The Vagrant. Peter Newman

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СКАЧАТЬ scrabble from its gullet, each sucking a droplet of the master’s wishes before swarming into the darkening sky.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      Clanking and dilapidated, the caravan arrives at its first scheduled stop: the fields of Kendall’s Folly. Though faded, the squares of green stand out vividly from the barren dust surrounding them.

      In places, machines function, pumping greying water through metal pipes that arch twenty feet above the vegetation. Where they don’t, slaves wander the fields with fat plastic pouches strapped to their backs, like pregnant women trapped in reverse.

      Pairs of guards walk the perimeter, punctuating the barbed fence encircling the fields with hard looks and loaded guns. An Unborn hangs from a chain over the centre of the fields, quivering unseen within its coiled shell. On the outside it appears lumpy, off-white, a thing stolen from the depths of the sea. Suspending the chalky mass is a challenge but fertile land this far south is precious and the Unborn’s infernal presence keeps away the hungry bugs and beasts of the Blasted Lands.

      A mixed group comes out to greet the caravan, traders, travellers and pimps keen to get the best goods and latest gossip. Feral smiles are swapped first, a last approximation of enthusiasm. The Vagrant chooses this moment to leave, slipping from the back of the waggon and taking his goat with him.

      For once, the eyes of the caravan do not follow him, too wrapped up in their present greed to remember the enigmatic man and his precious cargo.

      Without a backwards glance he moves away from the noisy gathering, disappearing behind an assortment of battered metal fins that serve as windbreaks for those too poor or too weak to have fully enclosed shelters. A small heel kicks against his stomach. The Vagrant grunts and walks on.

      Others have also retreated from sight of the crowd. A man is hunched down, nursing something soft in his gnarled fingers. Two more men have followed the first and approach from behind, secretly, hungrily. The man has sneaked away some precious fruit. They reach him just as he tears it open, a waft of sweetness gracing the air, kick him and pull him backwards, grabbing for their share of the food. He struggles and six hands dance, pulping the watery flesh of the fruit, ruining it.

      The Vagrant watches, motionless. Again, beneath his coat, he is kicked by a tiny foot. Before him the fight continues. Hands have separated now and, feet take their turn, smashing into the ribs of the first man like eager lovers, keen to kiss and kiss, one after the other.

      The man stops struggling.

      The victors share the pathetic remnants of sticky flesh, most of it licked from fingers, before slinking, dissatisfied towards the collection of rundown buildings forming the Folly’s main dwelling space.

      The Vagrant walks on, his gaze on the hard-packed dust at his feet. A third kick makes him suck a breath through his teeth. He glances about – only the goat watches him. Ignoring its malevolent stare, the Vagrant opens his coat to peer inside. The baby is awake. Their eyes meet and a few seconds pass. The Vagrant closes his coat and walks on.

      Behind him the beaten man moans piteously.

      The next kick is more vigorous. Pulling back his coat once again, the Vagrant frowns down at the baby. It stops kicking and looks up at him. He raises his eyebrows at it and the baby smiles. The cycle repeats several times, the baby smiling a little more with each repetition.

      The Vagrant stops walking and sighs. He touches a finger to the baby’s lips and closes his coat firmly. Then he turns round and walks back to the injured man on the floor. The goat objects to the change in direction as it takes them further from the fields.

      She pulls against the Vagrant.

      The Vagrant pulls back.

      The goat knows she cannot win but tries again anyway. The miniature rebellion is rewarded with an even sharper tug on her leash. The goat concedes, this time.

      Please, no more!’ begs the man, covering his face with his arms. ‘You took it all already.’ Freshly broken teeth make him lisp.

      The Vagrant waits, ignoring the enthusiastic beat being played across his chest and stomach.

      Timidly, the bruised limbs retreat to reveal a matching collage of red and purple on his face. ‘Are you a new eye for the Overseer? I’m sorry.’ With the lisp he sounds childish despite his age. He struggles for breath before continuing, ‘I just took a moment, please don’t say anything. It was just a moment. I’ll go back now … I’ll go …’ lifting himself several inches before crumpling back in pain.

      The Vagrant loops the tether twice around his wrist and offers the man his hand.

      The man eyes it as one might a bomb or a snake. There is hesitation, then he grasps it, fingers trembling in the Vagrant’s grip. Between the man’s injuries and the Vagrant’s burdens it is an awkward manoeuvre but eventually the man is upright and leaning heavily on the goat, who is pragmatic about her newest indignity.

      ‘Thank you, stranger … I need … patching up before I’m much use to … anyone. Would you help me over to Lil’s? It’s just … over there.’ He points to a crumbling building, blasted out from a single stone monolith. Incomplete lights display their half-memory of the structure’s original name.

      The Vagrant nods and begins their journey towards it.

      After only a few steps the man gasps, ‘Have to stop … a moment, catch … my breath.’

      They wait, silence playing with their nerves.

      Catching his breath eventually, the man speaks. ‘I think I’d be a goner if you hadn’t showed when you did. Look, I haven’t had … much cause to talk … for a while. I know I don’t look like much but … there was a time, before things … well, before, when I was known to be something of a talker, if you know what I mean.’ He coughs, wiping blood and spittle on the back of his hand. ‘Anyway, back when names meant a damn, people called me Ventris. What’s your name, stranger?’

      The Vagrant hauls open the badly fitting door, buckled metal scraping against stone to briefly obscure the inside of the building by a curtain of dust. One by one the group enters, a bizarre procession of Vagrant, injured and goat.

      Within the room is a plastic tent, age turning the once-white fabric a mottled cream, a small island of clean. There is evidence that many battles against the encroaching filth have taken place. Beyond the small scrubbed circle are tables and benches lining the periphery of the room, separated by pillars of chipped stone. Between the tent and the entrance stands a woman and in her hands sits a gun. It too is remarkably clean …

      ‘That’s far enough.’ The woman’s voice still clings to a little youth. It left her face long ago.

      The Vagrant steps aside, allowing the wounded man to struggle into view. Even the short journey has paled him, his cheeks ghostly under the bruises.

      ‘Go easy, Lil,’ the man wheezes. ‘He’s just … helping an old man.’

      ‘Ventris, is that you under there? Suns, you’re a mess!’ Shooting the men an imperious look she does not wait for an answer. ‘Well don’t just stand there bleeding in my doorway. Get yourselves over here, and shut the door. I don’t want anyone else thinking it’s okay to wander in any time of day!’

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