Tea

The road lay not far from the house, invisible in the long grass. It had once been paved and cambered, but now large stones were missing, and grass had forced its way through cracks, making hard going for the horse. In places the stones had worn away completely, leaving only uneven rubble here and there to mark its path. But even to see a road was good, it was like suddenly being able to breathe. Roads meant movement, meant things happening, meant going somewhere. It meant change.
There had been other roads, she thought, before. Not quite like this one, but all the same, you went along them, and you reached a city. She remembered the smell of hot road, and dust, and there was a large, blue, metal thing, full of people, with baskets full of hens and vegetables and eggs. Sometimes they passed around a flask of tea, as the metal thing went fast and bumpy along the road, and the fields to either side wanted rain.

As they rode along, she listened to the other heart-beat, the other breath, riding on her own, and heard faint hoof-beats, parallel to their own. In the darkness at the corner of her right eye she thought she saw a faint figure. She turned her head sharply, but she never caught him, there was only the long yellow grass and the long wind in it. As they left the station further and further behind, the heart-beat and the hoof-beats and the breath shifted out of step with her own. Before she had almost been able to convince herself she was just hearing herself. But now the sounds seemed to curve away from her, like a pendulum swinging on an out-arc, like a wave swelling up and out, as if the person were drawing away from her. And the dark figure in the corner of her eye moved out into the dim plain while always keeping in step with them, further away but still inside her, as if she could keep the whole plain, and the wind, and the dark clouds, inside her like a locket keeps a jewel. In the darkness above a great grey bird beat its wings heavily, drawing away from them, up into unseen regions, yet always keeping steady pace. The sky lightened and darkened with the regular rise and fall of breath, yet never reached full day or full night.

Hours later, they saw a pale shape upon the horizon, undressing itself from the darkness, into a single white clapboard house, surrounded by dust on which no grass grew. As they approached, Mariposa realised that this was the way-station. There were no other houses around it, no other buildings except for a large dog kennel. As they dismounted she saw the kennel was empty. A long chain lay on the ground, in the dust, like a dead grey snake.
“They’re not here yet,” said the chief. He walked over to the door and pushed it. It opened easily. Peering round him, Mariposa smelled choking dust, and saw a large room, piled high with shapes of objects and furniture under cloth, on which a layer of dust like a fine white mould had settled. There was an alleyway straight through the piles, which rose like walls on either side, to the ceiling. At the end of this alley was a doorway through which she saw a table, a back door, a chair and a sink. Dust lay on the floor, except for two sets of footprints, one coming, one going. Under them the pale wood floor showed through, worn by the feet to a shine like a pearl.
The chief went through the alley-way, treading in the footprints, and Mariposa followed him, nervously, expecting the walls to collapse on her at any moment. In the kitchen the chief searched the shelves on the walls, grey and covered in dirty finger-marks and tea-stains. He lifted down an old tin and a rusty kettle with a spout like a scrawny goose neck, and began building up the fire, which lay dead and ashen in the grate. His hands shook and the lid of the kettle rattled as he set it down on the table.
“Who lives here?” Mariposa asked, looking round in awe at the kitchen. It looked bare as a bald head, almost as dusty as the room she had come through. There was a small door set into the wall, barely high enough for her to pass through, and a dirty window looking into the back yard.
“Oh, this is the police station. You don’t need to worry - you’re in good hands. The angels will look after you, once you get to the city.” He smiled, rather sadly. “I wish I had angels to look after me.”
“Can’t you get one?” she asked, unable to remember what angels were, and not liking to ask.
“Oh no. They won’t leave the City. There‘s nothing for them to eat out here.”
He opened the cupboards, one by one. They were empty, save for an old mousetrap, a single egg-cup, and a chipped, cracked old mug, with a pattern of pink and blue stripes. It reminded Mariposa of the pyjamas she had been wearing when she woke up.
The chief filled the mug with hot tea, handed it to her, and pulled out the chair for her. Mariposa looked at it. It was a big, wooden, square seat, worn smooth with sitting. He’s going to leave me, she thought. He’s not going to wait till they get here.
The chief felt in his pocket and brought out a thick white envelope. On it was written: Quaestor-General of Department S, Circle 2. It was sealed with the red stamp. “These are the papers I want you to take to the City.”
Mariposa took them. She remembered what Jack had said about useless work.
“What are they?”
“Official business. For a colleague of mine. I know him well. They’re nothing interesting. Just give them to the angel who takes you into the City. He’ll make sure they’re delivered.” He faced her and held out his hand. She stood up in surprise and confusion, and held out her own in turn. The chief solemnly shook her hand. His own hand was dry and cold.
“Good luck,” he said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for in the City.”
Then he clicked his heels and saluted, turned and marched away to the door. Mariposa stood listening to the sound of hooves melting away into the darkness.

After he had gone, she sat in the still, dim kitchen, and tried to feel hopeful. She looked down at her tea. She dipped her finger in and licked it. It tasted of rust and dust. She wished the other police would come soon . She wanted to get to the City. Perhaps there she would be able to find out who she was and where she had come from. She certainly did not want to stay where she was any longer than she had to. The house was filthy, empty and somehow hopeless.
In the quiet kitchen, she heard the distant breathing, clear but far away. As she breathed out, the other was already breathing in. The heart-beats came between her own, fitting like tongue and groove together. For the first time she wondered if it could be the breathing, the heart-beat of a real person she was hearing. Perhaps something had happened, some crossed line of the body so that she heard every pulse, every breath of some stranger, old or young, man or woman, in a distant city or village or other world.
It was a strangely comforting thought. She found herself imagining that other person, close, ghostly as a mirage. A body took shape in her mind, a quiet, slim man, dressed in black. Hard as she tried, she could not see a face.
“Are you looking after me?” she asked aloud. “Do you know I’m here?”
A rattle of cart wheels outside, sudden and harsh, disturbed her. She sat nervously, as she heard the cart draw to a halt, and an old man’s voice: “Whoa up, I said, you brute!” It was followed by the hard crack of a whip, and the scattering clang of a chain. A few moments later, and the outside door was pushed open, and a voice that was all metal and cold anger, said “Who’s been at the tea? Thief!” And dissolved into a static of coughing, so violent and phlegm-ridden that Mariposa jumped up and ran to the door, expecting to see the person collapsed on the floor. Instead, she saw an old man, in a worn brown corduroy suit and a filthy white shirt, leaning against the door frame. In his hand was a heavy bull-whip. He had a cunning, warty, crumpled face, a dirty yellow hairless scalp and dirty brown teeth, and he was sucking on the remains of a very thin hand-rolled cigarette. He eyed her maliciously, spat out of the door, and said again: “Thief!”
“I’m not a thief,” said Mariposa. “I’m a visitor.”
“Oh! A visitor! Ha ha ha ha ha!” He doubled over again, coughing and wheezing until he was lapping, with big blood-shot eyes, at the air. Mariposa started towards him. He waved her away furiously, and finally recovered his breath.
“And what made you take it into your head to come and visit me?” he asked sarcastically, heading into the kitchen. Mariposa, following him, saw that he trod exactly in his old footprints, without even having to look down. “And drink my tea!” He thumped the whip down on the table, grabbed the tin, unscrewed the lid, and took out a pinch of tea. Taking out a packet of cigarette papers, he began to roll himself a cigarette with it.
“I - I - your friend sent me,” said Mariposa, trying not to show how disgusted she felt by him. He looked like a vile baby, a spoiled and monstrous toddler. “The police chief.”
“Got no friends,” said the old man, sounding quite proud of it. “Police chief, eh? That idiot! Crazy as a can of ants. Spends all his time writing letters that don’t get sent. All he can think of is devils. I’ve lived here forever, and I’ve never seen a devil.”
“But I’m to be taken to the city. By the police.” She thought: perhaps he’s a bit crazy. He’s really old, after all.
“Police? What police?”
“The police of this place!”
“Ain’t none,” said the old man, lighting up the cigarette and taking a satisfied drag. “Ain‘t even a place. You mean that nut just brought you out here and left you? Ha ha ha haha haaaa! Good trick, damn and blast his fingers and knees - ach!” He spat into the fire. Mariposa jumped aside as it almost hit her.
“What do you mean there aren’t any?” she said furiously. “This is the police station, he told me. I’m going to the city, I’m going to find out who - who - who -”
“Find out who who what?”
“Who I am!”
“I’ll tell you that for nothing,” said the old man, looking her up and down. “You’re a useless brat with nowhere to go and no one to love you. Police station? Hah! This is my house. Mine.”
“But they’re going to take me to the city -” Her breath felt tight in her chest, as if it could not make its way past the dust inside and the emptiness outside.
The old man shrugged, and took another drag on his cigarette.
“No-one’s taking you anywhere. And he’s certainly not coming back for you. Looks like this is where you stop. So sit down, and drink your tea, since you‘ve stolen it out of the mouth of an old man.”
“I can’t stop here!”
“Why not? Not good enough for you? Where are you going to go, then?”
She shook her head. He grinned at her triumphantly.
“I need a housekeeper. You do the dishes, sweep the kitchen, that kind of thing. You can sleep under the kitchen table. If you’re lazy, I’ll use the whip, same as I do on the dog. Sound fair?”
The air seemed to tighten around her. She pushed past the table, and rushed out of the dark, dusty house into the yard. On the horizon, the clouds piled and piled, a bruised light behind them. In her ear, fast, frightened breathing, and the quick heart-beat of some stranger. Tell me what to do, she thought, tell me how to get out of here.
A long-legged yellow dog stood chained to the kennel. It stood still as only a live thing can stand, alight with awareness, listening, its ears pricked. From where she stood she could see the shine on its wet muzzle, the lay of the fur on its spine and its thin tail, pressed back by the breeze, the way the yellow grass was pressed back. It did not look at her. It looked out, past the grey dog-cart, across the empty plain and into the horizon where a gash of red light showed through the clouds like a wound that would not heal.
She wondered what it was looking at, so far away. Suddenly she felt ashamed, to see how quiet the dog could stand, watching, with a certain patience and faith for something that was unseen, perhaps, even by him. The long wind stirred the grass. There was nowhere to run to except out in a circle of madness, out into the darkness, to run until her heart burst and her legs sank under her, from the weight of all the things she did not know. She turned and walked slowly back into the house.