Ed James

@erdjames.bsky.social

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Manuscript - A War of Words - ink is failing creating lines all over the page
River extends her offer in our direction. I tentatively look to Isabel, giving her an encouraging nod. She shakes her head, her smile fading. No. It is still too soon for her. Instead I hold out my arms, taking the little bundle from River, folding him into my body. He is so small. His face all scrunched up and wrinkly. He barely stirs as I gently rock him. All other noise seems to fade as my ears are filled with the soft, rattling sounds of his breathing, the almost indistinguishable rise and fall of his chest. The thread of life so fragile. Welcome to the Kine little Eric. I smile looking over to Isabel again but she doesn’t look back. It is a pain that will never truly go away. Some days the wound gets torn open just that little bit wider.
The rain holds off until we reach the village. But it is only a light rain, swirling, dancing upon the breeze. A Welsh rain. Our feet splash through puddles of brackish marsh water as we follow the road up towards the church. In spite of the worsening weather we do not enter. We do not intend to pray. Instead we head around the back of the church to a small walled garden. Here is the ancient war memorial, a stolid chunk of white marble, carved with names lost in a great war. But it is not to these names that we come to add. All around our feet are scattered hundreds and thousands of smooth flat stones gathered from rivers and streams. Each stone is etched with a name. Somebody who was lost in the ending of modernity and the hardship of the years that followed.
The Black Voice runs on our right for a mile or so before disappearing into an old covet and appearing once more on our left, dropping into a narrow ravine away down below us. The landscape here is man made, an ancient road that was hewn through the rock leaving smooth sides covered with moss and lichen. Normally the stone remains damp, glistening with moisture, water trickling down smooth grooves and pooling in hidden crevices. I run my fingers over the smooth surface, searching, but the moss crumbles at my touch, falling in dusty brown balls. All around us the lichen hangs limp, papery, like the valley has become to the home to some great spider. At least Black Voice still runs strong, and as the land and river slowly fall back into synch, hand in hand we arrive at their convergence. Home.
We have tried to keep up the pretences. Everything is just fine. We will joke about it next time we are all together again. But until then the atmosphere feels flat without them, without Greg and Jenny, without Joe. River will not risk bringing Eric out at the moment but of course Mike turns up anyway. Carl was suggested to make up the numbers but it has been a failed experiment. We cannot make a habit of inviting him. “Who’s up for another round?” Rosie looks around the room expectantly. I look down at my half full tankard. If Sam’s last batch was sweet with a hint of bitterness this is all bitter with barely a hint of sweetness. It is not good.
One of the doors is shut but it swings open slowly as we approach. Jenny! Instinctively we both cry out our greetings but she appears not to notice. We call again, starting to make our way over to her but she waves us away. Our enthusiasm drains, questions dry my throat. She does not look well. Her face is ghostly pale but in this light the skin around her nose, mouth and eyes look so dark it could almost be stained black. She hurries away without saying a word, her clothes bundled up into a ball and as she passes there is an almost overwhelming smell of vomit. I look to Isabel and she squeezes my hand. It will pass.
Part 1 - papers strewn across the floor
Pink pen on clean draft - of Hatchets and Hammers
Once upon a time these rows had all been painted black, something that had taken place within Tymôr history, an attempt to bring the stadium within its sphere of history, to own it, make it its own. And yet it hadn’t been able to erase everything, only cover it up. A shiver ran down my spine as I looked at the pattern of the holes, a single clear line spraying upwards. Bullet holes. Once I had noticed it I couldn’t stop seeing them everywhere, sometimes individual, sometimes clusters or lines and in my mind images of the past swirled. Of war, of men and women cowering behind plastic seats as bullets fired wildly from frightened soldiers. I saw disease, I saw thousands of corpses piled around makeshift tents, of an army officer's orders, for the greater good. I saw raiders and pirates trading in human lives, somebody dropped their guard, a weapon snatched, bullets and confusion raining down. I saw it all and I saw nothing. I am not sure that I can blame the city for putting this past behind them, trying to be something more. In that moment I think I may have even finally forgiven the Kine, the need for a mythology to cover over the cruelty of that age in as many layers of black paint as possible.