Monkey. You’re with me now. Poor bloody little Monkey. You’re with me ...’
He didn’t like the dream to come too often. It woke him alone in Truck, miserable and cold, crying for the hands and voices that had gone.
Maybe Pru and Sal had stolen him, as he lay supine in his bright new Truck. No one else would ever know; and they, perhaps, no longer remembered or cared. They too had become a part of his life. Always, as he lay brooding or contentedly dozing, their shoulders and heads were visible, outlined darkly against the sky. Their brown thin hands were clamped, eternally it seemed, round the wide handle of Truck; their feet thumped and pattered down the years.
In appearance, Pru and Sal were not unalike. Their hair, long, frayed and bleached by the sun, hung stiffly from their small rounded skulls. Their skin, tanned by the outside wind, had assumed the colour of old well-seasoned wood. Their eyes were small, slitlike and blank; their faces, untroubled by thought, ageless and smooth. Their fingers, over the years, had grown curved and stiff; good for killing, useless for the more delicate manipulations at which Monkey excelled. They dressed alike, in thick kilts of an indeterminate hue; and their voices, when they troubled to use them, were also alike, as harsh and croaking as the voices of birds.
For Monkey, secure in his endlessly roving home, the seasons passed pleasantly enough. Pru and Sal, in their motiveless fashion, tended him well. On rainy days, and in the dark cold time of winter, they drew across the open hood of Truck a tall flap of stiff grey canvas. Then Monkey would crawl invisibly in the warm dark, sucking and chuckling, groping among the crumbs of Larder, tinkling his jars of ice-cold chill, while the feet of Pru and Sal thudded out their comfort on paths and roads unseen. These, perhaps, were the best times of all; when snow whirled dark against the leaden strip of sky, and ice beaded the high hood of Truck and wolves called lost and dim.
Sometimes the snowflakes whirled right into Truck, tiny unmelting stars from outer air; and fires would leap, in clearings and unknown caves. In the mornings Pru and Sal must smash and crash at the ice of brooks while the wind whistled thin in thin dead grass.
Though springtimes too were good. The breeze stirred gentle and mild, rich with new scents; the sky brightened, filling with the songs of birds. Pru and Sal, clucking and mumbling, would draw back the canvas cover, allowing the cheesy air to whistle cheerfully from Truck; and Monkey would sit up, chuckling, feeling the new warmth on his great blotched hairless face. Summers he would lie naked, rubbing pleasure from his mounded belly while the warm rain fell, sizzling on his heated flesh. At night the stars hung lustrous and low, and trees were silent mounds of velvet cloth.
But the map reading changed, for all time, Monkey’s life. The great adventure ended, it seemed a hollowness formed in his mind. Truly, he was satisfied with his conquered Island; and not unmoved by his discovery of its truncated state. New sights and sounds presented themselves each day; a waterfall, a forest, a bird, a lake. But novelty itself can pall. Monkey, mumbling and frowning, hankering for he knew not what, began, irritably, the formal tidying of Truck. Each object he came to -so known, once loved - seemed now merely to increase his frustration. His wheel, his drawing-stick, his spanner, lay discarded. The axles of Truck set up an intermittent squeal, but Monkey merely sneered. He tidied Larder and Blanket Store, dipped desultorily into Garage Accessories. Nothing pleased him. Finally, he turned to Library.
Almost at once he discovered a curious thing. The locker was deeper than it had always appeared. The blockage was caused by books that had swelled with damp, jamming their covers firmly against the outer wooden skin of Truck. Monkey puffed and heaved, straining unaccustomed muscles. Finally the hindrances came clear.
He didn’t like the dream to come too often. It woke him alone in Truck, miserable and cold, crying for the hands and voices that had gone.
Maybe Pru and Sal had stolen him, as he lay supine in his bright new Truck. No one else would ever know; and they, perhaps, no longer remembered or cared. They too had become a part of his life. Always, as he lay brooding or contentedly dozing, their shoulders and heads were visible, outlined darkly against the sky. Their brown thin hands were clamped, eternally it seemed, round the wide handle of Truck; their feet thumped and pattered down the years.
In appearance, Pru and Sal were not unalike. Their hair, long, frayed and bleached by the sun, hung stiffly from their small rounded skulls. Their skin, tanned by the outside wind, had assumed the colour of old well-seasoned wood. Their eyes were small, slitlike and blank; their faces, untroubled by thought, ageless and smooth. Their fingers, over the years, had grown curved and stiff; good for killing, useless for the more delicate manipulations at which Monkey excelled. They dressed alike, in thick kilts of an indeterminate hue; and their voices, when they troubled to use them, were also alike, as harsh and croaking as the voices of birds.
For Monkey, secure in his endlessly roving home, the seasons passed pleasantly enough. Pru and Sal, in their motiveless fashion, tended him well. On rainy days, and in the dark cold time of winter, they drew across the open hood of Truck a tall flap of stiff grey canvas. Then Monkey would crawl invisibly in the warm dark, sucking and chuckling, groping among the crumbs of Larder, tinkling his jars of ice-cold chill, while the feet of Pru and Sal thudded out their comfort on paths and roads unseen. These, perhaps, were the best times of all; when snow whirled dark against the leaden strip of sky, and ice beaded the high hood of Truck and wolves called lost and dim.
Sometimes the snowflakes whirled right into Truck, tiny unmelting stars from outer air; and fires would leap, in clearings and unknown caves. In the mornings Pru and Sal must smash and crash at the ice of brooks while the wind whistled thin in thin dead grass.
Though springtimes too were good. The breeze stirred gentle and mild, rich with new scents; the sky brightened, filling with the songs of birds. Pru and Sal, clucking and mumbling, would draw back the canvas cover, allowing the cheesy air to whistle cheerfully from Truck; and Monkey would sit up, chuckling, feeling the new warmth on his great blotched hairless face. Summers he would lie naked, rubbing pleasure from his mounded belly while the warm rain fell, sizzling on his heated flesh. At night the stars hung lustrous and low, and trees were silent mounds of velvet cloth.
But the map reading changed, for all time, Monkey’s life. The great adventure ended, it seemed a hollowness formed in his mind. Truly, he was satisfied with his conquered Island; and not unmoved by his discovery of its truncated state. New sights and sounds presented themselves each day; a waterfall, a forest, a bird, a lake. But novelty itself can pall. Monkey, mumbling and frowning, hankering for he knew not what, began, irritably, the formal tidying of Truck. Each object he came to -so known, once loved - seemed now merely to increase his frustration. His wheel, his drawing-stick, his spanner, lay discarded. The axles of Truck set up an intermittent squeal, but Monkey merely sneered. He tidied Larder and Blanket Store, dipped desultorily into Garage Accessories. Nothing pleased him. Finally, he turned to Library.
Almost at once he discovered a curious thing. The locker was deeper than it had always appeared. The blockage was caused by books that had swelled with damp, jamming their covers firmly against the outer wooden skin of Truck. Monkey puffed and heaved, straining unaccustomed muscles. Finally the hindrances came clear.
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