Free English passengers by Matthew Kneale Page B

because his hair was so wrong. This was never the colour of hair at all, no, but pale like grass goes after hot days. His eyes stared at me. When I gave a start, the monster’s face rippled.
    For a moment I thought the others might have got monsters too. But when I looked they just had themselves, upside down.
    Mongana saw. ‘‘Freak,’’ he screamed. Mongana was my worst of all foes in those long-ago days. Mongana means blowfly and it was just so, as his best pleasure was stinging and biting. The little scut was two summers older and hated me ever since I could recollect, so his hatred was an always thing like wind in the trees. Often he would follow me, trying to trick me unawares with some kick or grievous blow, so I never went anywhere without a waddy stick to be ready. ‘‘D’you like what you see, freak?’’ he shouted. Then he splashed, and his splashing was as hating as his shout, and when the others splashed too I went away.
    Later, when they’d left, I returned to the pool, just in case the monster was gone now. But when I walked into the water there he was still, staring up at me with those frightened eyes.
    Of course the great mystery of those long-ago days was what in fuck happened to Mother and Father. Other children had theirs, unless they died, yet I had neither, nor even any distant recollection. When I asked I never got answers, but just angry looks and sometimes a grievous blow.
    ‘‘Never you mind,’’ Grandmother would say with eyes like cuts. Grandmother often was angry with me. She was my friend, my protector, my family, but though she was kindly, her kindness was always a little hating. It was just her way. It was she who gave me meat as we sat by the fire, popping it into my mouth with her long, bony fingers, but when she gave it she would scowl. ‘‘I don’t know why I bother feed you. You ’re nothing but trouble.’’ Likewise if we were all walking to some new place and I was crook, she was the one who kindly picked me up and carried me on her shoulders, but then she’d pinch my leg hard so it hurt. Sometimes I got so angry I hated her right back and would go off and sleep just by myself on the other side of the fire. But she was my family, so in the end I always did return. When I came back she wouldn’t say a word but gave me food just like before.
    Of course now, all these years later, I know why Grandmother was hating in her kindness. I don’t blame her none, either. Why in scut not,Grandmother? I might ponder. But when you’re just small you never question the why of things. You just swallow them like air.
    ‘‘Forget Mother,’’ she said, when I provoked her with my asking, which I did often, as I never was one to give up a thing when I had begun. ‘‘She’s gone and that’s all.’’ This was everything I ever could get from her.
    But of course I wouldn’t forget. I asked Tartoyen.
    Now, Tartoyen was almost more my friend than Grandmother, though he was not my family. He had no sons, just daughters, and I did divine that was why even then. Tartoyen was a little fat and had lazy eyes, but he was clever and hardly got wrathful at all except when he was feeling crook, so everyone listened to what he said, and did it too, usually. He never grumbled that I was some little scut and just trouble, like Grandmother did. Sometimes he taught me new things, which was tidings of joy. Best of all, if he caught Mongana and other enemies trying to wound me with some grievous blow he would strike them down. But even Tartoyen got strange when I asked about Mother. His face would change, like he saw black rain clouds coming.
    ‘‘She went away across the sea,’’ was all he’d say, and he wouldn’t look me in my face like usual but turned his head away. It was even worse if I asked about Father. Then his eyes would go narrow. ‘‘You don’t have any father. You never did. Now stop bothering me with these things. Your mother’s dead. If she was alive she’d come