ciúnas

There was a pause from digging when a sound...the whisper...swelled in the air.

Past the field of sunflowers, under the blue hills:  Faaa  Caww  Faaa  Caww

‘What now?’ asked Masterson, who was displaying his exhaustion, and reacted to the sound as he would to any unwanted interruption.  However the others were filled with uneasiness as the mysterious voice returned to their ears.

It seemed close.  The wind had died down and there was a clarity in the sound that hadn’t been there when they heard it previously – even though it preserved its inscrutability.  Furthermore, unlike the whispery tone they had heard at sea, this one did not surround them; it appeared to be coming from one direction: south, and it echoed in the hills.   

‘I should go over and have a look,’ said Littlewood.  ‘There might yet be people here.’

‘Here – and at sea,’ said Stinson.  ‘It’s the same voice.  It’s eternal.’

‘Infernal, I’d say,’ said Masterson, then advising, ‘We should just get the grave dug and the woman buried and get the hell away from this place.’

 And visions of Hell entered all of their minds in the seconds after that – except for Katrine who didn’t believe in that nonsense.   But she too was startled by the reoccurring sound and it muffled her desire to arrive at an ancestral breakthrough.  She appeared less eager to defend the uncanny.

‘I will negate my stance as a rational thinking thing and agree with Masterson,’ she said.  ‘Remember the letter.  Whoever wrote it was experiencing an ordeal here.  We should be careful.’

The faaa-caww faaa caww fell away and there was silence again. 

Littlewood’s mind had got into a furious spell of prying.  He turned to Masterson and asked: ‘Will you come with me?’  Masterson showed his reluctance by leaning heavy on his shovel to portray a weary working man who was too busy earning a wage to pursue anything other than that.

‘I will accompany you, Captain,’ said Stinson, that newfound fortitude back.  The angel-faced one’s perceptions were a mess.  The fear was intense within him, yet these spunky flashes struck periodically.  If he had been able to control these flashes, he would have thought of his parents and imagined what they would say to him in these daredevil moments.  They would not be at all proud of him for stepping forward like this.  If they could talk to him now, they would probably tell him he was simple-minded and shake their heads.  But he couldn’t control the flashes.  Maybe it was the brain fever. 

Littlewood handed his shovel to Father Geissel and said: ‘Come on, get your hands gritty, Father.’  There was a little vexation in Geissel’s face.  He had been gearing up for the liturgy being the higher-ranking priest and he wasn’t expecting to wield a shovel.  But he ingested the delegation in his typically hearty manner.  ‘Oh, I shall, Captain.’

And Katrine took Stinson’s shovel from him.  ‘No, no, Katrine,’ Stinson said.  ‘You can’t be digging your own mother’s grave.  That’s rather in poor taste, don’t you think?’

‘I think we’re past matters of taste.  I will complete the job.  Go off, you brave priest.’

It was as they were starting off towards the hills that Stinson realised Captain Littlewood was still a bit drunk from the whiskey; he was stumbling awkwardly as they crossed the inhospitable surface, an impractical speed in his walking.  As they trekked along southwards, the sunflowers grew more monstrous in height and as the wind picked up again they had to shield their faces from the swoosh of soot and small stones.    Ahead of them, the verglas periphery of the hills became more apparent.  What had appeared blue from a distance was in fact a frozen white cover that sparkled when the sun caught it.

After a while, Littlewood stopped and cursed to himself.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Stinson.

‘I forgot the weapon.’

‘The gun?  Do you think we will need it?’

‘I absolutely don’t know.  And that’s why I’d feel better having it.’

‘Should we go back and get it?’

‘We’re too far on now.’

‘But what if...?’

‘Ciunas.  Don’t put the hex on us.’