Depression, as I have heard it is contagious. Brother Michaels, when you came through the hall doors that morning, I thought you must have been an angel or something, and that was why no one could hear where you were from. I am sure if anyone can help us it is you.
By the way, the mustard seeds never grew. If you could tell me where to get some more, I would be most grateful. I hope you didn’t get them in the Bible lands, because if you did it will take a long time to get some more.
The Last Day of the Year
IT WAS THE last day of the year. It was a Sunday but not like any Sunday I had ever known. There wasn’t any lamb and there weren’t any bitter greens and there wasn’t any meeting or preaching. The house was so cold, things felt wet to touch, and it seemed to get dark right after lunchtime. I sat by the kitchen window and thought that I had hated Sunday before but this was a thousand times worse. The one good thing was that I didn’t have to wear Josie’s poncho, but the more I thought about it, even that didn’t seem a bad thing now.
“What can I do about Father?” I said to God.
“He’s lost faith,” said God. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“He hasn’t lost faith,” I said. “He’s just confused.” But I looked at Father, at his neck jutting forward, at his hands flat on the arms of the chair, at the mug of cold tea, at the mattress on the floor and the curtains half drawn, and I wasn’t so sure.
I went up to my room and sat in the window and drew up my knees and watched the sky change from indigo to black and thought how not that long ago I had watched it turn white and fill with snow. The streets and gutters were running with yellow light. There was music coming from somewhere, and every so often I saw people going by; some were arm in arm, some were laughing, some were swaying and singing. After a while there were fireworks, and in the bursts of light I could see for miles. The fireworks stayed still for a second before they fell. I tried opening and closing my eyes so I would see only that flash of light, but most often I missed it.
At midnight, people began singing somewhere, the song about old acquaintances and cups of kindness that they always sang at the end of the year, and then I couldn’t sit there anymore and got up.
“I chose the stone,” I said out loud. I took a deep breath. “I chose to be powerful.” I swallowed. “If I think hard enough for long enough, I will be able to think of something to make things better. But I am not making anything because that always goes wrong.” I couldn’t think of anything to make anyway. I pressed my head really hard with my hands and screwed my eyes up. But I couldn’t think of anything at all.
I said: “Go back to the beginning,” and I asked myself when things had begun to get bad and thought it was actually around the time of the strike.
I had made a factory in the Land of Decoration a long time ago. It wasn’t the sort of thing I usually made, but I had seen the chimneys at the factory in town and thought how much they looked like toilet rolls, so I made them and put ladders from a toy fire engine going up the sides. I made the factory from a shoe box, with clay chimneys and cellophane windows and straws for the pipes. There was a Lego fire escape and a car park and a wire-mesh fence made out of a net that oranges had been in. I went over to the factory now and turned it round in my hands. The chimneys wobbled, but there was no sound inside, because it was empty. I’d taken the people out because I needed them for other things. And then I wondered what would happen if I filled it, if I made an inside.
“It might work,” I thought—and it was such an enormous thought I didn’t dare say it out loud.
Then I said: “But I said I wouldn’t make anything else.”
“Most of the time, everything is possible,” said God.
“But can I really make things better?”
“Yes,” God said, “you can.”
“All right,” I said. And for the last time I went to the trunk and lifted the lid.
I had never seen inside the factory, so I knew this was going to be the hardest thing I had made yet. All I could do was imagine how things looked and hope for the best.
I worked all night, until I saw the light coming over the top of the mountain. Then I felt more tired than I have ever felt, and hollow, like a stalk, and I turned off the lamp and got into bed. “Please, God,” I said, “make this turn out right.”
The Field Again
AND AS I slept I had my favorite dream, the one about the two little people I made first of all, the fabric doll with the dungarees and flowers and the pipe-cleaner man with the green sweater, and they were Father and me.
Father was holding my hand and we were walking through a field, leaving a trail in the grass. Sometimes we went to the right and sometimes to the left. Sometimes I would be ahead and sometimes Father would be. I was asking him about the Land of Decoration, about what it would be like, and then he said: “We’re here, Judith; you don’t have to ask me anymore,” and I looked around and saw he was right. For the first time it wasn’t the pretend world but the real one, with real grass and real sky and real trees, and then I looked down and saw we weren’t dolls but ourselves, and it was wonderful.
The sun was pink on our faces and our shadows grew long. I was talking and Father was listening; he was looking at me, and that was wonderful too. But after a while he began to talk before I had finished and his answers weren’t making sense, and I realized he wasn’t talking to me after all. Then I looked closer and saw that it wasn’t me, and I wondered who I was, and where I was if I wasn’t there, because I could still see and hear everything perfectly clearly.
I watched the two little people go through the long grass. They got smaller and smaller, then joined hands and began to run. I called to them, but I couldn’t make them hear, I was big, and they were small and were running away from me. I wanted to be small more than anything then but saw that I wasn’t and never would be.
They went down by the river where the sun was low and the sand martins were darting, and among the water and low light I lost them.
BOOK V
The End of the World
The Last but One Miracle
ON THE EIGHTH of January, Father came upstairs to my room. His face looked different so I knew immediately something had happened. He said: “The strike’s over. Mike just telephoned.”
