Note: Click here for High contrast version.

Souls of our Sons

N. Joy Dodds

The wind brought the souls of the dead. That's when all these bad things started, soon as that wind started up. Those boys should never have gone away, that's what triggered it; all them dying over there where it's cold and always blowing a gale. Never seeing home again. Lonely. Started up a little wisp of a current of breeze, that loneliness. Blew off their foreign graves, gathering momentum and no doubt a fair bit of anger with that sorrow; across the oceans 'til it came home. By then there was no stopping those boys. Their grievances came too. They weren't happy to never return.

*   *   *

Jackson Bailey was a good kid who should have got more from life. Too young to enlist, his father took him down and signed the papers that eventually sealed his tomb. We all heard Mary's views on the matter. Right down to Fourth Street, we heard her. But in the end it wasn't up to her. Five weeks it took the telegram to arrive. Jackson had already been dead seven. I think Mary smashed some of her mother-in-law's good china that night, poor dear.

*   *   *

It's unseasonable, the wind at this time of year. Never blows in March. Still as a stillborn. November's the time it blows, November through to January, sometimes. Never in March.

It was the automobile that delivered Mary's telegram that brought the wind. Came in a cloud of dust, whoosh, up to her doorstep. Next thing she's on the threshold clutching that paper to her chest, heaving sobs and screaming her son's name. The automobile left within a minute. The dust never settled.

*   *   *

I was thinking I should offer up a pot of jam. Good day to be indoors. You'd be surprised how many people make a stew or a broth to soothe the newly bereaved. Make a jam, I say. Lasts longer. Gives energy. So I did. Fresh fig. I wrapped my scarf tight around my face, bundled the still warm jar into my overcoat pocket. My hat pulled down to cover my ears, but as I stepped outdoors the wind snatched it from my head, sending it cart-wheeling across the yard. I ran to catch it as it snagged on the barbed fence, and was turned, sent hurrying, the wind hammering at my back, the three blocks to Mary's house.

She was sitting on the porch in her old rocker, eyes vacant. Swirls of dust and debris danced at her feet, the back door slammed occasionally. She stared straight ahead, loose threads of hair whipping her face, oblivious.

"Mary?" I climbed the steps, retrieved the jam and held it out. "Mary? Dear, dear Mary. I was so sorry to hear of your terrible loss." I moved a little closer, waving the jar before her. "Here. I made it myself. Fig, from my grandmother's recipe." She pointed. Not a word of thanks. Not a smile. Out back.

"Give it to Johnson." She said flatly. "He likes jam."

I knew he was felling the old lilac boughs out there, I caught the odd rhythm of a bow saw on the wind as I walked around. The wind carried the stink of crushed caterpillar. He was half way up the trunk, bracing himself against the gust, steadily sawing. He had a rope tied to his waist, harnessing him to the massive tree. He didn't see me until I was almost directly underneath, gave him a bit of a fright I think I did. I held the jam up, cupped one hand to my mouth, but the wind stole my words away.

"Sorry... Jackson... Jam... Mary..."

He shifted his weight, bringing the rope around behind him. He balanced the saw on the branch, shaking his head. Putting his hand to his ear he yelled down at me, "Can't hear!" — holding out one hand palm flat — "Wait!" He must have forgotten he'd made that wedge in the branch below. He lowered himself, crouching to step onto the weakened limb. His eyes locked on mine as it snapped. Terrified, he tried to gather his harness but only succeeded in wrapping it around his neck as he fell.

The crack of his vertebrae could be heard above the wind. He hung, convulsing, just feet from the ground for only an instant before the tree let loose a great shudder and shed another branch, severing the rope and landing on his crumpled body, broken.

*   *   *

It's enough to drive a person insane, this wind. I've taken to cramming my ears with cotton rags every time I go outdoors. The streets are swept clean of topsoil and rock, and all manner of flotsam clings to every fence like a public airing of the town's trash. It belts at your face until tears are streaming, then just as quick they evaporate, leaving dry, salt crusted skin. A tightness that sucks the life right out of you. People scurry from home to shop, shop to home, stopping only to shout at one another, ruddy cheeked, about how this darn wind is sending them mad. Inside is the only escape. There the fury stops. The constant buffeting then only raps at the window panes, tries to sneak in every gap, enters as you exit. Such was the noise we didn't even hear that motor car come again. Didn't see it for the plumes of dust it left behind last time. Didn't anticipate we would be losing another son, so soon.

*   *   *

Some said Thomas Murphy got what he deserved. Nasty child. Cruel. Grew into a nasty young man. In trouble with the law. Got young Emily Parker pregnant and refused to do the right thing. That's why he joined up, we all knew. His mother's shame nearly killed her, poor woman. His was a quiet death. We heard no wailings, no smashed crockery. Didn't even hear the telegram arrive. Mavis saw Mrs M. down at the grocer's day after. She told Eileen, who told me. I never was close with Mrs Murphy. Truth is I didn't like the way she was raising those children, but who am I to say? We're a tight-knit community here. We help out when help's needed. I'm sure they'd all do the same for me, if the time arose again.

So I took her some jam. I'm sure her husband spent not a penny more than was needed when he built their home, with the wind creeping in the crevices, stirring up the filth and lifting it to the rafters. One child on her lap crying of earache, one in a highchair coughing with the croup, another in the back room moaning with fever. What, with him away, it's no wonder she was weak with exhaustion. She took my jam, a tired smile forced to her lips.

"He wasn't such a bad boy, you know." Tears came to her eyes. "Just..." She didn't know what to say. How do you convey your own lacking? That part of you lost?

"It's alright." I patted her arm, left the jam on her table. No need to stay any longer than necessary. I left.

She cracked her skull open falling down the cellar stairs that evening. Lay there dying for six days. We only found out when the three year-old child toddled into town, covered in his mother's blood.

*   *   *

I started to feel there was something amiss after Mrs M. Not just the wind. I could feel those boys. Their presence was connected with it, but somehow there was more. Mavis swore she saw Thomas Murphy on Throssell Street the same day Gladys took her tumble down the stairs, but — still with fear — she stood speechless as he retreated and disappeared around the corner.

*   *   *

Then I saw Sebastian Irons across from the draper's. That' was the moment I knew. Something was awfully wrong. He waved as he always had before he went off to war. A happy boy. But his face was charred black, his mouth a gaping, toothless twist. I clutched my throat, tried to see past the passing car. What on God's... — and he was gone. The dark vehicle continued on to the Irons' residence. I knew what was coming. Sebastian was dead.

I never likened to that Irons woman. Too quiet for me. But that gave me no right to begrudge her this grief. I'd be in and out to pay my respects and gone before she knows it. And even though the jam I'd offer is scraped from the bottom of the pot, and may have a slightly burnt flavour, that doesn't mean I care any less for her loss. Her husband was a good for nothing too. Poor young Sebastian. Always with a friendly wave. A ready smile.

I found them like that. God forgive my terrible thoughts, what pain they must have endured to do such a terrible thing to each other. Sergeant Skinner told me he didn't know where Joe got hold of that other shotgun, wasn't from any of these parts. Fact is it was hard to tell which part was Joe and which was his wife, mingled together as they were. Took them a while to figure it was a simultaneous suicide, with both parties standing ear to ear. Arms around each other, pulling the trigger. Goodbye.

*   *   *

We've had the people from the weather bureau out. Can't figure what's causing this infernal wind. And the Gazette from the city. Damn reporter, snooping around in our sorrow. Trying to dig up more from our grief than's necessary. I could have told him. Could have donned my woollens and marched down there and told him straight. Wind's brought the souls of our sons home. That's all. Leave us be and all will right itself soon. But I didn't. Couldn't step outside for their howling.

*   *   *

They've got so much to say, those boys. So much left unsaid. The town has become silent, listening to their roar. The reporters keep coming, shouting their questions to whoever will answer, misquoting, make believing. People have stopped going out, the wind pummels, batters, enters every cranny, wears you down until defeated. I was peering from my window, watching a pitiful little bird trying to fly sideways in the blast, when the motor car passed. But there must be some mistake. It stopped three doors down at Lily's house. No. Not her Lawrence. Not little Lawrence who grew up with... I thought this even as her cry was carried to me. As the man, grim faced, drove away. No. Not Lawrence, please.

But death chooses us, not vice versa. There was no need for jam. I took myself over there, held her in my arms.

"I'm so sorry," I told her. She cried. A mother's loss. Almost better to be dead yourself. "Don't be sorry." She stroked my hair. "You have your loss too. Tristan and Lawrence were such good friends, I..."

*   *   *

Why did she have to say his name? Why now when he was a year gone and no one else had bothered? "No." I kissed her cheek, smelt her tears. "I mean, I'm sorry."

My dear friend Lily was found dead this morning. A terrible, terrible accident. I felt so strange when I heard the news, like there was something missing, a void. Then I realised. The wind had stopped.

Born in Subiaco, Western Australia, N.Joy Dodds (Natalie) remembers writing her first work of short fiction at the age of seven. Teenage angst saw a prolific output of not-so-flash poetry, while motherhood settled her into a comfortable niche — supernatural horror. she also enjoys writing humour, has a novel in the works, and has been published in Tamba, Ozbike, Word Thirst (now Thirst) and Mundaring magazines. She is a member of the Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers Centre and enjoys being able to draw inspiration from nature living in Perth's hills with her husband and three children.