The Crypt (Part Two)

Welcome!

Cape Gooseberry

I wrote too quickly about our winter-ripening fruits. Not long after my last post we experienced frosts in the garden for the first time in the sixteen years we have lived here. The pepino was badly burned, the agaves on our deck turned to mush, and the lovely cape gooseberry pictured here is much reduced. I have learned to make pepino & lemon jam, and pepino & ginger chutney, so all is not lost!

Next winter I'll know to check for low overnight temperatures and to cover the vulnerable plants with a sheet. But now the spring is coming, though a little colder and wetter than usual after what seems a wet enough winter to me, but which they tell us was actually much drier than average. South Australia needs its winter rains so that we have enough water in the long, hot, dry summer. So bring on the rain!

Continuing the story, begun in my previous post, of a courageous young woman and an uncommon sword in a desperate situation...

The Crypt (Part Two)

He stands with his arms crossed, leaning against the rail while his goons come at her from each side. Sharpy is there to her right, his knife doing its dance. She swings that way, then to her left as the first boy runs at her, then back as quickly as she can again towards Sharpy, trying to swish the sword a little so that he cannot entirely anticipate her moves. Back and forth they duck and lunge, and sometimes the blade makes contact with a boy or the box or the rail. All the time Honeytongue keeps up a languid commentary until the young woman wishes she could switch him off.

She cannot keep it up much longer. How she has even managed this long is a puzzle she has no mental capacity to examine yet. The boys are making hits with the tip of the knife and with fists, and the young woman’s body is bruised, cut and aching all over. The sword hangs from her hands, its weight unable to be raised higher than her waist. Her back is wet with sweat, and her mind foggy with weariness. It is difficult to see in the faint light with sweat misting her vision.

Honeytongue vaults the box and stands directly in front of her, towering over her. There is no room to swing the sword even if she had the strength.

‘Drop it.’

The voice does not sound right, her dazed mind tells her. She tries to let go of the sword but her fingers will not unclamp. The sword dips down to the platform on Sharpy’s side. But Sharpy is not there. Honeytongue is still on the box but he is looking towards the door. The other boy is crouched low on the platform looking the same way.

‘How dare you treat the Sword of Truth with such dishonour! Stop playing around. Put it back where you found it and come down here.’ The imperious voice rings out through the dark crypt. Steps sound, and suddenly the room is filled with light.

Honeytongue had used the last moments of darkness to grab for the young woman. But she is not there. She too had used the distraction to advantage, slipping into Sharpy’s previous position, dragging the sword with her. The man’s voice has charged her with new energy though she barely recognises the words.

‘Get off the altar,’ the man says. He strides towards the platform, his indignation evident in his steps.

‘She needs help, sir,’ Honeytongue says, his voice dripping with compassion. ‘She’s not herself.’

‘He’s a snake. Don’t listen to him. They chased me here to do me harm. There’s one with a knife somewhere, and another one up here where you can’t see him.’

‘Put the sword down,’ the man says.

‘Not until you make them leave.’

Honeytongue turns back to the young woman, drops to his haunches and reaches for her in a swift movement. Before the man can say or do anything, she brings the waiting sword down with all its weight flat onto the boy’s head. He falls like a stone on the platform.

The man runs up the stairs, shouting, ‘My God! What have you done?’

The young woman lifts the sword again, every muscle straining. ‘Don’t come close,’ she warns. ‘And watch out for the other two.’

The man steps back, then walks around the other way. There a black-clad boy squats, springing up as he sees the man.

‘She’s dangerous. Look what she did to my arm,’ he whimpers. But he keeps his distance.

‘Where’s the third one?’

‘Probably trying to get to the door. He’s a coward. I don’t think he’ll stay for his mates.’

The man hesitates. He looks at the sword and at the boys on the platform, one unaware, the other cowering. ‘Come on,’ he says to the whimperer. ‘Come with me.’ He leads the boy down the steps and across the floor to the door. As they pass a stack of boxes, Sharpy darts out and, grabbing the other boy, pushes the man away.

The man staggers, but in spite of his scrawny physique he holds his ground. He simply watches as the boys run through the door and out into the night.

‘Just you and me now,’ he says, walking back towards the platform. ‘You can put the sword back in its place.’ He waits at the bottom of the steps.

The young woman sobs a single choking cry as the sword clatters onto the floor. She falls forward against the box, her head hanging, her hair a curtain hiding her face. She has no strength to protect herself any more.

The man walks slowly up the steps and checks the slumped boy. He picks up the sword and examines it closely, pommel, guard and blade. Apparently satisfied, he replaces it carefully in its bed. ‘Your work is not over yet, it seems,’ he murmurs. ‘And I had thought, all these years, that your glory lay in history. Can your light and hope influence even this age?’

The young woman, now standing, sees her rescuer a confused old man. Where is the booming voice, the certainty that banished her assailants?

She takes a step towards him.  ‘You did what was needed, sir. We all did – you, the sword and I.’ After a moment she adds, ‘Do you mind if I leave now?’

The man stares at her, looking at her closely for the first time. She knows what he sees – the now dust-smeared and slashed burgundy clothing, the dyed black hair and stark makeup now smudged into a mispainted mask. She can feel blood dripping from her side, and wonders if it shows through her tunic. She senses a residue of violence in her very skin and longs to be washed clean, of this and the endless fear.

The man looks at the remaining boy, still as death on the platform. ‘I think we had better call the police. Why don’t you come to my house and clean up? My housekeeper will have some clothes, I think.’

The young woman studies his grey, lined face; he keeps his eyes on the fallen boy. ‘I guess so,’ she says, resignation and hope mingling. With one last look at the sword, now still, its jewels gleaming in the electric light, she limps down the steps and follows him towards the door.

That’s the end of the story. I like subtle endings. How do you feel about them? Do you prefer endings that tell you more about what happened afterwards? Happy endings? Endings that leave possibilities open? Perhaps you have a favourite story ending you would like to quote. Leave a comment and share your thoughts.

See you next time!

Claire Belberg

The Crypt: a short story

Welcome!

Luxurious growth - pepino gold

Mid-winter in the Adelaide Hills, and it’s wet and cold as it should be. Yet we have our share of sunshine days, which makes for pleasant gardening and even a picnic or two.

Unusual fruit - pepino gold

There are more plants flowering now than there were in May, which always surprises me. I have been planting unusual fruits this year, and today’s pics shows how a small pepino gold that lost its leaves in its first winter is now taking over my garden – and still flowering and ripening fruit through the cold! I discovered that I don’t really like the flavour of the ripened melon-like fruit, but fortunately my offspring do. It can also be eaten unripe, cooked like various other relatively tasteless vegetables (choko comes to mind) which fill out a casserole or stir fry. I don’t mind that. And, at the very least, the plant adds lushness to my garden, which is always welcome.

The story this month, a drama with a hint of myth, shows an experience involving an ancient sword in the life of an oppressed young woman . The story is too long for one post, so come by again in August for the second half.

The Crypt

Around the bejewelled sword lying in splendour on a raised dais lined with royal blue satin stand eleven solemn devotees. They link hands in the circle and one by one they name a gemstone – emerald, ruby, sapphire, diamond – and intone the meaning of each symbol engraved in the gleaming steel – truth, light, strength, honour, hope, power, love.

   A gaunt man in purple robes speaks longer than the others, reminding them of how the sword came to them through the centuries. He gives them the benefit of his meditations on just one of the many glories of the sword but he does not demonstrate it, though he has some skill. His focus has always been more on its making and its history.

   The attendants leave after a hymn of praise to the maker and the original wielders of this mighty and glorious weapon of a past age.

A young woman dressed in rich monochrome stands in the shadow of the crypt. With her back against a wall still warmed by the summer sun, she tries to slow her wildly beating heart. Beyond her a strobe of moonlight flashing between the branches of a windblown eucalypt alternately lights, then hides, a group of boys. They huddle, the backs of their black t-shirts showing as dark patches in the evening, then spread out, each of the four in a different direction. One begins to move towards the crypt, slowly, his head turning left, right, in front as he searches.

The young woman feels for the handle of the door to her left. It is locked, as it was the three previous times she tried it. She turns to face the wall and feels upwards for the window, which is closed. There is no mechanism; her fingernail on her right middle finger tears as she feels all around the edge, searching for a gap.

She turns back to see where the approaching boy is now. She panics for a moment, then spots him searching under the trees of a neighbouring yard, just over the road.

She has known this crypt since childhood when she and her brothers had played hide and seek among the stone buildings of the historic precinct. They had always called this ‘the crypt’, although it was set only a little lower than the other buildings, its foundations six feet below ground level. A concrete path surrounds the rectangular building, and concrete retaining walls. Wide concrete steps lead down to the main door. She has never entered, but a sign states the times of worship, when the crypt is opened.

Creeping around the corner from the locked side entrance, the young woman tries to picture the crypt walls as she saw them in her childhood games. A memory tugs at the corner of her mind as her fingers trail lightly along the wall. This side is cool, never receiving the sun’s attention. While it leads away from the one who searches for her, she recognises it is a dead end trap. There is no knowing where the other boys are. Even now they could be approaching from behind the hall in front of her. She listens for footfalls and giveaway crunching of stone or leaf litter underfoot, but the wind blows all sound aside except its own.

Her fingers identify a change of texture, and into her memory springs the image of a metal grate as large as a small dog. She turns to face this dank wall, putting both her hands to the grate and pulling. It moves with a scrape of metal against stone. She pulls carefully, feeling the pressure of the unknown at her back but fearing the sound giving away her location. Pushing, easing, holding her breath, stopping when the wind stops. Finally the grate comes out. She has no idea what lies beyond it.

She places the metal carefully on the concrete path to her right. The space where it was is pitch black. She feels as far in as she can reach, brushing away accumulated litter. It crackles a little, and she stops to listen again. Is that an answering crackle behind her, just to her left? Her heart beat increases and the pounding makes it harder to hear. It takes all her effort to hold the fear back, to think before she moves.

The wind’s white noise begins again. The young woman makes her decision and thrusts her arms and head into the space, and pulls herself into the tight, cold stone tunnel. The air is musty, dead, and dusty enough to tempt a sneeze which she manages to supress. She drags her body through, combat style though the movements are awkward, arrhythmic in the cramped space. In every moment she fears hitting her head, her hands touching something other than stone, or her feet being pulled.

Then her hands feel nothing but space. She forces herself to continue until her waist is at the lip of the stone, her upper body held in air. She cannot sense what is ahead of her. She might fall head first, a long way. But there is no other way. She wishes she had started feet first.

She falls. A jumble of nerve ending signals and sounds sort themselves, moments later, into a tangle of wooden chairs, an echoing crash, and a stabbing pain in her right thigh.

Her eyes adjust to the dark; moonlight entering a high window gives enough light to see the essentials. She manages to stand, making the chairs tumble further. She hobbles towards a central section, a platform of some kind. For a while she forgets the threat outside in the otherworldly wonder of being inside this place for the first time.

Her feet bump into a step, and she half falls up a set of them. At the top of the platform is a rail, a wide walkway, and a large box in the middle. She shuffles forward.

The hint of moonlight reflects off something on the top of the box. She lets her fingers provide the details her eyes cannot make out. There is silky fabric in generous folds around the edge, and then something hard and cold and long in the middle. Lightly tracing its shape from the top, she understands that it is a sword. Its pommel is scratchy, lumpy, and the cross guard similarly textured. Her hand slips into the grip and, without meaning to, she begins to lift the sword from its bed. It is too heavy. She lets it go again.

Why, she wonders, is there a sword in here, the centrepiece of this room? A crypt is normally a burial place but instead a sword lies in the place of honour. It is a mystery.

Scuffling and muffled voices remind her that this is not the time for mystery. She berates herself for losing focus, for not closing off the tunnel that is even now giving her enemies the same access she used. She is trapped. She would like to kneel or sit hidden but she remains standing, likely outlined by the moonlight, because she does not trust her right leg to do anything else. She waits.

They come, three of them, one by one tumbling out of the tunnel with a clatter and a shout. She waits for the fourth. Perhaps he is too big for the tunnel, or stands guard outside.

They fan out, still systematic in their method, edging around the room, approaching the platform from three directions, muttering instructions in short phrases. They have done this before, she thinks. Fear rises in her chest again. She feels the futility of resistance, and sweats the temptation to reveal herself and surrender to their vile intentions. It would be a relief, really, after all this time. If it isn’t these boys, it’s her stepfather, his son, her French teacher – a string of parasitic males and their sycophant female partners. She has been playing hide and seek for real for so long. How bitterly ironic that she should finally be caught here, inside the favourite refuge of her unsuspecting childhood.

‘Hsst!’

She has been seen. She braces herself, adrenaline overcoming any thought of surrender. She steps up to the box and grasps the sword. Again she wonders at the way it fits her hand. She knows the sword is too heavy but she sets herself to raise it anyway. She is here, it is here, and her enemy is upon her.

The sword rises, glinting in the faint light as if it flashes a message. The fear drains from her and in its place a battle cry fills her lungs and forces its way through her lips: ‘The sword of light! You cannot defeat it.’

Exaltation sustains her as the first boy comes at her, jeering, ‘Ha! That thing’s twice your size. You’ll kill yourself before you can hurt us.’

He lunges at her and she waves the sword wildly at him, both hands on the hilt. The weight of the blade smacks him on the shoulder and knocks him off balance. He groans and rolls away from her.

The second boy runs up the platform steps. ‘You little bitch! You don’t deserve to live – you’re nothin’ but a gash and I’m gonna prove it.’ He pulls from his boot something small that glints as he dances around, twisting it, thrusting it, moving closer to the young woman. She swings the sword, loses her footing; he darts in and slices at her side while she is hefting the sword back in his direction. She feels the sting of contact with his blade even as the sword slices towards him. He ducks. The sword clatters against the railing and bounces. It is all she can do to hold it. She has no control of its direction.

The knife-wielder is joined by the third boy now, both of them keeping out of the sword’s range, side by side on the platform with the box between her and them.

Her arms are getting tired and the weight of the unwieldy weapon drags at her shoulders. The initial exaltation is dulling. Her strength will not last as long as her determination. But still she holds the sword with both hands, letting it rest for a moment against the box while she strains to see the movements of her assailants.

The first boy is on his feet again, clutching his struck shoulder with the other hand and swaying like a drunk. ‘I say we just run at her—‘

‘Shut up.’ The third boy’s words hold authority. He turns his attention to the young woman. ‘You’re getting tired, aren’t you? You’ve put up a good fight. Pretty impressive for a slight build like yours. I’ll say this for you – you’re feisty.’

She feels a new measure of wariness. He is cunning, this boy with his honey words, using the soft touch while his mates are harsh. In spite of herself she answers. ‘You’re no better than the rest, even if you play Mr Nice Guy. You don’t fool me.’

‘Quit blabbin’,’ the second boy, the knife-wielder, growls. ‘Let’s just cut her and get outta here.’

Their leader pays no attention. He holds them back, standing nonchalant, relaxed, as if all the searching and chasing were just to engage in conversation with her.

She flexes her fingers and resettles her grip.

‘You realise, of course – you’re no idiot – that we’ve got you cornered. You can’t win against three of us. You’ll just get hurt. It’s heavy, isn’t it, and your muscles aren’t trained to use it. You did well getting in here. It took us a while to find you. But you know, don’t you, that even your smarts can’t beat the three of us.

‘Why don’t you just put the sword down,’ he continues, ‘and let’s sort this out calmly. We won’t kill you – we just mean to have our fun, so if you’re really smart you’ll cooperate with us. I’ll make sure Sharpy here puts his knife away. I’m not into cutting.’

Sharpy growls but he puts the knife back into his boot.

‘See,’ says Honeytongue, ‘they do what I tell them. You will too.’

There is no threat in his tone, just supreme confidence in his authority. He seems so reasonable, so sure of himself, the young woman thinks that it would be easy to believe him. She is tired, her leg and her arms telling her in no uncertain terms that they are not enjoying this unfamiliar action.

‘No,’ she says, grimacing at the pathetic whisper. ‘No.’ She says it more firmly, and clears her throat. But she has no more words to add in the waiting silence. She raises the sword and balances the weight on her feet. The silence stretches until she’s sure something will snap.

‘Too bad,’ Honeytongue remarks, ‘I prefer my catch unbruised. Go to it, boys.’

(To be continued)

See you next time!

Claire Belberg