A Vagabond Rhyme by Donna Maree Hanson |
 |
Two hundred rows of green, jagged-leafed grape vines spread out around me. I stop to fondle a bunch of grapes, not quite ripe but filled with potential. Their symmetry is perfect. My gaze drifts to another bunch even larger and fuller, the fruit tinged with red. I lose myself here amongst the vines that whisper and soothe.
Another few steps and I turn into another row, still lost in my meanderings. My dog near trips me as he pounces on a blade of grass. Memories and odd thoughts scatter as I find my balance and curse my pet for my own clumsiness. White and fluffy, he bounds playfully away, chasing a bird or a cricket.
A rural fence disguised by rough scrub and overgrown shrubs is interrupted by the gate and the green painted mail tin. What will come? I wonder as I head down the drive. A bill that assures me that I exist and someone knows I'm here? These acres are lonely now that Sam is gone. A sigh of my life lingers on the breeze until it is disturbed by a flock of cockatoos screeching as they lift off from the vines.
A small cloud shadows the sun, cloaking the past. Sunlight reflecting off an envelope winks at me from afar. I smile to myself and then jerk to a stop. My pleasure leaks away. There's a man on the other side of the gate. He wears big boots, dust brown and full of holes. His big toe sticks out. Old work boots. His jeans are dark blue with white cotton frays around serrated cuts and the knees are black like he'd been praying in newly laid bitumen. I pause, heart thumping. In this place people aren't usually at the gate. They motor up the driveway or they ring first so you know they are coming. Not loitering. Not watching. Waiting.
My hands clench as I swallow the spit in my mouth. Maybe he'll move on. But he doesn't. He watches me with pale grey eyes staring out of a dirty, tanned face. He has a beard, not long or short but unkempt, unruly like my thoughts and there's a knapsack on the ground leaning against his calf. My heartbeat thuds in my chest painfully. Should I turn back and fetch the mail later? I hesitate, caught in my palpitation. He doesn't speak, only watches with those eyes. As I get nearer I see his lips are moving; he's reciting something, rambling. Oh god! A nutter! I stop again.
"Go away!" It comes out of my mouth automatically. I'm surprised by how hard my voice is; how inflexible I am.
He keeps mumbling but his eyes shift to mine. His hand outstretches in supplication. I see he's thin, his cheeks sunken. I should feel pity. I turn back, instead. His words become clearer as I walk stiff-backed. They swarm like bees around my head and ears. The dog charges the gate, a low growl at the ready. The dog doesn't bark though and goes quiet. Rotten bugger! I hope the beggar is not petting my traitor dog.
That night, the vision of the beggar comes to me in my dreams. Is he hungry? Is he cold? Is he lonely? It's not my business, I tell myself. I put a pillow over my head and go back to sleep.
***
Cockatoos call raucously to each other while bobbing on the end of branches as I head to the mail box the next morning. My mail is still there and the man is gone, moved on, whatever. I unlatch the gate and scream. He is there again. Not moved from the day before. Due to the angle of the drive and the shrubs I didn't see him. The words he utters float around him. Poems. He is reciting poetry. Shakespeare, John Donne, Dylan Thomas and Wordsworth. Random stanzas and lines intermixed. Our eyes meet. I can't breathe.
He says,"Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them--She, she is dead; she's dead; when thou know'st this, Thou know'st how dry a cinder the world is--Before you let the sun in, mind it wipes its shoes--Dear God! The very houses seem asleep."
I stand there not sure what to do. Gate half open, dog now pushing against my calves, the mail in the box and him weaving poetry in the air. Strangely I feel calm. I don't feel threatened. Perhaps it's the poetry falling from his mouth like a prayer. The dog surges forward and licks the man's boots. The man's eyes smile, his voice quietens. I lunge for the mail and sag when I see the logo. It's the rates. The goddam rates!
"I can give you a meal if you want. But that's all. You have to go after that." I've said enough to assuage my guilt. I'm still not involved.
The man smiles, dirty brown teeth."Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us?"
I resist the urge to roll up my eyes. Metaphysical poetry before lunch. He shuts the gate, pats the dog's fluffy head and ruffles his ears. This vagabond, this hobo, this street person was coming into my home. I feel like calling the police but I don't.
There's not much food in the house. I open the pantry and finger a can of baked beans. No problem giving him that. It's nutritious, wholesome and boring. Did I want to go to the effort of making something nice? No. That was too welcoming. It's not like I need the company. I have my memories for that.
He shovels the baked beans into his mouth, dripping sauce on his beard. He wipes the dribblings with the back of his hand."He's an absent-minded beggar and his weaknesses are great." The smile is back in his eyes. He must be crazy.
He pulls out a book from his bag, a tatty, olive-green, hard cover. He starts to read. "I could not dig: I dared not rob, Therefore I lied to please the mob -- Virtue could see to do what Virtue would by her own radiant light, through sun and moon were in the flat sea sunk."
Kipling and Milton? I almost gag at the combination. I sort socks and towels in an effort to block him out. Shakespeare again, and is that Wordsworth? It's woven through, laughably cobbled together, as if he's reading three poems simultaneously.
I hike out to the line and peg out the clothes. The wind is up. The birds dart overhead, heading to the shelter of the pines. I think I hear the man's poetry like an undercurrent in the wind.
***
I add more butter the potatoes and give them a final whip with the fork. I've not seen the strange poet, the vagabond, for a while. I check the sausages in the grill and turn to pull out a plate. I jump back. He's there again. "Dear god, don't scare me like that!"
He smiles at me, the skin crinkling around the eyes. He's clean. I look down, and see the dog is too. They must have been to the dam.
I look away to the dinner, enough for two. "Are you hungry?" I ask and point to the table. He moves off and the dog follows him, tail waging.
Eating together at the same table is unnerving. His green hardback book is on the table beside him. He eats distractedly, his eyes returning to the pages. I wonder what I should do with him. It is late. The wind has brought rain, heavy rain. It drums on the tin roof like nervous fingers insinuating tension into the house. The study was far enough away from me. Perhaps he could..
He finishes his meal and stands while pushing the plate forward. He rattles off a few lines of poetry by Lord Tennyson. "She left the web, she left the loom, she made three paces through the room."
My eyebrows knit. This is ridiculous. "You can stay in the study. There's a single bed in there."
He nods and the dog leads him away. There's no telly. I try to sleep but I stare into the open closet, where my husband's clothes still hang. My eyes linger in the shadows knowing all those little things that belonged to Sam are still there. I throw off the blankets and begin to go through the wardrobe. I pull some clean clothes out, fold a shirt, trousers and the rest. I edge open the door and peek out. The study door is shut, but the murmur of poetry still leaks through the cracks. I step closer and lay the pile of clothes down.
The next morning the sun is already soaking up the rain puddles. The blue sky is flawless like a sapphire I once had set in a ring. I rummage through the fridge for a picnic lunch and a bottle of last year's vintage. The screen door bangs as I step outside.
The forest is peaceful. I lay back on my red-checked blanket. The sun leaches the green away; the leaves on the gums fade to grey. I hear the poet again. He's there behind me, dressed in my Sam's old clothes. They make him look whole and less of a lunatic. I start and upset my wine. Hesitantly I offer him food. He touches my hand, when he accepts the sandwich. My gaze falls upon the book. I can't make out the title. I look away to the forest, the trees marching back until they become obscure and mesh into a dark grey blur.
I see movement, like a person walking behind a tree. Sitting forward, I stare hard, watching for it again. Out of the corner of my eye I see something. My eyes focus on three women walking in the wood. Flowing Grecian-style gowns of white, cinched at the waist with gold sashes, hair half bound in a bun, with the remainder trailing like waves of auburn down their backs. They are beautiful; I can see it even from this distance. Skin like alabaster, eyes dark, red wine-coloured lips. I shake my head, thinking the scene is a pantomime rehearsal. One of the women touches a tree trunk with a graceful hand, trailing her fingers on the bark. Then she steps lightly and surely to weave a path among the eucalypts. Then I see a man. He's in a blue business suit. I blink back my surprise and scramble to my feet. I hear the poetry in the air yet am alone on my blanket. I jog part way into the forest, leaping the creek and almost catching my foot on a loose stone. I can smell these women, a tantalising perfume floats in the air and my mouth waters. There are more men following these women. I tread further, engrossed in watching them. The women stride effortlessly without appearing to hurry. The first man is running but he hasn't caught the one he's chasing yet. I can hear him panting. It echoes around me, growing louder. I see the woman smile and turn partially back. The man is close to her; he reaches out to touch her. I watch biting my tongue. The man screams. He's staring at his hand. It's mottled purple and blisters are forming. The more he screams the more the blisters spread. His hand is gnarled now and his chest is bubbling, the flesh roiling as if drowning in acid. My eyes dart to the other men. 'Don't!' I shout.' Starting to run. 'Don't touch them.'
No one listens to me. The other men are pursuing the women with even more haste. I hear screams and know more are being hurt. I run deeper into the forest. Again I hear the poet's words on the breeze, meaningless jumbles of rhymes. I look back but I can't see him, or the picnic or the grass where I was sitting. I hear footsteps. Another man approaches. 'Don't touch them!' I yell into his face. But his eyes are glazed.
I bury my head in my hands and bend over double, sucking breath into my lungs. I hear feet treading purposefully towards me, the crunching of leaves and twigs. I look up. A man is approaching me. But he's not an ordinary man. He walks slowly towards me, and I am spellbound. He is Apollo, Adonis, a god amongst men. His white robe flows around him. The sleeves of the short tunic contrast with his tanned arms. A spicy smell reaches me. I inhale it deeply. I can't move. I feel no fear. His face is serene. Soft brown curls brush against his temple and cheek. His eyes are dark like midnight without stars. I stare into them searching for a sprinkling of stardust. His soft hand strokes my cheek, and I shiver with excitement. His expression never changes. His perfectly shaped mouth is opening. I see the neatly formed teeth as he draws me closer. My mouth is open and eager. I want him to kiss me. He captures my mouth and kisses me hungrily. I am transformed by the taste of him. I am ravenous. My passion rises, trilling my blood with desire. My juices flow in anticipation. I want to give myself to him completely. I don't care if I live or die.
My skin is singing with the joy of his touch. We make love. I am sighing and groaning and screaming with ecstasy. His caresses, his movements seem to go on forever. I'm lost in it, fulfilled by it. I weep with bliss. This man-god has touched my very soul. Our rhythm peaks. I don't want the moment to end. I want to cling. I want to hold him forever. And then he is gone.
My enlivened senses, the nerve endings in my skin are throbbing. I breathe through it and open my eyes. The forest is gone. He is gone. I want to wail at his abandonment. But I notice something about where I am. A room that is familiar. My brain kicks in, sifting through images trying to find the correct name for the place and the time. I touch my abdomen. I'm pregnant, very pregnant and sitting on a couch. My mouth hangs open while I try to comprehend and then my first husband walks in. I scream. I am in my past. Terror assails me. I don't want to live through that time again. I scream louder. "What are you doing you stupid girl?" says my first husband. His words cut me. They bring back all the pain and hurt of that time. The past that I had buried so deep is now an open wound. I want to cry but the tears are afraid to fall. He never liked weeping women. Desperation near overwhelms me. I hear the poetry in the air. Soothing. If I am back in my past perhaps I can change it.
I feel a wave of dizziness and the room around me blurs and shifts. I open my eyes. Once more the place is familiar. It is the past again, but another part of my life filled with humiliation and personal trials. "No!" I cry, "I don't want to do this again. "I fear the degradation and all those things that made my life hurt back then. I fight it. Nothing seems to shift and then I remember that those painful things made me what I am now, they made me grow, made me strong. My fear falls away.
Again my vision wavers yet I am at peace. Whatever is thrown at me I know I can conquer it for I have conquered it before.
A breeze shifts my hair. The call of lorikeets and kurrawongs stir the air. I smell the grass and the dust and open my eyes once again. I am in the forest where the vision began. The women are gone. So is the man. How I long for his touch, the thrill of his mouth on mine. I sigh. Lovemaking never felt like that.
I feel tenderness between my legs and pause. A slow trickle leaks out of me and dampens my underpants. My skin feels enlivened as it did under his touch. My blood pulses energetically. I step on stones to cross the creek. My dog is there asleep on the blanket. The spilled bottle of wine makes a puddle in the corner of the rug. Sitting square on the blanket is the tattered green book. The title was once embossed in gold. I finger it, tracing my nails along the indents. It was called A Vagabond Rhyme. I flick it open and thumb a few pages. The lines of famous poems were intermingled, just as the hobo had said them. One line stands out above all others. Shakespeare, I think it is. "I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was."
Back at the house I feel different. My home is no longer a hallowed place, a shrine to my memories. It is a burden, a reminder that I have refused to move forward. I swing open the wardrobe and pack my things. When I am done I pick up the tattered green hardback and put it in the car. My dog leaps onto the back seat, tongue lolling. I steer the car down the drive, leaving the grapes loaded with a potential harvest. With some regret I pause, but the links to the past are too strong, wines, grapes, sweat, death.
A swirl of dust rises up as my tyres leave the drive. With the book next to me I smile. It is my turn to quote the Vagabond Rhyme.
__________________________________