Claudia Casper - The Mercy Journals

No! I tried to stand.

I know, I know, Griffin said as though he understood.

He’ll kill her for nothing, for living … I started to pull my pants on.

You’re too sick, Uncle Allen. He won’t get her, don’t worry. Griffin made me get back into bed and spooned some soup into me.

He noticed the riddle and asked to read it. I am death? he guessed.

I am Mother Earth, I said.

Somehow I knew the answer.

The next time I opened my eyes the dirty knees of Leo’s pants were in front of me. He was standing reading this journal.

I shut my eyes. I had to get it back before he read another word.

You can’t kill the cougar, I said, keeping my eyes closed.

Who’s going to stop me? Leo’s voice was cold.

I’m asking you.

Who are you to ask me?

Your brother. Your brother’s asking you.

The brother who tricked me?

Tricked you? How?

A chill went through me. The room closed in. What had I written down? You must kill him. He’s not a good man. Had I written that down? Had he read it?

You know, Allen, your boys are better men than you. Better warriors.

How would you know? I pretended anger.

How would I know?

I’m asking.

I found them for you. But you didn’t seem interested. Ruby had all your attention.

Where are they? I grabbed his arm. He closed the journal and held it in his other hand.

You sure you want to know?

Tell me.

I don’t think I’m going to.

You lying fuck.

Temper, temper. And better watch your tongue. I’m pretty sure the new messiah doesn’t swear.

Prove you saw them.

He opened my journal again and skimmed through the pages to the end.

I didn’t know you were a poet too.

It’s a riddle. Griffin figured out the answer, I lied.

He started to read it. For the first time since I woke I felt a small shift toward me. He wanted to guess the answer.

Griffin pounded down the stairs and ran in, eyes wide. I think her water broke.

Leo turned to him, his back to me. I directed Griffin wildly to the journal with my eyes. God bless him if he didn’t walk right over and take the journal from Leo, lay it on the side table where I could reach it, and grab Leo’s hand in both his.

Leo. Let’s hit the reset button. We need to work together now.

Leo looked down at me. I wanted to grab the journal and slip it under the covers.

Griffin, I said, you remember everything I told you? Boiling water? Towels? Sterilize everything.

Leo extracted his hand from Griffin’s. A moan came from upstairs. The look Leo gave me — I couldn’t decode it — strangled, lonely, defiant. He left. Griffin ran back upstairs.

The thought of Leo reading the words You must kill your brother is making sirens go off in my head. Maybe he’s thinking of murdering me now. Or Parker. Or all of us. Parker’s panting is too fast upstairs. Griffin has come down, started the fire, and gone out to the well with the pails.

My heart pounds. The thought of Leo out there killing the cougar, just lifting the corner of that thought, makes me want to roar and bite and tear. He cannot be life’s timekeeper. He cannot choose when she dies. He’s a black hole, a lifesuck, a dead end, the end of the line — he does not have the right.

I got up and got my leg halfway into my pants, but the fabric was all twisted and in my frenzied rush my foot tore through, leaving the pant leg flapping like a flag behind my calf. I pulled on boots and grabbed my knife and walking stick. I must leave before Griffin returns and tries to make me stay.

I may not be able to finish my story after today. I am thinking of murdering my brother. A murder to ward off murder. I will murder murder with murder. What better man for the job?

I stopped and listened. My neck was frozen so I had to turn my whole body to hear. I turned a full circle. I felt like a giant. I heard the wind, nothing else. The light hurt my eyes. A longer louder moan from Parker rode out through the upstairs window. I started to hump and stump toward the field where he last saw her, the bottom half of my pant leg flapping in the wind. The wind was at my head, whipping my hair, trying to convince everything on the earth’s surface — trees, grass, birds — to follow its lead. It pushed me toward the field.

The path was flanked by the root systems of ancient trees knocked over by storms. I passed a place where several trees had fallen against each other. The debris looked like the limbs of wrestling titans frozen in time, and something flashed across the base of my mind, a subliminal image made by me but unseeable, yet the dread tailing it was clear — the willy-nilly angles of branches and trunks against each other, the gouged earth, prone positions, circling back— Finish the job, Mercy.

A short distance ahead the bush was all blackberry, salal, young alder. A flash of red on my left made me look — a cluster of roses, spent but for the last few, a remnant of our mother’s gardening, her tiny rebellion to plant it in the forest. I saw her in her plastic gardening clogs, baggy pants, and straw hat, squinting toward the future, squinting toward this moment.

A new wail from Parker shattered the vision and lit up my blood. The wail came on the wind pushing me forward, if, if, if. I burst onto the open field looking for the cougar, for Leo. Nothing was there, yet the contour of the land meant I couldn’t see the whole field at a glance — it was a hump of a field — to see the far side I’d have to make my way up toward the centre.

Great clods of earth lay where the hand plough had turned them over. I stumbled forward, the memory of Leo’s hand on one side of the plough and mine on the other, three feet and a prosthesis pushing against the ground, driving the plough forward in case next year comes. My brother, Mr Big Time, the man who had to have servants or see himself a failure, bending himself to strain and sweat beside his brother.

I was fully exposed crossing the open field, yet it felt as though I was entering a boxed canyon. Wind blasted across the field and grabbed the trees on the edges and shook them, making their tops fly back and forth like the heads of children being shaken to death.

A quarter of the way across, on the far side, I spied the top of a head. It vanished. Reappeared. Vanished. It looked like a dried grey-brown cow pie. A few more steps and I saw the blade of a shovel rise to the sky and let fly a shower of dirt. What was he doing? Our work in the field was done. The seeds were planted and covered over. I looked down and saw the first tiny growths poking out from between clumps of dirt like albino worms timidly probing the open air, white from their subterranean, lightless births, with tiny heads of new green. I killed five or six with each step. Why was Leo tromping through our field, killing seedlings?

I paused. Whatever force I’d possessed to arrive here turned unstable and trembly, mired in the thick earth. I tried to lean on my walking stick, but its tip sank deep into the soft dirt. A clamouring chorus rose up from among the seedlings and I felt the hands of corpses just below the surface, waiting to grip my ankles and pull me down. I looked to the sky. I could only move forward, but the inertia gripping me was viscous and black as tar.

A crow flew over the field, turning its bright eye to look for food, flap, flap, flap, and I moved forward again over the clods of earth, like a man wearing cement shoes, gravity pulling me down.

Leo lifted the shovel to dig again but as he bent over, his head turned sideways in my direction. I stopped. He was wearing sunglasses. Would he greet me? Would he beckon me?

He stopped and stood up. Leaned on his shovel. He’d brought the wheelbarrow. I continued toward him.