Heron Fleet
Paul Beatty
Heron
Fleet
Paul
Beatty
Copyright © 2013 Paul Beatty
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 9781780886633
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
To Sue, my best friend and chief encourager
Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Coda
Acknowledgements
I wrote Heron Fleet as part of an MA in Creative Writing at Manchester Metropolitan University. Thanks are owed to many for their help in its development: my tutors, especially Andrew Biswell, Nick Royle, Sherry Ashworth and Paul Magrs for their personal encouragement and advice, and my fellow students, particularly Alison, Dave, Iris, Lucia, Nicky, Ros and Sarah, who critiqued drafts in workshops.
The heron is a bird that has symbolism in many cultures around the world. Herons are often seen as being wise, going with the flow of life as they fly up and down waterways hunting for fish. In ancient Egypt herons were associated with Ra, the Sun God. They nested in high places from which they swooped down, reflecting creative sunlight from their huge wings. To Native Americans they are good hunters with excellent skills of judgement, wisdom and patience. In Greek mythology, herons were often considered to be messengers of the gods – although the news they brought was difficult to interpret and could be good or bad.
Chapter 1
Made iridescent by the evening light, marching over the headland towards the sea, the chain of geodesic Glasshouses looked like giant puffballs. On the top surfaces of each dome, the petal-like triangular vents, that during the day had been open to keep the plants in the houses cool, were closing to shut out the frosty night.
Francesca stood up with a groan, pushed back her straw hat and leant on her hoe. She pictured the activity in the domes. How the Gardeners would be running around, checking the temperatures, adjusting the sprinklers. How much she wanted to be with them, to share in this evening ritual, but at this time of year all the Apprentices who could be spared from other duties were directed into the fields. It was vital that seeds were sown and small plants weeded and nurtured in their early stages. If the crops did not make the most of the short growing season before the autumn storms came, the harvest might fail. But she hoped that by the time the growing season was over the Council would have made her a Gardener in her own right and she would be back with her beloved seedlings in the propagation chamber or among the squashes and zucchini in the curcubit house.
She shouldered her hoe, picked up her canvas bag and wound her way down the rows of small millet plants she had spent all day weeding. She came out on the path and turned downhill towards home. Fellow workers emerged from other fields and joined her: Jonathan, Hamied, Mary, a dozen others. At the edge of a nearly fully-grown maize crop was Anya. She kissed Francesca and then fell into the quiet procession, taking Francesca’s hand in hers.
‘Good day?’ whispered Anya. Francesca looked at her, smiled and nodded. Anya squeezed her hand and returned her smile.
They reached the head of the combe where the path followed the beck. Dry field margins became scrub, scrub became bushes and then they were under the trees. It was cool and green in here, where the moss clung to the rocks and water trickled. Here and there, where pools of light reached the ground through the canopy, the last bluebells flowered. Old Gatherers were fond of saying that they could remember woods where there were carpets of bluebells but Francesca didn’t really give credence to these tales. In her experience the only places that bluebells could be seen were in the dark, cool places like the combe, and so it must have been for generations.
Too soon the trees thinned out and Francesca got her first view of the suspension bridge and beyond it the Gathering Hall. The sight of the Hall always gladdened her. It was the biggest building for miles around and as far as she knew the biggest building in all Albion. To the apex of the roof was about twenty metres. Its height was emphasised by the flat meadows that surrounded it. The squat shapes of roundhouses seemed to cuddle up to it. To Francesca it looked like a mother lapwing sheltering chicks, under her wings, from rain.
There was nothing in the scene to disturb her, nothing to undermine the sense of security that seeing the Gathering Hall always gave her, nothing at all. Then she spotted the thin veil of high cloud that radiated from the evening sun. She let go of Anya’s hand and shaded her eyes to get a better view.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Anya. ‘What have you spotted?’ Francesca pointed in the direction of the cloud. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Anya. She stroked Francesca’s arm, ‘It’s not typhoon cloud. There hasn’t been a typhoon in over ten years. We’ll not starve this year.’
Francesca smiled again and they started to pick their way down the steep steps cut into the river-cliff that led to the bridge.
Once on the bridge the group had more room and fell into a swinging, happy gait. Jonathan crept up behind Anya and tried to trip her up with his hoe. Anya turned and grabbed it. Then there was a playful struggle as she tried to disarm him while he attempted to get away. Finally, he broke free and dashed away towards the Gathering Hall. But if he thought he was in the clear he had underestimated Anya’s tenacity. She dropped her rake and bag, and pelted after him. When she caught up she jumped on his back and hung on.
‘So you think you can get away with goading me that easily?’ she said grappling with him again for control of the hoe.
‘Sorry! Sorry! I give in!’ he laughed.
‘Giving in is just not good enough!’ she shouted. ‘A forfeit! A forfeit is what I want!’ The bridge was swaying with their struggle. She had him backed up towards the rope rail. Deftly she twisted the hoe, broke his grasp and with one end tripped him. ‘A quick swim will cool your cheek!’
Off balance, Jonathan was at her mercy. One more push and over he went accompanied by the cheers of his fellow Apprentices. They rushed to the side of the bridge and looked over. He was just surfacing and flailed around splashing and spluttering.
‘You fool!’ he shouted at Anya, between catching mouthfuls of river water, ‘I can’t swim!’
‘Is that true, Hamied? Can he swim?’
‘No,’ said Hamied flatly. ‘He never learned when we were in the crèche. He was always too frightened of the water.’
‘Shit!’ said Anya and dived in after him. Francesca watched as she curled her body over the rail, breaking her landing with outstretched arms, to make sure she didn’t hit the bottom. Two strokes and she
had her right arm across Jonathan’s chest and his head well above the water. Almost immediately, he stopped struggling and allowed her to take control. Then she sculled him to the bank near to the end of the bridge. The group met them there and helped them out.
By the time Francesca arrived, having collected up both Jonathan’s and Anya’s tools, Jonathan had his head down gasping and coughing, his hands on his knees. Hamied was patting him on the back and asking if he was alright. Anya looked balanced between fear at what she had nearly done and elation at her own audacity; she stood tall and there was a brightness in her blue eyes. Francesca dropped Jonathan’s equipment near him and then took Anya’s gear over to her.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I think so,’ Anya replied. ‘Let’s go home. The excitement’s over.’ She picked up her bag and hoe and they walked up the bank towards the Gathering Hall. Gradually, the others followed. They passed through the Eastern Gate in the bank-and-ditch, and were counted in by the Gatekeeper.
The evening meal bell had rung a little while earlier. Couples were emerging from the roundhouses and strolling towards the Gathering Hall. Occasionally a couple would stop and kiss. It was a blissful time in the sunset light with the prospect of high summer food to satisfy a day’s hunger, worked up in the fields.
Francesca spotted Jonathan and Hamied, hand in hand. There were Mary and Jo, Isaac and Nathan, all of whom had been in crèche with her.
‘Hi, Francesca.’ It was Ruth. ‘Where’s Anya?’
‘She hadn’t finished drying her smock before the bell sounded. She said she’d catch me up.’
‘Oh, after her swim in the river. She always was too impetuous. Well, that’s lucky for me.’ Ruth took Francesca’s arm. ‘It’s a long time since you and I went in for evening meal together.’ They walked on.
‘How’s Carole getting on in the kitchens?’ asked Francesca.
‘She likes it. The work’s a bit hot this time of year and there’s the downside of never being around at evening meal but that’s life.’
Downside indeed, thought Francesca. Everyone knew that if one member of a partnership was assigned to the kitchens and the other not, then chances were that the partnership would split up. The cooks worked different hours to anyone else. They had to eat after everyone else had finished and were always in each other’s company. Most cooks paired off with other cooks or those working the solar-ovens. That was one of the facts of community life. Ruth was likely to have a heartbreak coming in the future, to add to the disappointment Francesca had dealt her when she had broken their partnership to pair with Anya. Francesca still felt guilty about that.
They had come to the wide east doorway of the Gathering Hall. The children were on both sides with the Crèche Mothers. They clapped as the couples came in. Francesca remembered the summer evenings when, as a child, she had clapped in the workers at the end of the day. She could still hear in her head the voice of Bryony, her Crèche Mother, ‘Clap hard Francesca. Their work will feed us all in the coming winter.’ And how she had clapped, as hard as she could, for even then the thought of there being no harvest had frightened her.
Looking at the small children now, she tried to remember how it had been when she was small. One thing struck her, she couldn’t remember as many couples then as there were this evening. When you’re little, places look bigger. Perhaps it’s the same for numbers of people, she thought. But even so, I don’t remember this many then. She tried hard to count how many roundhouses there had been then on the Apprentice side of the Gathering Hall but try as she might she couldn’t remember. All she was left with was an impression that when she was a girl there had been fewer.
The Gathering Hall, for all its size, was simply built, nowhere near as complex as the greenhouses. Ten roof joists set into the ground at about forty-five degrees were joined in a simple tent shape at the top to a beam that ran down the length of the hall. Outer sidewalls were made of cob. If you looked closely, you could see pieces of straw poking out of the red-clay mixture. These walls were several feet thick and served to keep the weather out but had no windows. Light came from the two gable-ends. As Ruth and Francesca went in, the sunlight was streaming through the west window in front of them. Its mixture of coloured and clear glass drew the shape of a setting sun over the centre of the High Table. Patterns of colours from the window covered the floor and the tables. In the centre of the hall, where in winter the great fire would be, was a group of singers, accompanied by two lutes. They were a group of mixed ages: Gatherers, Apprentices and children. They were singing one of the Founding Songs.
Through blasted Albion they came,
The first, the founding twenty souls,
They found this vale where plants still grew,
They gathered here and settled.
‘Won’t you sing for us tonight, Francesca?’ It was Mary from behind her.
‘Yes, do,’ said Ruth enthusiastically. ‘You know you’ve got the best voice in the community.’ Several other Apprentices backed up her request.
‘Are you sure, Ruth?’
‘Yes of course I am. It’s a long time since I’ve heard you sing.’
They unlinked arms and Ruth kissed Francesca gently on the cheek. ‘There, go with my blessing. Coming in with you has been like old times.’ Francesca smiled and strolled over to the singing group. Soon her rich voice could be heard above the others:
They ploughed and sowed and fished the bay,
Survived the storms and winter’s cold,
They made a living year to year,
On the bank of the Heron Fleet.
All the Apprentices had come in by now and the children were skipping in through the door, laughing and playing. But as soon as they came inside they stopped to listen. Francesca saw Anya a little way in front. She noted her stillness, the slight inclination of her head and the sparkle in her eyes. Most of all she saw the peace on Anya’s face. Francesca’s voice rang clear and true.
They raised the Hall, built bank and ditch,
They set the Rule and made their Pact.
We live their way and prosper still,
In the way of the people who Gather.
Immediately a combination of emotion and relief grabbed her stomach. She does love me, she thought.
As the song ended a bell rang at the western end of the hall. The Council were ready to enter. The Crèche Mothers shepherded the children to their tables and the singing group dispersed. Anya caught up with Francesca and together they went to their place with the other members of their roundhouse.
The bell rang again. Anyone not already standing got to their feet as the Council filed in to High Table. There had been twenty Founders and so, in the Heron Fleet way, the Council always had twenty elected members. The present Head of the Council was Peter. He now stood at the centre of the table, holding The Redbook, which recorded the Rule of the community. He stood ready to incant:
Reaping and sowing,
sowing and reaping,
this is the world we have.
All we know is the cycle of life.
Power to the greenwood.
Power to the field.
Power to our gathered food.
When he had finished, he closed the book and passed it to the councillor on his right. Then he picked up a flattened brown loaf from a dish in front of him. He raised it and pulled it apart. That was the signal to sit. Hardbread, brown and dusty with flour, started to pass from hand to hand. Each broke off chunks as their neighbour held the loaf out to them.
Francesca held out a loaf for Anya. ‘Power to the bread,’ she said solemnly.
‘Power to the gathered food,’ replied Anya. Then she touched her mouth and forehead with her right hand in one fluid gesture.
Still hot from the solar ovens, an earthenware tagine was placed in front of them, along with two bowls, one of green and the other of black olives. Anya took the cloth that came with the tagine and carefully lifted its inverted cone top. A breath of steamy air was rele
ased bringing a smell of cracked wheat, fresh mint and lamb.
Francesca always got a thrill out of evening meals in the growing season, for only in the long June and July days was there regular meat. This was indeed the high time of year, a compensation for the exhausting dawn-to-dusk toil in the fields, the desperate race to plant, grow and bring in the crops before the growing season ended in thunder, lightning and torrential rain. There would even be elderflower champagne on Founders’ Days.
‘Tuck in,’ said Anya. ‘You deserve this more than most, for all that beautiful singing.’
The meal was almost over, the tagines empty and only a few of the olives and the remnants of the hardbread remained. Groups from individual roundhouses were clearing up, people were mingling. It would soon be time for sleep. But it was a glorious evening and Francesca had noticed that even the Council members had left High Table and were passing from group to group.
‘Well, recovered from your dip in the river?’ said Jeremy. He was the youngest of Francesca’s and Anya’s roundhouse, only two years out of the Crèche. He was not in a partnership yet, at least he and Caleb had not declared themselves to the Council, but judging from the soft sounds that came from Caleb’s cubicle in the night, that was only a formality.
Caleb made an exaggerated show of looking round.
‘OK, Jerry. You’re safe to remind her. No hoes she can prod you with, as far as I can see.’ The others laughed.
‘Very funny,’ said Anya. She turned to Jeremy. ‘Since you asked so kindly young man, I am fully recovered, thank you.’
‘I wonder if the same is true for Jonathan?’ said Susan, who, with her partner Christine, completed their group.
‘As it happens, I’ve checked,’ said a voice from above their heads. ‘He’s none the worse for the experience, although he’s a little crestfallen.’
It was Peter and immediately they began to rise but he stopped them with a calm gesture. ‘Don’t get up. I don’t what to disturb your conversation but I do need a word with Anya about this afternoon.’ He nodded in the direction of a nearby empty table. ‘Shall we go over there?’ he said softly. Anya followed him.
