The Song of Night's End

Outside is as still as a churchyard w/ the bell ringers stopped to scoff their buns & wipe beer from their mouths w/ shirt sleeves. There is the song of night’s end. Of nightjars & nightingales. A song too on my heart. & I am up to make amends.

The night was long w/thoughts of him & me back at the old barn & all of it feeling as it should in that worn-down thing w/ him. It was always the centre of our days. Our long summers. He calls it our arcadia. See you at arcadia. & I nod though I do not know the meaning & will not ask. My dear friend. See you there he says. Or used to. There where the animals are no more afraid of us as we are.

I was up w/the dew today & still the windows are not clear of that damp daub. & my sleeves are wet from wiping to see the sun is rising. Lord. Can you hurry such a thing.

I have already made my bed & the fire too. There’s water ready & the porridge w/ it. My boots is on & muddied from being out to the chickens w/ their feed & water & eggs collected. I ate my two boiled w/ salt. Then for a laugh the empty shells went end-up in the cup so both were just as they’d come out the hen house. It’s an old funny between me & Ma that goes right back w/ me cracking the shells for her.

Oh Lordy Ma this one’s hollow. I say. This one’s the joke. Not as hollow as your head. She says & Lord we laugh.

There’s time for that another day when I have not set my heart to mending this other thing. This thing w/ him & me. My sleeve is wet from the dew & this. This other thing.

I came in over the wall where the ash had fallen roots up against the brickwork. Over the gardeners’ work. Dad’s work. Their chopped wood pile. Wood dust up w/ each step. Dad & them has been chopping the ash away. His hands all yellow & bleeding at the end of the day. They are raw from gripping the axe & Ma asking about gloves.

We don’t have gloves my dear & we don’t have the money neither.

I went direct to the house. My boots leaving prints in the dew as I came. I knew the sun would take them before the manor was up. His window was open for the hot night & rung with ivy & me come calling. My voice like some bird to the dawn. Calling Edmund Edmund Ed. Ed you sleepy head. Get up. & there like a horse to the stable door. My dear friend. Oh Ed.

Tommy you goat. What the blazes. He rubbed his eye & tied his gown. You been out owling again. I thought we’d stopped talking. I’m listening. I wanted to say. I wanted. Tommy lad it’s still practically night. I wanted gloves for my Dad. I said. He’s working on the fallen ash & he don’t have gloves.

I could smell the apples rotting. I knew the manor would have them up were it not for the ash & the work there. Edmund had his hand on my shoulder.

You want gloves. There’s news like last night and you want gloves. Dad’s hands is bleeding. What news. I said. Ed squeezed his hand on my shoulder. Oh Tommy you sparrow. You haven’t heard. We’re at war. Not you and me. Please Ed let me make it right. He laughed. The rattle of a woodpecker. You joss. Not us. England & Germany. I have it. He said. The paper. Somewhere. Please Edmund. Come. I took out a grass bracelet & gave it him & he looked at it smiling. Oh you. There’s all this business & then there’s you. Yes all right. I’ll see you at the barn. Later though. After.

He’s an odd boy that one. Dad said. We stood & watched the fire. Don’t tell him mind. He said. A prince’s power and all. He draw his thumb across his neck.

Ed was a top nut. House as big as the village bounds. The kestrel was something else. Little king of birds. Ed stood some steps behind me then. Lit gold by the fire & his body hot w/ it. The flames a mess like fox-slit hen. Then he was gone without a word & me thinking that’s that before the fire or me or some other thing had him back.

Dad was good to him then. Handed us both a length of wood to throw on the fire. I watched Ed swing his arm & send his spoke spiralling. Saw it land w/ a spit & him drawing back. Protecting some other thing in his other hand & offering it me.

What’s there. I said. My hand up to shield against the fire. He opened his to an emptied skylark egg. It’s edges too thin & Ed so soft w/ it. He lay the egg in my hand. The fire on his face was catching.

Come. There are more this way.

I left the window & Ed in his gown & went away over the ash-felled bricks. Back into the lifting wild. Beyond the woods that skirt the village & into the fields where it is rare to see another but never empty. The grass was long against my hanging hands. I was mind to keep an eye for snakes. They no less hidden than the new far-off towns of steel & blackened earth. Blackened sky. & war. Only more real. For sure more real than Germany or England even.

I was right to trust my hunch. Ahead on the path in a sliver of sun a slither of snake. A chain of black along its back. Cold thing curled and & restful. Not a care for me. & me thinking foolish thing. Don’t you understand.

I could kill you. You cold-skinned thing.

I understood. I wanted the snake dead & caught for Ed. For the look on his face when he sees it at the end of my hand, killed by me, poor gardener’s son. I did not like the act of killing though I have killed enough. No need for war for that. A boy & his stick is enough.

Mine has a crooked bend at one end. It’s good like that though of course it had Ed laughing when he saw me w/ it.

Where’s your sheep shepherd boy. He said & I cracked him one. You bashed my brains. You butcher you. Serves you right. Besides what you worried about. What. No brains. Head’s as hard as a nut.

I cracked the sunning adder then & there & stood w/ it dead on my shoulder. A victory sash. Its head knocking on my back & my hand slipping down its body. I thought of Ed. I knew he would like the snake as bait as treasure as wilderness. & he would think me a triumph for it. All the better for it.

It put a spring in my step to think of Ed & me together again & not quarreling but I was too hurried. Too busy in the head & heart. Feet on their own path. I did not look to see the path I was on. It took me back where I did not wish to go. The gallows tree. Sudden & cold & only the snake’s head moving. & the tree like some holy thing. Some horror. Like only we can make.

It stands with its shadow a black pool over an ancient crossing. We used to meet there & go up to the barn together. & I never questioned. I did not think of the meaning of the name gallows tree til one day he came saying the hanging tree. Call it what it was. I saw then the branch we swung on could be used to swing the dead or soon to be dead. & quick like some rat I wanted away. To meet somewhere else. Ed only laughed.

I’m for the gallows anyway, don’t you see & what, you think some ghosts will spoil your rabbit hunting. I pushed him. Nothing can spoil me that way, but yes, I do not like the thought of ghosts. He leant against the trunk & looked at me in the way he could. Would you not like to see me a ghost come haunting at your bedside.

I had a shudder being back at that shadowed place & was glad for the call of a kestrel coming to me over the open fields. That small god of ours. Wild & open & I wondered how far a lonely boy can go on the song of a kestrel.

One afternoon when the plane trees was drooping from the weight of seed balls Ed & me was loaded up for battle. Fists of these itchy seeds in each hand & both running in the chase. I remember I caught Ed pretty good & slaughtered him w/ the itch getting up beneath his shirt. He was pulling his shirt off in the middle of the field. Screaming.

You joss. You currant bun you.

His back & belly was red & I dropped my load & stood with him & his back to me.

Tommy my lad it’s a killer. Quick water from the river. He ran, the fool, hopping & pulling off his shoes. Down to the brook by the village boundary. I followed too w/ shoes off & trousers rolled & we waded out. Took handfuls of water to the itch he had. We were like that w/ me thinking nothing of it but he turned to me & stood close. Took my wet arm w/ his wet hand & the river running between us & around. He put his hands on me. & I thought he would throw me in the stream so I took a wide stand. Prepared but not so.

His voice almost taken by the river but strong enough. I stood. The world moving at my ankles. We did not see the boys passing on the bank-side. His brother w/ them too. Not until the stones hit the water beside us & made splashes against our bare legs & rolled-up clothing. Run Tommy boy. Ed was shouting & the two of us was gone. Our shoes lost & only later our breaths back.

Why do you joke like that Ed.

There was no more said between us. Only when we came back & found our shoes thrown together in w/ the cow parsley. Only then did Ed breath again. Bastards. Come let’s get away & warm.

Later on a late July day Ed come looking for me, calling for me, leading me up the hill, & me saying what, what is it, until we reached the roots of that tree. That hanging tree. Me & him stopped up beneath it. Its shadow cold even then in midsummer & us both cold too in its shadow. As from the tree hung a boy of wood & willow. Lifelike though hanging dead. Still in that stopped summer day.

Can you see the tie. He pointed. It’s a good likeness. The bloody fools.

I saw a knotted tie at the hanged boy’s neck. Striped like Edmund’s.

Is this a game. I said. Not one you want to play.

Oh I felt a cold-footed fool w/ what questions I had. Who did it & why but nothing back from Ed though I saw in his face he hid something he could have said. He only put a hand on my shoulder & left & the boy still hung.

Wait Ed I’ll walk w/ you. Wait Ed I’ll walk.

My voice like birdsong on the hill. Only chatter to Ed. & he was away & no more to say.

I cut loose the boy of wood & willow & he fell w/ a crack. Legs broken. I carried it broken to the barn to burn & bury. Willow burns w/ more smoke than flame & the body of it rose like a black trunk. A lick of black tongue from the earth. & like w/ a wicked tongue something lay broke between Ed & me between the blackened sky & blackened earth.

I walked out the next morning & pulled the cool tie from the ash. It was charred but not burnt fully. I thought to hold it to my own chest but could not. I buried it away & sat alone & looked out without Ed & thought of him, my friend for the gallows. I tried to make some sense of what we had seen & why. Pulling & knotting blades of grass into bracelets. Then came the sound of someone.

I lay low behind a badger mound & held a breath. Body stiff w/ nails dug into the soil.

Of course you’re bloody here. Listen up. If I see you with Edmund again & the two of you up here doing I don’t know what, it will be you hanging from that tree. You hear me. He swung his stick this way & that. You hear me.

Oh why can’t they all be like you Tommy. Be like me how Ed .

The yellow bunting sings the devil take ye & leave me, take ye & leave me. Like clockwork. The devil take ye & we take the time by it.

It is passed the time I was expecting. The sun is low & the day still & still Edmund has not come. The adder hangs on my stick in the ground. Less trophy than sad death. Only of interest to carrion crows & flies.

There was time when we threw knives against this barn wall that is now my backrest. Me & Edmund taking turns to peg the blade. Our boots behind a line marked in the ground. There are marks in the barn from it too. Then Ed stepped over the line.

Do you trust me. Of course Ed. Stand up then. Back to the wall. I felt the marks in the wood. I made myself small. It won’t hurt. You silly goose. Promise me Edmund. I promise nothing. Hold tight.

I closed my eyes & opened them. The knife was in flight on the end of his hand as he walked w/ it. Whistling to give it flight. The crunch of his boots & the whistle. The knife catching the sun & him. He came close till I could feel his breath. & the knife in his fist. He drove it in to the wood in the corner of my eyes. The barn wall rattling behind me till he put his hands against it. Either side of me. Tah da. He said all smiles. Quiet as a fish.

Count the boys in the village who know you & you them. You won’t get to two. You’re a good egg, Ed.

He called me to his room one autumn day. My first and only time inside the manor house. His room. He is otherwise strict w/ rules about us meeting away from the house the village the people. But here he was. Asking me into his room w/ the house empty & I came. Just as he asked. In through the window w/ my rain-wet shoes outside & blotted w/ clippings of grass. He was there & dark in the low sun signaling for me to follow to the back of the room.

Is this all for you. Course it is you pear.

The feel of his carpet against my socks was butter & his voice in the blowing dark like a river you hear in the woods but don’t see.

I can’t wait to show you. I’ve been working on it all summer. You’ll see. There was a shape covered in cloth. Something hidden & Ed took me by the arm & pulled away. The cloth fell to the floor w/ a heavy huff to bare a naked glass cabinet. & I could name them all. Clouded yellows, brimstones, orange tips, white admirals, wood whites.

What am I looking at. Butterflies you fool. No not anymore. You’re talking nonsense again. But Ed they’re all dead. Course they are you clever fox. I’ve put a pin through each. What did you think. Tell me you love it. No Ed I don’t. Wait, there’s more. More. Something else. I don’t think I can. You knew I was catching them. Yes Ed but not for this. Not to.

He had told me he was catching butterflies. All summer long he was out w/ the manor’s butterfly nets. Even joking we could catch bats w/ the nets. Now I think maybe he wasn’t.

Were you joking about the bats. What do you mean, come sit w/ me. Have I upset you. I was sure you was catching them alive. Were catching you mean, you silly goose. Were catching. Like how you keeps your birds. Keep.

Like how you keep your birds & the kestrel. We can take the kestrel out later if you like. After. First come sit with me.

Don’t look at me like that. Come sit w/ me you acorn. Ed was tapping the bed & I wanted to. Course I did. But no. I said my sorrys and goodbyes. See you tomorrow Ed.

Snap like a whip of willow he was up w/ his hands on my collar. Pulling me to him & against the wall. & we was face to face. Breath into breath.

You all right Ed. I am not a monster. Course Ed. Course. It’s just. He let go & brushed back my collar. Go. Get away you swan.

Waiting for Ed at the barn w/ the dead adder the yellow bunting song the sun. The day caught up w/ me & I was soon asleep in that soft afternoon. Against the barn & not caring even as a crow came & took the adder for dinner. Some sleeps is as clear as river waters. No thought to talk of war. To faraway places. Regiments & men. No battles. No manor house. No walls. Only me & him as friends. & so asleep I did not hear him approach. Nor the others.

The polished toe of a leather boot was against my face. Soft. I could smell the new rubber sole. I pushed the boot w/ my hand & looked to see the face of Gideon. Taller wider meaner. He stood w/ a shorn stick of willow as thick as my wrist. In uniform. A new army man & others the same with him. Boys of the village now men for war.

Get up gardener’s boy. Get up you scab. You’ll salute an officer of the British army. Get. Up.

He took me by the collar w/ the willow at his side & I curled expecting.

Gideon. Don’t. Get into that barn you like it so much. Calling my brother to it. Get in there. That’s an order boy. Who’s there. Who’s there behind you. Edmund. Is that you. It’s too late.

I was jailed in the barn. Willow strip through the door. & no light but for the thinnest cut of sun & no holes big enough for more than looking & even then only barely.

Edmund. Is that you. Ed. I can see you. The barn rattled with shot. Mud & rocks. Sand came against my face & I pulled back. Let’s burn the old barn down. Burn the brute. No Lordy. No. I put my shoulder to the door but the willow held. Don’t do it. I’m sorry. The willow held.

Go on then. Go on. One had a bottle of some alcohol. I smelled it on the wood & saw the fire take. The dry wood barn w/ our paper drawings & collected things. Our wood carvings. Only food for the fire. For this hungry drunk. The heat was quick & too much. I could only take a blanket to my head & crouch small & watch the fire take.

Ed. I know you’re there. Edmund Edmund Ed. I lost my voice from calling. Course I did. Course I knew. Even in uniform I knew my Ed. My good egg.

The heat was so I could have boiled inside. All round me was heat & fire & smoke & me w/ no sense of where, how come nor how & only calling. Calling w/ what breath I could. Lying low. Face to the earth. Thinking God I am no church goer. God help me. I called for Edmund. I knew no other way.

An arm looped round me & pulled me from the barn. Legs dragging on scalding tile. The barn roof collapsed & our box our sketches our collected things. All of it gone & me not far behind but for Ed.

Jesus, are you. Jesus, Jesus I’m. I didn’t. Are you. The fire bent the willow & I. I couldn’t get the door open. I didn’t think they would. Why did you do it Ed. What. Why did you. I didn’t

Jesus, are you. Jesus, Jesus I’m. I didn’t. Are you. The fire bent the willow & I. I couldn’t get the door open. I didn’t think they would. Why did you do it Ed. What. Why did you. I didn’t I saw you. I saved you. That too. He wiped my face & looked at me. I’m not as brave as you. Through the smoke the sun was the colour of church glass.

We walked together out of the hills only because I could not get my balance. His hand beneath my elbow. He waved me off at my front door. I said nothing & him neither. We only stood & looked. Ed in his uniform & looking already lost.

It was Gideon’s idea Tommy. Course I know that. He’d been drinking. & the uniforms. We leave tomorrow. There really has to be war. Doesn’t there. Oh Tommy. You beautiful bean. I wanted us back. Back to what we were. I could kiss you. You’re a fool. A full-grown fool Edmund.

In my room alone I closed a fist on the skylark egg. His gift. The shards like curled paper in my scalded hand. Count the boys who know you & you them & you wouldn’t get one.

Logan Scott

Logan Scott is a writer who likes to draw. Born in Cape Town, South Africa he now lives in Oxford, United Kingdom with his wife and son. He has a Master's in Creative Writing from the University of Oxford and is currently working towards a PhD in Creative Writing and Comics Studies. You can find him here: @Logan_D_L_Scott.

The Song of Night's End

Logan Scott

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