Blood and Water: Three Short Stories

rain-splattered window of our cottage. ‘Looks like we’ll suffer the same fate if this rain keeps up!’

  My father, a big man with a neatly-clipped beard was talking to my younger brother, Mark. Mark is fourteen, but has already been earmarked for a place at Uni. I’m not sure what earmarked means but I feel grown up saying the word.

  Father only speaks on these things when Mark is around but I pick up on some of the stuff he says if I happen to sit close by, doodling or watching the TV.

  ‘Pass me that book there, Dad said to Mark,’ and I’ll show you some pictures of that flood.’ My dad teaches history, but his real passion is local history. He’s written handbooks for tourists, filled with old photos and newspaper clippings showing important things that have happened in Hickledon. He goes round flea markets and book fairs on the hunt for anything yet unknown. My dad often says that every piece of land is like a sponge that has absorbed the things that have happened on it; the historian’s job is to squeeze out as much as possible.

  Dad leafed through pictures showing the drought of Mark’s birth to make a comparison between drought and flood. I wanted to ask if something special had happened the year I was born but Dad was really into his story about the time Hickledon Lake had almost dried up. Mark was sitting, his back to me. He was still mad at me for what happened last week. I tried not to think about what I had said.

  I go to a special school in the village. My mum, also a teacher, tells me I go to a special school because I am gifted in a different way to Mark. I like to draw – mostly landscapes. Not from life, mind, but from memory. My mum pins them on her fridge. Her favourite is a charcoal silhouette showing three turrets sticking out of the ground. ‘That’s a lovely castle,’ she said once as she loaded the dishwasher.

  ‘It’s not a castle,’ I said, thinking it was obvious.

  ‘Well, it’s lovely anyway, Simon. You’re a special boy.’ And she pecked the top of my head.

  I wanted to explain about the turrets, but she was already leaving the room. People don’t always listen to me, but that’s okay. I get flustered when people are moving around while I am talking. Perhaps I will tell her later.

  Dad is always busy. Amongst other things, he is the quizmaster for the pub’s steak night and likes to sneak in a few local history questions. People groan good-naturedly when he asks, ‘where in the village is the Old Man?’ or ‘in what year did Edward Tudor ride through Hickledon?’ Mark never comes to Dad’s quizzes, which is odd, as he knows more than me and I’m sure our team would win. But I should know better than to compete with Mark. Stupid words sometimes buzz around my head at the worst moment and I can’t help myself. In this case, I had told Dad the old name for Hickledon was Gonads. The word echoed around the room before people laughed. Mum pretended not to notice. Dad merely uttered, ‘Thank you, Simon,’ in his usual way, before moving on.

  Mark’s friends heard about it. They started saying ‘gonads’ as they walked past him at school.

  I got this heavy feeling in my chest. I asked Dad to tell me the story of Hickledon so I could get the answers right in his quiz but Dad gave me a scowl. ‘Dear Lord, I’m always telling you about Hickledon!’

  But my dad was mistaken. He had never told me about Hickledon.

  Mark hadn’t spoken to me properly all week. I followed him towards the lake as he took Jeep, our basset hound for a walk. I pulled at his hood once I had drawn level. I asked him, ‘What is the old name for Hickledon?’

  Mark glared at me. ‘What the fuck ‘re you on about?’

  ‘I want to know,’ I blurted, hot tears gathering at the back of my throat. ‘If you would tell me, I could show you I could get the questions right.’

  His eyes fixed on mine and he growled, ‘You’ll never know sod all, Simon. You’re just dumb.’ And he swiped my hand away.

  He stormed off, leaving me alone on a squelchy, dark hill. The rain was falling fast now and the clouds were coming down. Did he have to say out loud what I had always feared? Yes, I would never make it to Uni like Mark, nor could I answer one of Dad’s pub questions. All I had to offer were my landscape drawings that Mum pretended to like.

  I trudged down the hill towards the lake. Was the rain blurring my vision or tears? I couldn’t tell, but even in the murk, I could see the lake had changed. I neared the shore and gazed across. Mud had slid from a rocky outcrop, exposing gaps between the boulders where water gushed away. The upper part of the lakebed glistened like coal. I cantered across the lip, my eyes fixed to the twisted shape of the rocks on the slope. The extent of the mudslide stopped me in my tracks. Boulders had gouged a channel from the hillside, taking everything with it.

  I looked down into the basin. The shapes within had hardly changed.

  I fished out my camera-phone, hoping the water hadn’t got to it. I took a few shots, just to be sure. I tucked the camera into my pocket once I was done and grasped a fistful of grass. I lowered myself down the slope. Mud slicked my jeans and rain poured into my collar. Rocks grazed my knuckles but I wasn’t letting go. My soles finally came down onto the basin floor. The hem of my jeans flapped wetly against my ankles as I inched my way over. I suddenly realised how enclosed the basin was, like a huge well. I had been foolish to climb into the lakebed. Would I be able to get out? My brother was right. I was dumb.

  My hand brushed against the thick moss of a turreted wall that pushed into the sky. The stone wall appeared to sprout green hair, slicked with slime. I wandered to the other side where the stones rotated as though on a pinwheel. Huge gaps in the wall framed the sky. The other two turrets came into view. Three turrets like the roof of a ruined cathedral. How proud they must have seemed once! Their jagged edges were now worn smooth, knobbled and crooked. A cabbagey smell turned my nose up. I grappled for my camera-phone and snapped more pictures. I had the notion the towers were about to topple on top of me, crushing me against the lakebed.

  Something brushed against my thigh. I jumped aside in shock. Jeep nuzzled at my jeans. My brother’s voice surprised me from behind. ‘Looks like your landscape drawing,’ he said.

  I turned. Mark’s hood hid his face but he looked miserable. I shrugged, pushing my camera-phone into my pocket. ‘It didn’t smell this bad before.’

  Mark’s brows knit. ‘You knew about it, didn’t you…all this time?’

  Why was he accusing me of hiding something? ‘I’m always telling people about it!’

  Mark fell silent. ‘I take back what I said earlier. You’re not dumb.’ And then he cast his eyes up. ‘The drought,’ he said more to himself. ‘You must have seen it the year I was born. During the drought.’

  Jeep was pulling at my jeans again. I glanced down and saw puddles were gathering at my heels. I took Jeep by the collar and made my way to the bank.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going to show Dad,’ I cried, and urgency overtook me. I grabbed onto the root vines and pulled myself upwards. My legs slipped but my desperation to show Dad provided all the strength I needed. Jeep scrambled past me, his spine flexing with effort.

  Mark grabbed my collar. ‘Don’t do it, Simon!’ The driving rain almost swallowed his words.

  ‘But the lake’s filling up!’

  ‘It won’t change a bloody thing if you tell him.’

  ‘Yes it will.’

  Mark didn’t let go. ‘You could answer every one of Dads’ stupid pub questions and Dad won’t treat you any different.’

  ‘Yes, he will!’ I was shouting now. ‘He’ll take me seriously like he does you. I might not be able to go to Uni, but I…I can prove I can be smart, I can do things.’

  ‘Dad doesn’t believe in anything but his bloody obsessions. He just wants me to do what he wants so I could be like him.’

  I couldn’t make sense of what Mark was saying. I pulled away from him and grappled for the top.

  ‘Simon!’

  Jeep yapped. My thoughts became a whorl. This time Mark didn’t stop me. I bounded towards Jeep who waited at the
further end of the lake. I took one last look. Mark had disappeared. Water was now lapping at the foot of the main tower. By morning, the three towers would be submerged once again. I could’ve taken another picture, but my arms weighed like lead at my sides.

  Relief washed over me when I saw Mark was already sitting by the fire drinking tea when I arrived. He didn’t look at me. Dad was sitting in his favourite chair reading the paper. I draped my coat over the kitchen chair to dry.

  ‘Dad,’ I uttered, my throat feeling tight.

  Mark didn’t move but I could feel him listening. ‘Dad, I’ve got something to tell you.’

  Dad turned a page without lifting his gaze. ‘Hmmm?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘There’s an old ruin, here in Hickledon.’

  Dad lowered his paper and looked at me. ‘Oh?’

  This was it; I had proved my brother wrong. Dad was finally listening to me.

  ‘Yes…a settlement. It has towers like a cathedral.’

  ‘Ah,’ he breathed, ‘the towers. I seem to recall you mentioning these towers before, Simon. Haven’t you got a drawing of them somewhere?’

  ‘You don’t understand, Dad, this is real. There’s a settlement in Hickleford Lake. You can’t see it because it’s underwater.’

  Dad frowned as he gazed upon me. The moment wasn’t lost. He was still listening.

  ‘Yes, I am aware of it.’

  My heart fell to my boots. ‘You know about the settlement?’

  Dad laughed.