The Seventh Day by Joy Dettman Page B

my arms and comb his hair with my fingers, and I know I have done this before to another and I know that his limbs will grow stiff and cold.
    A torrent of tears bursts from me, and I cry, but not for him. ‘Mummy. Mummy. Mummy,’ I cry.
    He sighs. Twice.
    I thought him dead!
    I lift my head and breathe in hope as I turn his poor face to mine, and so blistered by the sun it is, it makes my blisters nothing. I wipe my tears and suck in hope as I look further. His head is cut, his leg is a twisted, mutilated thing where the bone protrudes and insects have been busy. My belly, weak, unreliable, forces me to crawl away from him, expel its contents into the ravine.
    So he lives, but barely. He will not live long. The ravine is deep. I stare down to it, knowing that with his last strength he had tried to drag himself to its edge so he might fall and end his pain. I believe I will end the pain for him, and for me. We will fall together, die together.
    But a crow flies by me and perches on an overhang of rock. It watches me, its round bright eyes derision filled. I look at its feet and they are Granny’s clawed hands. It is she who led me to the animal track, and to this ravine, and to him. Now she taunts me. She did not accept my tears gladly.
    â€˜Leave me alone!’ I look for rocks to throw at her. She caw-caws and flies higher, stands on my basket where she peck-peck-pecks at its contents.
    And I remembered the cordial and the soothing mist it brings.
    Fast I climb for it. My sandal strap breaks. I pull it from my foot, throw it at the crow. It flies off, but not far. I remove my other sandal, and my aim is good. The crow flies.
    Seated on a rock I take the bottle in my hand and open it, remove that foolish dispensing top and throw it far. One sip only. It is sickly sweet and warm, but it wets my tongue, and tears wet my eyes as I look at Jonjan, remembering his strength, the sweetness of his mouth. I sip again, then, though I do not wish to, I replace the screwing top and seal my cordial’s misty comfort away. Slowly I climb down to Jonjan with my basket.
    How long has he been lying here? Did he escape, only to return, and why did he return? So many questions. Always, so many questions and no answers.
    Evening is close by the time I drag him back from the edge and beneath the overhanging rock. Its shelter is not much, but its floor is flat and a twisted tree will offer some protection from the morning sun, if he lives until morning. The pain of my rough handling must have been great; he did not move nor murmur. I think he is already waiting for the great door of death to open so he may walk through. I will stay with him. I will hold his hand until it grows cold and will not hold mine.
    Lord, how I thirst; the nearness of the spring cave makes my thirst more, but I can not climb more, my back aches, my bleeding feet throb. I look again at the cordial. It will ease my aches and my thirst; it will make me forget both sorrow and throbbing feet. Yet I do not sip it. Instead I look at his twisted leg, then down to his feet.
    He wears strong shoes with giving soles and cords to tie them tight. And I think . . . I think he will not know if I steal them. I think when he is dead he will not know that I have been here.
    With care I remove them. They fit me well and are so soft within. I am already climbing when I think to carry water for him. I look down at my basket and the bottle. I look at the can of cornbeans. It is near as large as the bottle, so I return, open and eat beans with my fingers then lift his head and trickle the juice onto his sun-dried lips. I believe he is as Granny on her final day; I believe there is a reflex swallowing. Then, with the empty can in the pocket of my half-dress, I leave him.
    Oh, shady place of silence, my cave. And water. A deep pool, it is never quite hot and never quite cool. I drink of it, and when I think to leave it, I drink more. How foolishly small my container seems,