Mara and Dann. Doris Lessing
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She wanted to ask, What will they do? And what will we do? – but Dann had dropped off to sleep, just like that. She kept watch until he woke, and then she slept while he kept watch. When the light came they drank water, but he said they should be careful, water was going to be short; and they ate the bread they had stolen, and a yellow root each. Now they had practically no food left. The dried leaves were so bitter Mara could not eat them, but Dann said they had to be cooked. There were no matches.
‘We’ll get some food today,’ he promised. And he smiled, a stretching of his lips, cracked and a bit swollen from the sun, and he quickly put his hand on her shoulder, but let it drop again, because he had heard a sound from down the hill. The hard, suspicious stare was back on his face, and he sent quick glances all around at the rocks and the dead or dying trees, and when a stone fell clattering down among rocks he was on his feet, his knife in his hand.
Then, silence. He pushed his knife back into the slit in his robe, where there was a long, narrow pocket to hold it, and crouched down over their sacks. He pulled out the bundle of brown tunics, and laid two out on the rocks. One had come off Mara’s body yesterday. They stared, for again it had sprung into its own shape and lay fresh, glistening, unmarked, though it had been on her day and night for months. It was repulsive, that unchanging, slippery brown skin, lying there on the rock, with them leaning over it, both so dry and dirty, their skins scaling and flaking dust. ‘How could they do it, how did they?’ he asked, in that voice that meant he could not bear his thoughts. ‘They made these things … and those cans that never break or mark or change. How did they? How, how, how?’ And began twisting the thing in his hands, trying to make it tear; and he pulled at it to make it split, but it resisted him, lying there whole and perfect on the rock, shining in the sunlight.
He sighed, and she knew what it meant, for she was feeling what he felt through her whole self: here they were, these two hunted and hunting creatures, and in their hands, their property to use as they liked, these amazing and wonderful things that had been made by people like themselves – but they did not know how long ago.
And now he pulled out the knotted cord of coins from the bottom of his sack, and in a moment had untied a coin and pushed the cord back, all the time glancing over his shoulders in case someone was watching. The slim, bright gold circle lay on the old grey rock. They sighed, both of them, at the same time. How long ago had that coin been made? And here it lay: the brightest, freshest, prettiest thing for miles around.
‘If we can change even this one coin, then …’ He put it down the long tube of cloth inside his robe that held the knife. ‘I’ll say you’re my brother,’ he said.
‘So what’s my name?’ she whispered, and her mind was full of that scene where Gorda had told her to forget her name. And she had: she had no idea what it was. She was going farther away from her real name now, when she said, ‘Maro. Dann and Maro.’
They set off downhill, united by the carrying pole where the water cans swung. The trees here were not all dead. Some must have roots down into deep-running water, for they stood strong and green among the tree corpses. There was a bad smell, sweet and disgusting, as they came to where the hill flattened into another plain. That smell … She knew it, but not as strong. Dann said, ‘They made a big grave over there.’ He pointed. ‘Hundreds of people.’
‘Was it the water sickness?’
‘No, there was a war.’
‘What about?’
‘Water. Who was to control the water from the spring that makes the stream that feeds the lake we were on.’
‘Who won?’
‘Who cares? It is all drying up anyway.’
As they walked away from the hill, the smell lessened and then it had gone.
Dann walked lightly, warily, his eyes always turning this way and that, his head sometimes jerking around so fast because of a sudden noise, or even a gust of wind, that she thought his neck must ache. She tried to walk as he did, his feet seeming to see by themselves where there was thick, soft dust or some rocky ground where they would make no sound. She knew they were nearing a place where people were, and when she saw his eyes she felt she ought to be afraid of him, they were so hard and cold. Ahead was a town, and these houses were bigger than any she had seen, though she seemed to remember her own home had been built high, windows above windows, and these were like that, of brick, but nothing like as graceful and delightful. They were walking along a street between ugly houses. There had been gardens, but in them now were only scorpions and big yellow spiders that coated every dead bush or tree with webs as thick as the material her robe was made of. Some spiders were the size of a child – of Dann, when she first had charge of him. She was afraid, seeing their glittering eyes watching them go past. There seemed to be no people.
‘Did they all die in the war?’ she asked, in a whisper, afraid the spiders would catch the sound, and a web near them began vibrating and jerking as the spider climbed to see what had made the noise. He nodded, watching the spider. No people, nobody. Then she saw sitting in the open door of a house an old woman, all bones and eyes, staring out at them, and in the path between her and them were clustering scorpions, and she was flicking them away from her with a stick. But as they landed on the earth, they scuttled back to where they had been, their pincers all held out towards her. Quite soon she would not care: she would let that tired old wrist of hers rest, with the stick lying in front of her, and would wait for the scorpions.
‘I don’t like this place,’ Mara whispered. ‘Please, let’s go.’
‘Wait. There’s a market here. If it is still here.’
They came into an open place of dull, yellowish dust, with some trestle-tables in the middle, and one man guarding them all. Around the edges of this space, along the walls of the houses, were scorpions. On the two dead trees were the spiders’ webs, and there was a big dragon, lying out in the sun as once dogs had done.
Her brother was standing in front of the man, staring hard at him, and the handle of his knife was showing: his right hand was held ready near it. On the wooden slats of the trestle were a few of the big roots Mara had not seen for a long time now, bags of dried leaf, a few pieces of flat bread, a bowl of flour, and strips of dried meat. What meat? It did not smell: it was too dry.
Dann took out the brown garment they had examined on the hill that morning, and she saw the man’s eyes narrow as he peered at it.
‘Haven’t seen one of those for a bit,’ he said. ‘Have you come from the Rock Village? I didn’t know anyone was still alive.’
‘There isn’t now,’ said Dann. ‘So this is the last of these you’ll be seeing.’
‘You aren’t Rock People,’ the man said. What he was really saying was, You are Mahondis.
Dann ignored that and asked, ‘What will you give me for this?’ He held tight to one end of the tunic.
The man looked steadily into Dann’s face, his teeth bared, and put on the board, one after another in front of Dann, six of the food fruits. He added a bag of dried leaf, but Dann shook his head and the bag was put back beside the other bags. A pile of the flat bread – Dann nodded. And waited. The two men stood glaring at each other. Mara thought they were like two animals about to attack each other. Past the man’s shoulder lay the dragon, apparently asleep. It was only a few paces away.
‘Water,’ said Dann.
The man lifted on to the board a jar of yellowish water. Dann slid their two cans off the pole, and was topping them up with water from the jar when the man said, ‘I’ll take those cans.’ Dann did not respond, went on pouring. ‘I’ll give you these dried fruits for them.’
Under the trestle was a sack full of dried fruits. Dann shook his head, put the cans back on the pole, where they swung between him and his sister.
‘We need more for this tunic,’ he said. ‘Matches?’
The man sneered, then laughed. ‘I’ll give