Pseudology

PART ONE: Waking

                                                                      Chapter One

 Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men

Thistles spike the summer air

And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.

Every one a revengeful burst

Of resurrection, a grasped fistful

Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up

From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.

They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.

Every one manages a plume of blood.

Then they grow grey like men.

Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear

Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.

The small strips of fading light which came through the windows fell onto the dark floorboards as a cloud of pale smoke drifted up to the ceiling. Dark curls covered pale eyes and his skin was covered in a thin layer of sweat as the emotions took hold. They came, wave after wave, as lungs inhaled and expanded, eyes closed and mind wavering.

Finally, he had succumbed.

II

There wasn’t much Morton had done to help his brother; a furiously flaming, irate feeling was pitted deep within his chest. He couldn't even touch him to comfort him as the man shook violently in his sleep as though his demons were haunting him. Morton shivered at the idea- sleep should be blissful sanctuary, but clearly, Adrian Reid had no sanctuary from his nightmares.

As a child, he’d always been flinchy and agitated when too close to objects or people, and though he’d been analysed over and over again, nothing had comforted his desire to lash and throw objects, or soothe the burning itch that was permanent in his veins. Morton couldn’t bring himself to gently hold him still, or even go nearer than three feet. And it hurt Morton, deep down, that he couldn’t comfort him. The hurt was being churned up like butter with the anger that was lying once asleep in his chest, and there was no remedy, nothing to soothe the ache.

Morton’s head felt heavy and it ached every time he moved. A migraine was coming, he could feel it, and his eyes were beginning to droop. As he sat down in the comfortable armchair in the corner, he realised that he wasn’t qualified for what was about to come. Yes, he was his brother. Yes, he was cool-headed, sensible, and had numerous connections… but he wasn’t the right person, he feared. There had always been something cold, detached and almost something bitter about the dark haired boy, with his staring eyes and quiet mouth, thin limbs and thin skin. Too thin, in Morton's opinion. To thin to carry the stain of a bruise, the prick of a needle... Too fragile for anything- how could Morton help?

He looked too fragile to lay down, even: Morton could only think of his brother's bones, coupled with the heavy woollen blanket, would crush his lungs and Morton would walk in one morning and find a corpse on the flat’s floor, white and limp. Though, Ade was white and limp now in sleep, and he wondered mildly whether his brother would prefer to be limp, white and dead instead of asleep as he was now: even the thought of suicide disgusted Morton.

His heaviness was replaced soon by an itching sensation, like a burning rash. He fidgeted, he sighed, he even undid his tie (a revelation in itself, Ade would have commented) to release heat, but nothing worked, and he found himself, at eleven o’clock at night, tidying the flat to occupy his stressed body and flagging mind. He hadn’t always been a fidgeter. A younger Morton had often been  so quiet and calm that people didn’t notice him, and as an adult, with an office job and a small flat in a quiet area of London, he was often solitary in his habits and always, above all, controlled. But now, as his brother lay on the carpeted floor of a newly bought flat, wearing baggy clothes and huddled, deep asleep, in a thick blanket, his calmness was beginning to ebb away.