The Seventh Day by Joy Dettman Page B

smile. ‘Then you dream me, I think, and when you wake I will be a grunting sowman.’
    I work at bathing his face, and his poor cracked lips, which bleed when he speaks, but he will not be silent. When I found him I thought him dead. Now he speaks as if I dreamed his illness. He speaks of the spring cave and of hiding in the rear of it one day when Lenny came to dip water. Then he takes my hand and makes me look at his eyes.
    â€˜Have I found it?’ he says. ‘Did she send the storm to blow me to it?’
    â€˜It seems that you have found my cave, Jonjan.’
    â€˜And the land of Moni.’
    â€˜This is the land of Granny. It was her father’s, and her father’s father’s, land. This was her hill, as was the cave.’
    â€˜I followed the animal tracks. They led me to the cave.’
    â€˜The city fence is no barrier to the smartest of animals. Now hush with your talking and let me make you clean. You smell as Lenny after he has slaughtered a bullock.’
    He asks many questions which I try to answer, then thankfully he sleeps.
    His shoes without cords to tie them are worse than no shoes. I thread them with strips of fabric ripped from the last of my half-dress, which has no strength. Finally I discard his shoes and I climb barefoot for more water.
    My feet are not accustomed to such labour. For minutes I sit on the far side of the pool, which is sand, and I bathe my poor feet, then bathe fully, washing my overall and my hair in water. And Lord, it is a fine thing to do. The pool is only as wide as my length, but has great depth to it. There are rocks beneath my feet on the far side, only water on the near.
    For too long I play there, pushing from side to side, both east to west and north to south. My hair is long and heavy when wet. Thinking to plait it, I rip narrow ties from the remains of my half-dress. I look at them and the idea comes. I will plait these fabric strips with strands of my hair. This occupation is painful for my scalp, but surely strengthens the fabric threefold. So, I will have the use of Jonjan’s shoes again.
    He is waiting for me, looking for me when I return – and he has dragged himself to the wall of the shelter, where he now leans.
    â€˜One day of eating has made you strong. Two days and you may climb for the water and bring it to me, Jonjan,’ I say as we share a can of cornbeans.
    â€˜You speak my name. What do I call you, girl of the mountain?’
    â€˜I like . . . I like the name . . . as you said it then. Girl of the mountain.’ I turn my face to the sky and breath deeply of the scent of earth and morning, then shrug. ‘My mother once gave to me a name, but nobody spoke it. It is forgotten.’
    â€˜Mother? It is a word from the archives.’
    â€˜She is a memory from the . . . the mind’s archives.’
    â€˜Tell me of Mother. The word has a softness to it.’
    â€˜There is no softness in the memory. There is blood on dust and yellow hair, and a hand and few words.’ I offer a sip of weak cordial. He turns his face away.
    â€˜Talk to me of the hands and the hair. Say the Mother’s words.’
    Why does each move he makes, each word he speaks, awaken a place that was sleeping? As I look at him I see her for an instant, her hair spread in the dust, and the word. Honey. Honeybee .
    â€˜Perhaps her name was Honey,’ I say. ‘I believe her hair was as yours, for on the day I saw you, I knew you.’ I touch his hair and wish I had brought my fine city brush so I might brush it, cleanse its gold. ‘Her hair is . . . is an image that lives on the brink of memory.’
    I remove his arms from his overall, wash his limbs, his chest. There is memory too in this thing I do. I think I am like a mother cleansing her child, so I sing to him my memory song.
    â€˜Oh honour her, Oh honour her,
    Oh sleep and dream of day.
    Oh honour her, Oh honour her,
    tomorrow you