourselves how true it is.’
‘Even supposing —‘ Mick began.
Vaslav interrupted him, eager to be finished. ‘They were good at the game of giants. It took many centuries of practice: every ten years making the figure larger and larger. One always ambitious to be larger than the other. Ropes to tie them all together, flawlessly. Sinews . . ligaments ... There was food in its belly ... there were pipes from the loins, to take away the waste. The best-sighted sat in the eye-sockets, the best voiced in the mouth and throat. You wouldn’t believe the engineering of it.’
‘I don’t,’ said Judd, and stood up.
‘It is the body of the state,’ said Vaslav, so softly his voice was barely above a whisper, ‘it is the shape of our lives.’
There was a silence. Small clouds passed over the road, soundlessly shedding their mass to the air.
‘It was a miracle,’ he said. It was as if he realized the true enormity of the fact for the first time. ‘It was a miracle.’
It was enough. Yes. It was quite enough.
His mouth closed, the words said, and he died.
Mick felt this death more acutely than the thousands they had fled from; or rather this death was the key to unlock the anguish he felt for them all.
Whether the man had chosen to tell a fantastic lie as he died, or whether this story was in some way true, Mick felt useless in the face of it. His imagination was too narrow to encompass the idea. His brain ached with the thought of it, and his compassion cracked under the weight of misery he felt.
They stood on the road, while the clouds scudded by, their vague, grey shadows passing over them towards the enigmatic hills.
It was twilight.
Popolac could stride no further. It felt exhaustion in every muscle. Here and there in its huge anatomy deaths had occurred; but there was no grieving in the city for its deceased cells. If the dead were in the interior, the corpses were allowed to hang from their harnesses. If they formed the skin of the city they were unbuckled from their positions and released, to plunge into the forest below.
The giant was not capable of pity. It had no ambition but to continue until it ceased. As the sun slunk out of sight Popolac rested, sitting on a small hillock, nursing its huge head in its huge hands.
The stars were coming out, with their familiar caution. Night was approaching, mercifully bandaging up the wounds of the day, blinding eyes that had seen too much.
Popolac rose to its feet again, and began to move, step by booming step. It would not be long surely, before fatigue overcame it: before it could lie down in the tomb of some lost valley and die.
But for a space yet it must walk on, each step more agonizingly slow than the last, while the night bloomed black around its head.
Mick wanted to bury the car-thief, somewhere on the edge of the forest. Judd, however, pointed out that burying a body might seem, in tomorrow’s saner light, a little suspicious. And besides, wasn’t it absurd to concern themselves with one corpse when there were literally thousands of them lying a few miles from where they stood?
The body was left to lie, therefore, and the car to sink deeper into the ditch.
They began to walk again.
It was cold, and colder by the moment, and they were hungry. But the few houses they passed were all deserted, locked and shuttered, every one.
‘What did he mean?’ said Mick, as they stood looking at another locked door.
‘He was talking metaphor —, ‘All that stuff about giants?’
‘It was some Trotskyist tripe —‘ Judd insisted.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I know so. It was his deathbed speech, he’d probably been preparing for years.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Mick said again, and began walking back towards the road.
‘Oh, how’s that?’ Judd was at his back.
‘He wasn’t toeing some party line.’
‘Are you saying you think there’s some giant around here someplace? For God’s sake!’ Mick turned to Judd. His face was difficult to see the twilight. But his voice was sober with belief.
‘Yes. I think he was telling the truth.’
‘That’s absurd. That’s ridiculous. No.’
Judd hated Mick that moment. Hated his naivetй, his passion to believe any half-witted story if it had a whiff of romance about it. And this? This was the worst, the most preposterous .
‘No,’ he said again. ‘No. No. No.’
The sky was porcelain smooth, and the outline of the hills black as pitch.
‘I’m fucking freezing,’ said Mick out of the ink. ‘Are you staying here or walking with me?’
Judd shouted: ‘We’re not going to find anything this way.’
‘Well it’s a long way back.’
‘We’re just going deeper into the hills.’
‘Do what you like — I’m walking.’
His footsteps receded: the dark encased him. After a minute, Judd followed.
The night was cloudless and bitter. They walked on, their collars up against the chill, their feet swollen in their shoes. Above them the whole sky had become a parade of stars. A triumph of spilled light, from which the eye could make as many patterns as it had patience for. After a while, they slung their tired arms around each other, for comfort and warmth.
About eleven o’clock, they saw the glow of a window in the distance. The woman at the door of the stone cottage didn’t smile, but she understood their condition, and let them in. There seemed to be no purpose in trying to explain to either the woman or her crippled husband what they had seen. The cottage had no telephone, and there was no sign of a vehicle, so even had they found some way to express themselves, nothing could be done.
With mimes and face-pullings they explained that they were hungry and exhausted. They tried further to explain they were lost, cursing themselves for leaving their phrase-book in the VW. She didn’t seem to understand very much of what they said, but sat them down beside a blazing fire and put a pan of food on the stove to heat.
They ate thick unsalted pea soup and eggs, and occasion-ally smiled their thanks at the woman. Her husband sat beside the fire, making no attempt to talk, or even look at the visitors.
The food was good. It buoyed their spirits.
They would sleep until morning and then begin the long trek back. By dawn the bodies in the field would be being quantified, identified, parcelled up and dispatched to their families. The air would be full of reassuring noises, cancelling out the moans that still rang in their ears. There would be helicopters, lorry loads of men organizing the clearing-up operations. All the rites and paraphernalia of a civilized disaster.
And in a while, it would be palatable. It would become part of their history: a tragedy, of course, but one they could explain, classify and learn to live with. All would be well, yes, all would be well. Come morning.
The sleep of sheer fatigue came on them suddenly. They lay where they had fallen, still sitting at the table, their heads on their crossed arms. A litter of empty bowls and bread crusts surrounded them.
They knew nothing. Dreamt nothing. Felt nothing. Then the thunder began.
In the earth, in the deep earth, a rhythmical tread, as of a titan, that came, by degrees, closer and closer.