stony soil of the canyons. So precious was fertile soil that they built terraces up the walls of the canyons, on which grew maize, substandard bread-trees and inferior meatplants (or fatplants, to quote one local wit). They were too busy surviving to pay much mind to their lot. Not that they were noble savages; they grumbled, bickered, stole, and adulterated as enthusiastically as any others.
A few lucky children, as potbellied and mucus-encrusted as their elders, were allowed to play amongst the rubbish mounds, but the majority worked as soon as they could walk and worked as hard as the adults—from before sunrise until it was so dark they couldn't see what they were doing.
The topography of their community ensured they were as self-contained as vacuum flasks. If the land had been anything other than steep-sided canyons, it would have been claimed by one of the local landowners. Sometimes the seal of their isolation was broken by a visit from individuals who would head straight for Za Kunter's Bar, the only structure resembling a commercial building in the canyon. Over glasses of weak warm beer or shots of potato vodka, they would have muted discussions to the plinking of Za's sitar and the wailing of the same five notes over and over again on the harmonica. Za knew only one tune, but it was one more than anyone else could play.
Visitors rarely left alone. And there would be one less child working the terraces beneath the unforgiving, perennially harsh blue sky. ‘Plenty more where those came from,’ those who ached for their loss consoled themselves. Their fertility was their only asset, as much a means to an end as the snatched pleasure that led to life itself.
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6
They were just an ordinary couple, a young man and his girl, who met at seven o'clock every night whether the weather was raining or clear, whether the night was moonlit or cloudy. It had always been that way as long as they had been emotionally involved. Last year they had met like this, the year before, even the year before that. He wished their evenings could last longer than ‘Hello’ at seven and a kiss goodnight at eleven, that it could last forever. Maybe it can , he thought. Maybe the waiting was finally over.
"It's ten-thirty, Gabriel,” his familiar said.
Sometimes it seemed they'd been waiting all their lives. Well, they had. They'd first met and fallen in love when she was four and he was five.
When they were younger, they'd played tag amongst the maze behind the shop, amongst the bags of obeahs and the boxes of jujus piled high in the storeroom. Apart from her father's workshop, nowhere was out of bounds, and O'Malley's Magic Emporium made a wonderful playground. They still played as they grew up, different games with different rules that became ever more intense.
They should have been married long ago. Last May, the May before; if they'd had their way, the first May he was a man, and she a woman.
His name was Gabriel, and he was an angel to her. To anyone else he was an ordinary guy, if better looking than most, with soft brown eyes that brought out the maternal nature in women.
Her name was Rosina, and she was one-and-a-half metres of red-haired, green-eyed beauty, which came from inside as well as out, for it was as much her temperament as her looks. Looks fade eventually, but character doesn't.
"It's eleven o'clock, Gabriel,” the familiar said. He remembered now. She was asleep. The suburban prince went to kiss his sleeping beauty goodnight.
He'd lived in San Clemente almost all his life, since before memory began. His father had died when he was still a child, leaving his mother with a headstrong son to raise and a scraping of money, enough to get by on but never enough for security.
His father had flown one of the delta wings used for conjuring up the rainfall that scattered rainseeds in the clouds and stopped San Clemente from reverting to the semidesert on the Quelforn side of the mountain. It
A few lucky children, as potbellied and mucus-encrusted as their elders, were allowed to play amongst the rubbish mounds, but the majority worked as soon as they could walk and worked as hard as the adults—from before sunrise until it was so dark they couldn't see what they were doing.
The topography of their community ensured they were as self-contained as vacuum flasks. If the land had been anything other than steep-sided canyons, it would have been claimed by one of the local landowners. Sometimes the seal of their isolation was broken by a visit from individuals who would head straight for Za Kunter's Bar, the only structure resembling a commercial building in the canyon. Over glasses of weak warm beer or shots of potato vodka, they would have muted discussions to the plinking of Za's sitar and the wailing of the same five notes over and over again on the harmonica. Za knew only one tune, but it was one more than anyone else could play.
Visitors rarely left alone. And there would be one less child working the terraces beneath the unforgiving, perennially harsh blue sky. ‘Plenty more where those came from,’ those who ached for their loss consoled themselves. Their fertility was their only asset, as much a means to an end as the snatched pleasure that led to life itself.
[Back to Table of Contents]
6
They were just an ordinary couple, a young man and his girl, who met at seven o'clock every night whether the weather was raining or clear, whether the night was moonlit or cloudy. It had always been that way as long as they had been emotionally involved. Last year they had met like this, the year before, even the year before that. He wished their evenings could last longer than ‘Hello’ at seven and a kiss goodnight at eleven, that it could last forever. Maybe it can , he thought. Maybe the waiting was finally over.
"It's ten-thirty, Gabriel,” his familiar said.
Sometimes it seemed they'd been waiting all their lives. Well, they had. They'd first met and fallen in love when she was four and he was five.
When they were younger, they'd played tag amongst the maze behind the shop, amongst the bags of obeahs and the boxes of jujus piled high in the storeroom. Apart from her father's workshop, nowhere was out of bounds, and O'Malley's Magic Emporium made a wonderful playground. They still played as they grew up, different games with different rules that became ever more intense.
They should have been married long ago. Last May, the May before; if they'd had their way, the first May he was a man, and she a woman.
His name was Gabriel, and he was an angel to her. To anyone else he was an ordinary guy, if better looking than most, with soft brown eyes that brought out the maternal nature in women.
Her name was Rosina, and she was one-and-a-half metres of red-haired, green-eyed beauty, which came from inside as well as out, for it was as much her temperament as her looks. Looks fade eventually, but character doesn't.
"It's eleven o'clock, Gabriel,” the familiar said. He remembered now. She was asleep. The suburban prince went to kiss his sleeping beauty goodnight.
He'd lived in San Clemente almost all his life, since before memory began. His father had died when he was still a child, leaving his mother with a headstrong son to raise and a scraping of money, enough to get by on but never enough for security.
His father had flown one of the delta wings used for conjuring up the rainfall that scattered rainseeds in the clouds and stopped San Clemente from reverting to the semidesert on the Quelforn side of the mountain. It
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