Titus Awakes

9

Autumn and Winter, the Pain of Both

DARKNESS CAME EARLIER now. The leaves were piled into mounds and the smell of autumn twisted high into the sky, coiling with the wind. The evenings were empty of activity and potent with unease. The skies were laden, and as the body grew more full, Titus could think only of Fuchsia. Over and over again he called to the girl, pointing to her stomach, ‘Fuchsia – Fuchsia.’

The only being that still clung to Titus was the cream-coloured dog. It followed him and sat at his feet as the evenings grew cold, portending winter. The logs, sawn in the days when he was learning to live again, fuelled the fire in the small room and conjured up magical warmth.

Expectation smothered him. He knew he was vile, but he did not know how to combat it. He felt that if he could speak and be understood, perhaps he could make a case for himself, yet at the same time he knew that he had no case to make. He would leave the eyes, as he had left one after the other of the people who could have loved him, but echoing always in his mind and body was the one who would continue to haunt him throughout his life – the ‘Thing’, loveless, heartless, cunning and cruel.

The days and nights were interminable. If he could have found the courage within himself, Titus would have torn himself free and rushed down the mountains and away. But his fate was sealed, as was that of the girl who had given him everything that a woman can give and asked nothing in return, except to await the advent of his child.

The days were still spent in physical labour and, as they shortened, Titus felt surrounded by a steadily growing animosity. He spoke only to himself. He heard the voices calling to each other and he was not of them. There was nothing to do any more but wait, and the waiting was hard to bear. Mist covered the mountains and clouded his brain. By his inexpert calculation and the slowing of the woman’s movements, there would be two more months to wait. If Titus had been able to feel concern for anyone but himself, he would have known how much his tenderness was needed. She craved affection and found it in the old woman and the others in this little mountain home.

The snow began to fall once more and he was awoken one night by the soft moaning of pain. The old woman, knowledgeable in childbirth, moved deftly out of her bed and across the room at a speed surprising in one so old.

His child was making an early entrance to a bitter world. Titus left the two women inside, and he and the dog walked round the impoverished hut. As the whiteness fell around them his child was born. The dog whimpered, then let out a howl, which coincided with the scream of the baby released from its mother’s womb. The scream subsided into unholy silence.

Titus entered the hut, and looked at the mother on the bed. She knew now the years of emptiness that lay ahead of her, as tears chased each other down her pale cheeks. She held out her frail arms and murmured the only words that had ever passed between them, ‘Fuchsia, Titus,’ then turned away.

Titus’s heart was as cold as the infant on the bed, as he made his way out of the hut.