The Chant Of Jimmie Blacksmith by Keneally Thomas

Author:Keneally Thomas [Keneally Thomas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2013-04-06T14:00:00+00:00

10

By now the Blacksmith brothers had crossed to the rainy side of the mountains. Dying trees wore long mosses, the tree ferns were tall, and underfoot was deep lush mould full of prosperous insects. All of the Monday and Tuesday a small belt of thunderheads moved with them, continually soaking.

They had powers of instinct not only to resist but to ignore this. But Jimmie Blacksmith’s mind itched with the quandary: whether to inform and free Mort or to corrupt and possess him. There was no hurry, he told himself, but knew that was not the truth. He had his list of enemies, and must move towards them in order. Otherwise, he fully understood, he might as well sit down and be contrite for the Newbys and Miss Graf.

Meanwhile, if Mort asked, he was favoured with lying details of the fight with the Newby men, which became more and more an exercise of honour, the sort of thing old war chants spoke of.

The wet blanket on Jimmie Blacksmith’s shoulders itched as he lied and lied.

They found out they were carrying too much food. Having foraged for five people they were suddenly a sleek, a swift two. Now they dropped pounds of that Newby beef, snatched by Jimmie on the Friday night, into a steep gorge. It was salutary to slough it off; they grinned a little at each other and felt well together. If events could only take Mort by the scruff of the neck and commit him to bloodiness but leave him sensible and full of good heart.

Jimmie himself still waited for the slump of spirits which could be expected after merciless Friday night. It failed to come. He was still in a viable balance between belief and non-belief in the dismembering he had done. At the same time, the thorough nature of the punishment he had dealt out continued to soothe and flatter him. Because he had been effective. He had actually manufactured death and howling dark for people who had such pretensions of permanence. He had cut down obelisks to white virtue. So, with his brain heaving in contrary directions, he was still largely light-hearted, and moved quickly in the irksome wet forest. He knew that he was on the same side of the mountains as some of his most cherished enemies.

Mrs Healy was worth remembering too, with something like a lover’s remembrance. If that were a form of madness, then he welcomed it.

Meanwhile, what should be done with grinning Mort? Mort had suggestions of his own. It was Wednesday. A wind had come in from the north-east and turned the rain to squalls. Jimmie felt fevered: the bedding was very wet. All at once, Mort spoke of a timber-getter he had once worked with, a low Irishman called Mullett, a feller of cedar over in the direction of the Barrington Tops. Mullett lived well, being a single man, who could usually find some genial female relic to live there with him up in the lush forests fifteen miles or so from where they stood, splashed and gusted.

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