Matt Cook
Click here to read my biography
Jemmed picked up his pestle. To think that he was being successfully teased by a young boy.
“All right, all right. Nothing has happened,” he said, still awaiting some confirmation from the boy. Nothing came. He continued anyway, “but if you are here, then who is going to be checking it today? Imagine what could be happening in all the time you've been away!”
Bilo opened one eye. He did this to effect a condescension. He was in fact enjoying them being shut, sleepy after all.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” he replied.
“But you are neglecting your duty again!” said Jemmed.
He expected an immediate and fierce riposte, but Bilo was in a quiet mood. He was keeping his cool.
“I can't worry about him everyday, he can look after himself.”
This seemed to be enough for Jemmed, and he indulged in his work once more. Bilo kept his one open eye upon him through the wavering flames, sitting in a naturally formed alcove of the soft stone wall. He seemed slightly hurried, and there was creaking and scraping as the flame-distorted man worked the plants into the bowl. When he had finished, he scooped the mushings into a clay jar, and took up a new plant to grind. He had noticed that Bilo was peering at him.
“Here,” he said, handing Bilo a piece of dry fish from the lake to keep him occupied.
“Thanks,” said Bilo, who leant over and took it. It was about the size of a modest modesty cloth, dank and pungent. The skinned side was a mazy black and white; a catfish. Bilo shut his eye and chewed. It tasted decent. It seemed to stop him twitching with needs. The need to seek Jemmed's attention. The need for your hands to have something to do. The need to eat. When he had finished it, he licked his fingers, and saw that Jemmed still hadn't stopped working. How boring.
“Shall I go?” said Bilo.
“No, No,” Jemmed responded with absent irritation. He was building Bilo up to something. His forehead wrinkles and his two thick brows tangled into one. He looked up at Bilo. “I want to show you something. Something I must become,” he spoke with a deep growl, “You must not fear me when this happens, I want you to listen and to learn.”
Bilo shrugged.
Jemmed milled the last of the plants. Then he placed the filled jar at the back of the cave. He returned with another larger jar. It was so heavy that he strained to rotate it into view.
“To know your father, you must also know your ancestors...” he managed.
Bilo sat up and scratched his cheek, and Jemmed sat back down on his stone seat.
“...and you will ask me how this is possible.”
Jemmed looked into Bilo's eyes, now fully open, to see that they were regarding him with an air of discomfort. They were the eyes of a child, but also the white rolling balls of a growing mind. Eyes that had scoped life from the moment they were born. To learn what is and what has been.
“It is possible, because there are things that live now and that were alive then, and they can show us what came to pass.” In his leather-strung waistband were two bright tree flowers. Jemmed lifted the first to the hot space above the fire so that it could be seen.