Fox Bites

iii

FOX BITES

Lloyd Markham

ii

Acknowledgements

Funded with help from The Literature Wales Writers Bursary

With Special Thanks to Crystal Jeans and Chris Winters for their feedback on various drafts and redrafts of this story

Desmond Barry, Rob Middlehurst, Philip Gross, and Chris Meredith for their guidance during the early days of this book’s inception

Alex Haagaard for providing a fount of interesting medical knowledge and great suggestions

Emily Rose Harrison for her wonderful illustrations and support

And Susie and Rich for their patience and encouragement

v

Dedicated to the people of Zimbabwe,

my family, and childhood friends

Particularly those no longer with us

I have never stopped missing you

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viii

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The following is a work of fiction

It is inspired by events from the author’s life,

but it is not an account of it

Nor are any of the characters veiled depictions

of people the author has known

It’s a bad dream, friend

Step into it with love and know

there is light on the other side x

xi

Our greatest mistake was believing that knowing was the same as understanding.

– Brother Antal of The Bronze Cast,

extract from The Final History Of The Triumvirate of Metals.

Contents

Title Page

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Epigraph

Black Diamond Fox Bite or A Giant Rests Beneath A Hateful Sun

Amber Altar Fox Bite or Heavenly Insects Dissolve Our Pain

Cupboard Boy Blues

An Omen Veiled In Moth Dust & Paper Clippings

Red Spiral Fox Bite or On Your Naked Back, In The Heat of Alien Saliva

Long Dogs Under The Hot-Eyed Heavens

Horned Up & Saintly Boy Blues

End Of The Dino War

Hot Snap

You: A Silver-Eyed Sorcerer

Hot Spit

White Column Fox Bite or Ears Cupped To The Drum Of Your Soul, Plucking Out The Darkest Sour Notes

What The Heart Wants …

A Mask Tightens, Squeezes Out The Bad Dreams

Prey: Numb

You: A Silver-Eyed General

You: A Silver-Eyed Host

Curious Souls Entwined Under Pearly-Eyed Night

Blue Opal Fox Bite or All Your Arrows Dipped In Sweat And Blood, Aimed Heavenwards, Ready To Pierce The Moon

A Lion And A Jackal Look Into The Void

Our Flowers Unbloomed, Lodged Tight In Clenched Throats

Dissolving Dreams

Let Go?

Loss Whispered To White Petals

Prey: Willing

You: A Silver-Eyed General

Bang

Agate Eyeball Fox Bite or Daggers Held Close, Our Malachite Roots Search The Sky

Upside Down: Your Foolish Head Planted  In The Earth

The Dictator & The Stag Beetle

You: A Silver-Eyed Bumpkin

You: A Silver-Eyed Fool

You: A Silver-Eyed Mind Eater

Shadow Pact & Stitch-Lipped Boy Blues

Turquoise Prism Fox Bite or Bleeding Out On A Chair Of Viridian Wires

Prey: On The Run

You: A Silver-Eyed Tyrant

You: A Silver-Eyed King

Justice?

Leftovers

His Eyes On Empty Space, Your Eyes On The Moon

The Flame Out Yearning Heart Boy Blues

… it claims in unexpected ways

Emerald Vein Fox Bite or Holding Hands In A Whirlpool Of Strange Metals

Our Frail Constructs, Pull Tight Each  Other’s Seams

Paper Chain Into Darkness

Promises Whispered To Midnight

Ochre Heart Fox Bite or Our Spirits, Ribboned Into Shining Scraps, Float  Away From Us

The Dinosaur Boy Blues

Our Outlines Traced By Ash-Dipped Fingers

The Girl In The Shadow

Let Go

Out Of Orbit, Our Cracked Hearts Bleed Out

Copyright

1

Black Diamond Fox Bite

or

A Giant Rests Beneath A Hateful Sun

2

3

Caleb is everything Taban is not. Tall. Tanned. Muscular. Possessing wide blue eyes full of expression and light. Wide blue eyes that are weeping.

Pale, short, sickly, Taban has never wept. In his fifteen years alive his face has been an uncrackable mask. Neutral or neutral-smile. A little dash or minus sign. Sometimes with a slight curve, but usually like this → ‘–’

His narrow eyes are near-black brown. They don’t let the light in. They don’t let anything out. Even when Taban wants them to.

Caleb’s mother, Gertrude, stands next to her grieving son, hands shaking, sharply inhaling, containing something violent inside. Her shark-fin quiff has gained new streaks of grey.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ Taban’s mother says. ‘Traffic was a nightmare.’

‘It’s okay.’ Gertrude squeezes Ann’s hand. ‘We’ve still got fifteen minutes. Catch your breath.’

A dusty wind blows. Ann’s auburn mane flickers up like flames and for a moment the stagnant smell of oil from the nearby petrol station is displaced by the heavy stink of cattle shit.

Ann’s nose curls. ‘Yuck.’

‘Probably a farm upwind,’ Gertrude says.

They turn to face the structure behind them. The Harare Fifth Church of Saint Maurice. White and green – the paint could use a touch up. The little cross sticking out from the top of its triangle roof is the only indication it’s a church and not a farmhouse.

Apart from the TOTAL petrol station opposite, The Fifth Church of Saint Maurice is the last building before the city breaks up into rural expanse. Pockmarked tarmac, brick, and concrete give way to sun-bleached grass. Lonely 2-to-4 lane highways melt into the horizon.4

Ann smiles sadly. ‘Don’t know why we’re doing a service at this old place really. My brother was quite godless.’

Gertrude doesn’t register the statement. Her mind has been re-abducted by grief.

Ann’s smile dissolves into a grimace. ‘I guess Mom and Dad would be glad. Weird seeing the old place after all this time.’

Seeing a break in the conversation, Taban attempts to say something to Caleb, who is staring at his shoes, face wet with tears. He wants to say, ‘I’m sorry. I love you.’

Instead his mouth hangs open for a moment, then quickly shuts. He wanders a few metres back to the car, where his father, Cormack, is having a smoke.

Cormack points across the road. ‘Check out the old madala.’

On the sidewalk by the petrol station, a craftsman sat on a grass mat – soapstone sculptures splayed around him – is focused on a prowling tsetse fly. The bug affects disinterest – like a cat slinking nearer and nearer its master’s plate. The man doesn’t buy the act. Bony fingers twitch. Thwap. A rolled-up copy of the Daily News flattens the blue buzzing orb against the head of one his sculptures.

The old man spots Taban and Cormack watching. He waves – smile surfacing from his greying bristle beard.

Cormack waves back. His thick moustache crests – revealing a smile awkward and unequal to the old man’s sincere toothy beam. Looking both ways, he crosses the street.

A short conversation follows sprinkled with Shona and slang: Shamwaz. Mushe. Tatenda.

Cormack returns with a nyaminyami necklace. ‘Heard these little snakes are meant to bring good luck.’ He places the charm around Taban’s neck.

‘Why didn’t you get one for yourself then?’ he asks.5

No answer. Another awkward smile.

Taban stares at the sculpture splatted with diseased insect guts.

It’s of a jackal.

Or maybe a fox.

Even here it is laughing at his pain.

Perhaps it is right to.

A voice, not his own, quiet, internal: You asked for this.

Ann calls to them, ‘We better go in. It’s starting now.’

Taban heads towards the church. Cormack stubs out his half-finished cigarette, pops it into his top pocket, and follows after.

A priest, tired, overworked, greets them by the door and hurries them to their seats at the front where the seven-foot-long casket of the gigantic Uncle Athel dominates the room. He is dressed like his mourners – formally, in a manner he would’ve hated were he still alive. His face, usually earthy and red, is drained – the only face that isn’t sweaty in the freakish off-season heatwave.

Gertrude, Ann, Taban, and Caleb each take a seat. Taban in the middle, Ann is to his left, Caleb to his right, Gertrude at the end of the row, by the aisle – closest to her beloved Athel. Cormack hovers. There is no room for him. Someone rushes over with a chair, apologises for the mix up in the seating arrangement. He sits down – an awkward appendage to the row, obstructing the aisle.

The priest stands at the podium and attempts to transmute the life of the man who lies silent and boxed before the congregation into a story – into a sequence of soothing words. His tone is distant and professional. He is in a rush. He has many more funerals to get through.  6

Caleb raises his hands to his face as if trying to shield his eyes from a searing, painful light. His gentle weeping turns into a howling sob.

Taban tries again to say something, but cannot. Instead he lightly squeezes his cousin’s shoulder. He thinks that this is something he should do. A way of performing his love for Caleb who he admires more than anyone. A way of performing his sorrow for the loss of Athel who was dear to him. A way of suppressing his shame – his guilt.

Taban feels guilty.

He is responsible for this tragedy. Most here believe that Athel’s death was an accident – that he’d accidentally overdosed on his medication after having one too many drinks the evening before. Others whisper that it was an intentional act. That he just couldn’t bear losing the old family farm – after spending so much effort and treasure to repurchase it. But Taban knows the truth. It is all his fault. Athel’s death was the result of a curse that is running out of control – a curse he let into the world.

Taban can feel the presence of the swollen moon above them. Ever since that horrible evening it has hung brazenly in the daylight sky. Though no one else seems to notice. Every morning he wakes to find it larger.

The Black Diamond Fox Bite by his collarbone itches.

It smells of charcoal.

It looks like this →  7

8

The text describes three ‘casts’. ¹

There are the Bronze Cast – who are gardeners. Though ‘gardener’ is a bit euphemistic. ‘Geo-engineers’ would be a more accurate analogy given the abilities described. Their symbol is the Sickle & Tree.

There are the Silver Cast. They are ‘guardians’ and sometimes ‘metallurgists’ – soldiers and scientists. Their symbol is the Snake & Dagger – which in the past has unfortunately led to a lot of spurious and culturally insensitive speculation. In the 1990s some academics from our country noted that the fragment was found in the Zambezi and predated known records of the Tonga people’s Nyami Nyami legends. Based on this and this alone they leapt to theorise that their serpent guardian legends must have originally been ‘inspired’ by this tablet or perhaps ‘passed down’ from the people who made it.

To these theories we simply say: the tablet also predates all Viking myths by thousands of years and features extensive descriptions of a ‘World Tree’ and yet no one has attempted to claim that this must mean that all Norse Mythology must be credited to the makers of this strange broken slab. Some academics reveal more about themselves than their subjects when they use amazing discoveries like the Zambezi fragment as a pretext to explain away the accomplishments of other cultures.9

Finally, there are the Gold Cast – ‘overseers’ and artists. ‘Overseer’ here seems to be a role that combines administration, diplomacy, and regulation. Bureaucrats and painters essentially, with a slight mystic air, and some allusions to supernatural abilities. Their symbol is an eye within an eye.

The fragment insists that all three casts are equal in stature, but placed separately into roles best suited to their skills.

Funnily, it is this and not the heavenly trees or miraculous powers which we find most difficult to believe.

1. There is an interesting ambiguity as to whether the author of the fragment is talking about social classes or beings literally ‘cast’ from molten metal.

– Extract from Psychopomps & Heavenly Portals

by Casper and Birgitta Andreassen.

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Six years earlier

In a cupboard

Under a

Sink

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Amber Altar Fox Bite

or

Heavenly Insects Dissolve Our Pain12

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Cupboard Boy Blues

Taban is awakened by a burning in his throat and a stinging in his toe. In the corner where the moths dwell something glimmers. A tiny being. Six gold wings wrap around its body like a cocoon. It hangs upside down – its gnarled twig-like leg hooked into a crack in the door. It sways in front of the keyhole, the only source of illumination in the cramped cupboard where Taban is imprisoned.

‘Hey,’ Taban whispers. ‘Did you nip me, little bug … person?’

Silence. The boy wonders if he is seeing things.

Then a single yellow eye pops out from behind the veil of folded wings.

‘No,’ says a voice that comes from all around. ‘A fox did that. Naughty creature. Comes and goes where it pleases. Bites who it pleases.’

‘Oh,’ says Taban. The drum of his left ear throbs. He’d had a bad infection when he was little. Doctors pulled a thick congealed candle of black blood-wax right out of his head. Ever since then his left ear hears – or rather feels – frequencies that others cannot.

‘Say,’ continues the being. ‘You seem sad. Why don’t you make a wish? I have a master – a king – in another world who can grant wishes even in this one. So long as they’re made sincerely.’

‘Would you please talk quieter, Sir? Ms Cowley might hear you.’

‘Only the selected can hear my voice, boy. No need to worry.’ The being flutters down from its perch – two wings flapping, four covering its face. It leans in close. A spindly cobalt-blue hand waves, beckons. ‘Why not make a wish? You can whisper if you like. So no one will hear.’

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‘No. I don’t want anything. Please go. You’re going to get me in trouble.’

‘My, my. This Cowley seems to cause you much discomfort. Why don’t I make her disappear? I can do that. As a demonstration. I get the impression there are a lot of people you’d like to—’ The creature clicks its silver-tipped fingers. ‘Disappear.’

Taban shakes his head, covers his ears. For a moment he thinks he hears a rasping bark-like chuckle behind him.

The little winged being backs away. ‘Perhaps now is not a good time. But, consider what I have offered. Should you change your mind, merely say so with all your heart. King Solomon answers all prayers. Farewell. For now.’

The creature bows and is gone – sliding through some curtain-like fold in the shadows.

Taban shivers. The pipe that digs into his back has gone cold. Someone is running the tap – probably washing the paint brushes. How long has he been in here? His mind always goes funny when it’s locked in this cupboard.

The school bell rings. The door unlocks.

Taban unfolds himself from under the sink and stands up. He dusts off the grit in his blonde hair and straightens up his grey school uniform.

‘I hope you have learned your lesson, Taban Grayson?’ Mrs Cowley scowls. ‘No more disrupting art class.’

Dressed in her usual funeral-black outfit, Ms Cowley is slim and has a mousey face that Taban has never once seen smile.

‘Yes Ms Cowley,’ replies Taban, his voice pitched at its usual near-monotone flatness. ‘I promise not to paint the ocean purple when the instructions say blue again.’ He does not bring up that the only reason he did this is because he is colour-blind 15and cannot see the difference between some purples and some blues. One time he had tried to explain his condition, but she got very angry and told him he was making up excuses. So the boy knows not to try reasoning with her.

Ms Cowley’s eyebrow twitches. ‘That defiant expression of yours is infuriating,’ she says. ‘Just because your mother is a teacher don’t think I won’t send you to be caned by the headmaster.’

Ms Cowley always finds these deep meanings in Taban’s face. He does not know what to do. It’s just his face. He doesn’t know how to make it move in a way that will please her.

Taban skirts past the other children – who are rapidly exiting the classroom – to his desk. It is an old thing. Still has a hole for an ink pot. That and two decades of graffiti. He lifts the lid and takes out his pencil case – checks it. Someone has snapped his colouring pencils in half. As expected. Eleventh time since Cousin Caleb moved away. He closes the case and puts it in his school bag. Then a soft, ‘What?’ reverberates around the classroom.

Taban turns to see Hilde, the only other child still in the classroom, staring at her feet.

Ms Cowley’s face is performing its most dangerous expression – betrayal.

Hilde is both a swot and good at sports. The latter should make her popular at Highveldt, but she is almost as unpopular as Taban. This is because she doesn’t talk much and when she does she is often blunt in a way people think is mean. And even though she’s more expressive than Taban she often chooses not to be – giving neutral looks when people expect smiles. Also she is a black girl with white parents – which the other kids insist is weird even after learning how adoption works and everything. And there was a nasty rumour going around that 16she was found in a coffin as baby. Which wasn’t true. It was a quarry – which is where they get metal and rocks.

Her, Taban, and Caleb all used to be friends.

Since Caleb moved away she’s stopped talking to him.

Such is the way.

‘What do you mean you forgot your swimming costume?’

‘I really thought it was in my kit bag, Ms Cowley, I don’t know what has—’

Ms Cowley sweeps her hand as if pulling shut a little zipper on Hilde’s mouth.

The child falls silent.

Cowley smiles. ‘This afternoon was our last opportunity to practise before the Swimming Gala this weekend, Hilde.’ Her voice is gentle and calm. ‘Jackal House is behind this year and this event is our only chance to catch up. We’re hardly going to manage that if our star swimmer can’t remember her costume.’ Cowley closes her eyes, rubs her temples. ‘I expect this sort of carelessness from the other students,’ she adds, voice cracking a little. ‘But not you!’ She gives Hilde a strange look. Sad, angry, but full of affection. The sort of expression a more typical adult might make before forgiving a remorseful child.

Cowley snatches Hilde’s arm.

‘Taban, get the ruler.’

Taban pretends not to hear. He knows what comes next. He doesn’t want it to happen.

‘Taban!’

He crumbles. ‘Y-Yes, Ms Cowley.’ He runs to the teacher’s desk and fetches the wooden ruler from the top drawer. It is at least a generation old – numbers long since faded. Taban wonders if Cowley had, in her own school days, used this same ruler to draw straight lines where straight lines needed to be.

17

If he knew how to make a face that performed remorse Taban would do so. Instead he wears his usual neutral mask as he hands Ms Cowley the ruler. She takes it, raises it, slowly guides it through the air until it is just above Hilde’s arm – like a golfer preparing a swing.

Hilde scrunches her face, squirms.

‘Girl! Look at me! Look at me!’

She complies. The two lock eyes. Ms Cowley’s expression is wistful, nostalgic. It seems like some small light of mercy might break through its hardness. Instead a low growl rattles up from her throat.

‘You stupid!’ Crack.

‘Stupid!’ Crack.

‘Girl!’ Crack.

Hilde flinches with every strike.

‘Remember your swimming costume this weekend.’ Ms Cowley releases her raw, red arm. ‘Now get going!’

‘Yes, Ms,’ says Hilde, bolting out of the classroom.

A part of Taban wants to run after her, wants to say, ‘I’m sorry.’

A tiny part even wants to add, ‘I love you,’ – a phrase he hasn’t said aloud for a long while.

The boy used to say, ‘I love you,’ to his friends and family all the time. Because it is true and something he feels. But a little over a year ago he said it to Caleb in front of some older boys Caleb was trying to impress and Caleb became so angry that he did not talk to Taban for over a week. Taban had asked his mother why this was. She explained that it was not so much what he had said so much as how and when he had said it. That as he grew older he would understand when it was okay to say, ‘I love you,’ and how to say it in a way that wouldn’t disturb or 18embarrass the people he loved. Based on this information, Taban concluded that he should simply not tell anyone he loved them until he was absolutely certain he could do it properly. Now the words sound strange – dying in his chest before they reach his lips.

Such is the way.

He nods and leaves as if it didn’t happen.

He pretends it didn’t happen.

It didn’t happen.

Caleb wouldn’t