The Nightway Man by Michael Tess

tent

A Story for Hallowe’en

In July sore heat, mother and Sheila pitched the tent. Sheila drank water from a bottle.

‘We can top up at the stream,’ said mother.

‘I hear it.’ She shared the bottle. Tucked her vest into her shorts. ‘How did you know it was there?’

‘We camped here before.’

‘When.’

‘Your third birthday.’

‘That was ages ago.’

‘Four years isn’t so long. Feels like yesterday to me.’

‘Was daddy with us?’

‘It was his idea. He loved the outdoors with you.’

‘He called me sweet bird. Always said it.’

‘He waited a long time for you. Few women have a baby at forty.’

Tent fixed, sleeping bags set inside, Sheila spread a blanket on the grass. Mother uncorked a flask and poured two beakers of tea. They sat and sipped, glad the pitching was done.

‘Wish I had a cold drink,’ said Sheila.

‘Tea is good. Cools you down.’

‘How?’

‘Something to do with sweating.’

‘I’m sweaty enough.’

Mother bunched her hair. ‘There’s a pool nearby.’

‘Can we go?’

‘I need a rest,’ said mother, and she stretched and lay sunbathe.

Sheila watched the trees. Quiet woods. She scanned furry canopies. Something about there pulled her. A nice belly turn feel.

Deep afternoon, mother cooked them rice and beans on the gas burner. They ate and drank and changed into bathing suits and followed the stream to the pool.

Mother toe dipped the water. ‘It’s warm.’

‘How warm?’ Sheila lingered on the grass.

‘Tepid.’

‘What’s tepid?’

‘Lovely.’ She held Sheila’s hand. ‘Let’s go.’

They waded into the pond, red leotards sunblazed. Sheila bent to sit. Hesitated.

‘Don’t worry, dear. It’s shallow.’

She sat and the wake caressed her chest. ‘It’s like a bath.’

Mother clapped the surface and Sheila laughed and turned away from the spray. She saw an overflow in the rocks. ‘Mum, the waterfall.’

‘You remember.’

‘I was on daddy’s shoulder.’

‘So you were.’

‘He told me to hold my nose. We sat under a shower bit.’

Mother pointed at a boulder shelf. ‘You sat there with me.’

‘We played a game.’

‘The leaping mermaid.’ Mother sank on her knees. ‘You jumped into your father’s arms.’

‘I remember. I do.’

‘I hoped you would. It was a perfect day.’

‘Wish daddy was here now.’

‘Me too, baby.’

After the pool they picked brambles, feeding from the bush. Near dusk, mother filled bottles at the stream and headed to the tent. They settled on the blanket and shared night’s slow fall.

‘Feel better?’ Mother brushed her hair.

‘Much,’ said Sheila, applying lotion to her leg.

‘Mind and do your face.’

‘Why do I have to use it every hour?’

‘Fry like a pancake if you didn’t.’

‘It’s so stuffy.’

‘Humid,’ said mother. ‘My hair’s sticky.’

‘A breeze would be nice.’

‘It’s the hottest July on record.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Twitter, last night.’

‘You said no phones.’

‘Do you see a phone?’

‘Listen, mum. A cuckoo.’

‘So it is.’

‘Thought you only heard them in the morning.’

‘It’s a bedtime song.’

‘Is it?’

‘Listen for yourself. It’s been here since April. Flew from Africa.’

‘Why did it leave Africa? It could see elephants all day.’

‘Visiting it’s Scottish cousins.’

‘Really.’

‘You went to Cornwall to visit your cousins, didn’t you.’

‘I loved it there,’ said Sheila, her eyes lit.

‘The cuckoo loves Loch Lomond.’

‘Not in winter, I’ll bet.’

‘Oh no. Be long back in Africa by then.’ Mother opened the soup flask. ‘Tribal hunters trap cuckoos there. Keep them in cages. They believe it makes springtime eternal.’

‘That’s stupid. The hunters should be kept in a cage.’

‘I agree.’

‘Can’t hear it now.’

‘Probably sleeping. I love twilight when it’s hot.’

Sheila woke in the tent. Mother’s sleep breath was loud. Nighttime far cast. She lay darkswept thinking over her dream. She had flown over the woods, stepping treetops, leaves licking her feet. She rose from her sleeping bag and crawled to the door and unzipped the mesh and stepped barefoot onto the field. She strode toward the trees, tasting nettle air, her white gown moonshone.

Moonlight bronzed the trees. She skipped through the stream, up a moss bank, down over cobs of oak root, fired on intuition. On a grassrise she touched the oak. Beyond the tree an acorn lane wound uphill. Hilltop the moon dunked a crest as if fallen from the sky. A silhouette figure came over the hill, longshadow down the slope, moving slither, like a hunter snake.

Sheila climbed the oak and sat on a bough.

He halted an arm stretch under her and reached and scratched her toe. ‘Missy.’ His fingers were lean and bristled. Noduled like twigs.

Sheila pulled her foot. ‘Mum’s in the tent.’

‘Sound as the dead, I’d wage.’ His eyes blinked glinty, black bloat. Like fat leeches. ‘What about father?’

‘Daddy got sick. He’s in heaven.’

‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘Why?’

‘Fathers have a spot for their fillies. A protective thingy.’

‘I’m his sweet bird.’

‘WERE his sweet bird.’

Her fingernails strained into the bark. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Depends on the occasion.’ Ham lips pursed and popped. ‘Tonight it’s Mr Swain.’

‘Why are you out late at night?’

‘I was about to ask you that.’

‘Asked first.’

‘I was checking on something.’ He bent and slapped his thigh. ‘Horsey on my back. I’ll show you.’

‘I like it up here.’

‘Missy.’ He thin stood and kicked the trunk. Oval toe’d boot chipping the bark. ‘Ol oaky here’s a cripple. Scabby as a turnip.’

‘It’s a grandfather tree.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Daddy.’

‘Did he mention gramps is choked in bugs?’

‘No he’s not.’

‘Come on down.’

‘Why?’

‘So I can have a closer look.’

Sheila shuffled along the bough. ‘Are you bad?’

‘Why ask that?’

‘You don’t smile. And your eyes are funny.’

‘Trick of the dark.’

‘But it’s bright here.’ She waved at the celestial splatter surrounding the oak.

‘Is that why you chose this tree?’ His eyes shrunk to worm slits. ‘Because of the light.’

‘Not just that.’

‘What else?’

She pointed to the base of the trunk. He crouched and read an engraved scrawl – Daddys sweet bird.

‘Daddy’s rot rotten,’ he muttered.

‘What.’

He skinny straightened, scuffing his hands. ‘Daddy’s not forgotten.’

‘We had a picnic under the tree. I remembered in the tent.’

‘Marvellous.’ He squatted and thigh spanked. ‘Daddy hoppy on my knee. Tell me about it.’

‘I can say from here.’

‘Hmm,’ he groaned, rising more skinny. ‘I tasted you.’

‘You mean a smell.’

‘Yerp. Ate it on the moor. Got my nose wet.’

‘What do I smell like then?’

‘Purity.’

‘I know what that means.’

‘You do.’

‘It’s a way of saying clean.’

‘Rosy clean.’

‘I still don’t want to come down.’

‘Then I’ll come up to you.’

A man shirt dressed, fresh with youth, stepped barefoot from behind a beech. ‘Mr Swain,’ he said and lifted an acorn. ‘You’re grounded. Mind.’

‘Missy is stuck.’ He thumbprod his chest. ‘I gave a hand.’

The man opened a lock knife. Peeled the acorn like it was an apple. ‘She has my hand.’

‘I know that stench. You’re a long way from base.’

‘Not so far.’ His bare heel stamped the soil. ‘Consecrated.’

Mr Swain hissed and sucked and blew, uprooting grass and shrubs, scattering leaves. ‘Druid pits,’ he shouted.

‘Ours.’ The man wagged a blessing.

Sheila cuddled a branch. ‘Who are you?’ she said to the man.

‘He’s smoke,’ said Mr Swain. ‘Bog fog.’

‘There are laws,’ said the man.

‘Laws are for barristers and monks.’

‘And tyrants.’

‘Preach your puke to the gullible.’

‘She’s a child. Not for you.’

‘Who says? You with your beatified toy.’

‘She’s not your type. You know that.’

‘Turd gub.’ A rodent scurried in the undergrowth. ‘You stink of nepotism.’

The man stepped sure closer. ‘A friend once told me, better to humble run than to tumble done.’

‘A savant rant. Pally was a puff. Like you, fog.’

‘The mist on your pit, SWAIN. Easy you there than here.’

Mr Swain took a backward step. Black eyes vacant. Void of courage or fear. Corpse emotion.

The man walked nearer. ‘Aren’t you tired of malice?’

‘I have berthed in your lodge. All that lint.’

‘Your pew remains empty. A token of your spite.’

‘I’m here by choice.’

The man sliced the acorn in half. ‘You have a choice now.’

Sheila shook the leafy branch. ‘Mr Swain.’

He spun to face her, fingers stretched on his hip, spine arched like a supple vine. ‘What grates you, missy?’

‘I don’t think you’re bad.’

‘No.’

‘You’re sad. That’s why you don’t smile.’

‘Ha,’ he said and faced the man. ‘Fruity, isn’t she.’

The man knew him a thinker. Scholar of deception. Impartial to chance unless a back was turned. He asserted his advantage. ‘You’ll be down the road then.’

‘Maybe this time.’ He glanced at Sheila. Inhaled her candour and confronted the man. ‘You’re fortunate we’re in your gang stink hollow.’

‘Perhaps.’

He whirled and bowed to Sheila. ‘Your homage is a tickle.’ He rose and flexed his fingers and bubble chest swanked up the hill and creep melted into the moon.

The man locked and pocketed the blade. ‘What a scamp.’

‘You sure he went away.’

‘Sure as a stoat.’ He reached up to her. ‘Let go. I’ll catch you.’

A fast breath, she dropped into his arms. Her hands joined around his neck. Her mouth at his ear. ‘Carry me.’

‘Bet your chin on it.’

He clasped her cheek to his shoulder and strolled among the trees, stepping over old piped roots, through the stream and across the field. At the tent she was bundled against his chest. Safe in sleep.

He entered the tent on his knees. Laid her in the sleeping bag. He stayed a time. Watched Sheila and mother. The lift and sink of breath in lunar light. He leaned over mother and shut his eyes and breathed. Then he went to Sheila and touched her hair and whispered, ‘I will always carry you, sweet bird.’

Michael Tess, October, 2024

Hallowe'en by Georgina Edward
Fundraiser Community Meal - Glasgow West End

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