out. Save him bleeding.”
Elspeth nodded. The spear must have struck him on the way out of the house, or in the gardens where bits of the world flew about animated by the force of the storm. This complicated matters. In the midst of this catastrophe George’s death felt matter-of-course to her: another little piece of an enormous mess that would somehow have to be dealt with. As she dragged her legs, entangled in her muddied robe, she felt sorry for him. What a price to pay for two nights of gentleman’s pleasure! If only he had had the sense to go home, he would not now be sitting, cowped on a shelf, like a broken mannequin. Pleasure is a wanton curse. Drink it and ye’ll find him out. She paddled towards the door, out into the fresh, bleached day.
Elspeth Baillie lost in her land of dreams. The water at her feet raced away at her step, and she walked forward with the sure step she had learned from years of tramping through peat-bogs and lowland marshes. The sun sparkled and the air was sharp and diamond-bright , but her head was slumped low again, her shoulders huddled, as if she were battling against the old bluster and sleet. She had nowhere to go; no one to go to. No father or mother. No Lord Coak or Nonie. No Dainty or Tuesday to be seen. No George Lisle.
She walked and she walked, thoughts tumbling like blown leaves: George naked, George dead, the wailing Creature, Henry her saviour. Lines from roles and songs and poems. Gin a body kiss a body, need a body cry? Past the chasm where the house she had slept in with her lover had stood only hours earlier. With effort, she raised her head and looked out from Savannah, scanned thehorizon. Half of Bridgetown had vanished. People in the distance wandered as she did, in ones and twos, dazed and aimless. There was weeping in the breeze; there were gaps in the world, whole neighbourhoods vanquished. Between the Garrison and Trafalgar an immense hole, like the fascinating cavity of a pulled tooth. The Synagogue was gone. The barracks were crushed. Fort Charles no longer protected anything, its saluting soldiers swept away. The Lyric Theatre, and with it all her plans, had been picked up and hurled into the sea – the smug sea that lay before her, calm, smiling , unconcerned. She walked on, automatically heading back towards town. Like one that on a lonesome road, doth walk in fear and dread.
Her nerves and mind jangling with wild self-accusations: had she herself caused this dreadful trespass? Her obscene fornicating, her seduction and corruption of a finely educated young gentleman had resulted in his death, had brought on the greater obscenity of the storm. She passed a house, buckled on its knees. A door opened and out filed a line of black people. They passed her without a word. She let her head drop again and kept on walking, walking.
Slowly, like Scottish drizzle that appears from nowhere, the notion grew that George Lisle had loved her. Loved her more than she knew, than she had given him credit for. He had been speared and wounded, conducting her out of an exploding house, ushering her to safety instead of saving himself. He had cradled her as he lay dying, making no mention or complaint of his predicament. One day she will cry for him, her tears will flow and gush for years; she may never be dry-eyed again. But at this moment tears were of no use to either him or her; there was enough water to deal with.
Had she passed town? Or was the town not where it used to be? At forks in the road she took one or the other, without thought. Her mind was beyond all decision-making. Her body had once more taken charge. North. The only word in her mind. A memory that the Coak plantation lay somewhere North. A woman sat on a stone where a house, a street perhaps, may once have been. Her hair was soaked. Her fine robe soiled and ripped. Face powder streaked.
“North?” asked Elspeth.
The woman wasn’t much older than her, but she looked like ahag. A ghost come to haunt
Elspeth nodded. The spear must have struck him on the way out of the house, or in the gardens where bits of the world flew about animated by the force of the storm. This complicated matters. In the midst of this catastrophe George’s death felt matter-of-course to her: another little piece of an enormous mess that would somehow have to be dealt with. As she dragged her legs, entangled in her muddied robe, she felt sorry for him. What a price to pay for two nights of gentleman’s pleasure! If only he had had the sense to go home, he would not now be sitting, cowped on a shelf, like a broken mannequin. Pleasure is a wanton curse. Drink it and ye’ll find him out. She paddled towards the door, out into the fresh, bleached day.
Elspeth Baillie lost in her land of dreams. The water at her feet raced away at her step, and she walked forward with the sure step she had learned from years of tramping through peat-bogs and lowland marshes. The sun sparkled and the air was sharp and diamond-bright , but her head was slumped low again, her shoulders huddled, as if she were battling against the old bluster and sleet. She had nowhere to go; no one to go to. No father or mother. No Lord Coak or Nonie. No Dainty or Tuesday to be seen. No George Lisle.
She walked and she walked, thoughts tumbling like blown leaves: George naked, George dead, the wailing Creature, Henry her saviour. Lines from roles and songs and poems. Gin a body kiss a body, need a body cry? Past the chasm where the house she had slept in with her lover had stood only hours earlier. With effort, she raised her head and looked out from Savannah, scanned thehorizon. Half of Bridgetown had vanished. People in the distance wandered as she did, in ones and twos, dazed and aimless. There was weeping in the breeze; there were gaps in the world, whole neighbourhoods vanquished. Between the Garrison and Trafalgar an immense hole, like the fascinating cavity of a pulled tooth. The Synagogue was gone. The barracks were crushed. Fort Charles no longer protected anything, its saluting soldiers swept away. The Lyric Theatre, and with it all her plans, had been picked up and hurled into the sea – the smug sea that lay before her, calm, smiling , unconcerned. She walked on, automatically heading back towards town. Like one that on a lonesome road, doth walk in fear and dread.
Her nerves and mind jangling with wild self-accusations: had she herself caused this dreadful trespass? Her obscene fornicating, her seduction and corruption of a finely educated young gentleman had resulted in his death, had brought on the greater obscenity of the storm. She passed a house, buckled on its knees. A door opened and out filed a line of black people. They passed her without a word. She let her head drop again and kept on walking, walking.
Slowly, like Scottish drizzle that appears from nowhere, the notion grew that George Lisle had loved her. Loved her more than she knew, than she had given him credit for. He had been speared and wounded, conducting her out of an exploding house, ushering her to safety instead of saving himself. He had cradled her as he lay dying, making no mention or complaint of his predicament. One day she will cry for him, her tears will flow and gush for years; she may never be dry-eyed again. But at this moment tears were of no use to either him or her; there was enough water to deal with.
Had she passed town? Or was the town not where it used to be? At forks in the road she took one or the other, without thought. Her mind was beyond all decision-making. Her body had once more taken charge. North. The only word in her mind. A memory that the Coak plantation lay somewhere North. A woman sat on a stone where a house, a street perhaps, may once have been. Her hair was soaked. Her fine robe soiled and ripped. Face powder streaked.
“North?” asked Elspeth.
The woman wasn’t much older than her, but she looked like ahag. A ghost come to haunt
Similar Books
