He turned a few pages of the book. ‘Blessed be the Lord, our God, King of the Universe, who formed you in judgement, who nourished and sustained you in judgement, who brought death on you in judgement, who knoweth the number of you all in judgement, and will hereafter restore you to life in judgement. May David Samuel Wilcox come to this place in peace.’
In spite of such grand words, I felt he believed nothing of what he was reading, till in one pause came the faintest smile, a moment perhaps when he sensed the biting relevance of his text, suggesting that this ritual of getting Wilcox to such a burial spot was an attempt to work something human back into himself. Why else would he have done it? I recognized his peculiar smile as a mark of pain, which spread into every fibre of his body and soul.
‘He that dwelleth in the shelter of the Most High abideth under the shadow of the Almighty. I say of the Lord. He is my refuge and my fortress. Thou favourest man with knowledge, and teachest mortals understanding. Forgive us, O our Father, for we have sinned; pardon us, O our King, for we have transgressed. Look upon our affliction and plead our cause, and redeem us speedily for Thy name’s sake. Vouchsafe a perfect healing to all our wounds.’
Appleyard wept.
‘As for man, his days are as grass; as the flower of the field so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more.’
Heads down, we saw a world of grit and ash. Whoever cannot weep is damned because he will not. But I couldn’t. Stinging wind made tears. I felt the power of desolation, in a country I had never known. The most unreal comes to be the most real, a truth apparent as I listened to the Ninetieth Psalm and the whine of the uprising gale behind each line. Death drummed us into a silence that was not bitter, but neutral. The only good was that the words of the Book rooted us in a common past, and held promise of a common future, provided we could get out with no more dead.
‘Lay him to rest. He’s better off than we are.’
‘God gave him a Blighty one,’ Appleyard murmured. Unable to deny it, I rolled the body to one side. We drew the rope under the middle, them steadied the sack down.
Bennett set his cap on and stuffed the book inside his jacket. ‘Put plenty of stones on top.’
We made a cairn on the hump of ground so that the location was unmistakable – which was what Bennett wanted. ‘A trig point,’ said Rose. ‘Let’s hope all of us get one.’
Beyond the reverse slope a stream descended from the re-entrant. A cloud of birds wheeled clockwise above rushing water near the beach. We were close enough for the crying skuas to overlap the sky and investigate us. Distaste blighted Bennett’s expression when he lowered the field-glasses from what he had seen.
Out of its wide circuit a skua came close. We avoided its scything beak. Black eyes glittered, swooping on a wide span of wing with proprietary rage, a flash of white near each tip. Armatage hurled his spade like a javelin. ‘I’d like to twist its bloody neck.’
‘Our necks would be bloody if it had half the chance,’ Appleyard said. I saw no advantage in such a fray. To know when to stop is vital. A step forward due to curiosity, or because you move without realizing, makes you a plaything of some force which is beyond explanation.
Bennett was halfway down. Other predatory outriders of the feast swirled about. Probably a seal, said Rose. There’s no animal protection society in these parts. I never liked birds. Nothing’s safe from them. Our voices became crazed as we advanced in line with spades and entrenching tools. ‘It may be king of the air,’ said Appleyard, ‘but if the bugger comes close, it’s had it.’
They wheeled in pairs, riled that we would compete at their feed. I felt the wind of one sweep by, and swung at another coming near. Appleyard sicked them with salvoes of gravel, and stung the most daring which, unsuspecting, got it full against the head, swerving not to come back. There were a dozen by the river, and we fought off those which would not move. Armatage enjoyed the skirmishing. ‘They’re bloody game birds!’
I ran to unseat the last pair. What they had been dining on was scattered by the water, red flesh on black gravel. A bar of rock held gobbets at its rim, but most had been pulled ashore – cloth, a hat, a familiar boot, and pieces of kit as if thrown by some St Vitus-stricken murderer, discernible because soaked blood made them like wads of flesh.
At another rush of air I cut with the spade, striking the head as a beak swept by. It crashed and flapped, and tried to run. The sight of Bull’s eyeless decapitation settled by green flies sent me chopping at the wings, cries mixing with the flash of nearby water, till I was pulled from my mad hacking.
I wanted to be alone, block off their gloating and congratulations, to slaughter what other birds came close. Bennett’s command from his own world had no effect. He stood to one side while Armatage wrapped the wallet in his scarf.
We would go back along the beach rather than over Wilcox Hill. Across a headland, thousands of white-chested penguins moved like the surface of a lake with indistinguishable shores. A pigeon-coop smell came on the breeze. Fate was intent on us dying like flies at the end of summer – till nothing was left but an oil stain on a sea without end. Rose said we should deposit Bull’s remains in the same grave as Wilcox. Bennett told him they could stay where they were. It was no more than he deserved for having deserted his post. We had work to do. And common graves were bad omens.
9
Bad luck, I muttered on our way back to the dinghy, till the others, realizing that anguish shared is anguish doubled, asked me to belt-up. How much bad luck can you have when two people die for no good reason? ‘Maybe we’ll have more.’ Rose walked along the beach with me. ‘And that’ll be worse.’
I wanted to outpace him, but he kept up. ‘We’ll batten the hatches and have some respite against the island, even if the kite sinks under us, or falls from the clouds when we take off.’
‘Respite!’ he shouted, burned by the word. A lone bird lifted from a rock as if to take a bite out of the sky. No birds can penetrate the flying boat, or compete once we get into the air. We’re impervious to their evil eye. Bennett laughed at such logic. I was close, but he wouldn’t respond. Appleyard pressed my arm. ‘Hold off, or he’ll kill you. He’s no more responsible for what he does than you are for what happens to you. Shake yourself back into one piece.’
Rocks and tussocks were alive. When I turned, a king penguin, out from the rookery, wondered who I was. His white breast blocked my way. I stood bemused, then stepped aside at the smell. The others laughed as it waddled away grumbling.
I went in the second dinghy with Appleyard. ‘Row hard. Pull your guts out. It’s the only thing to do.’ The air was soft, no breeze. Each oar met its own image as it touched water, the boat sliding along the surface of a mirror. ‘Accidents happen, Sparks. You see a good many down the pit. And you never get used to them. There’s little you can do. That was a nasty one back there, though. Can’t say I’ve seen anything as bad. But such pictures rub off. Like those transfers we used to put on our arms as kids, that we thought would stay forever. Everything goes, sooner than you think. You don’t even know it’s worn off, and that’s the truth. I thought I’d had my chips this morning when I went into the drink after Wilcox, but I feel bang-on now.’