When you look down, the boy has already snaked free of his T-shirt, is pulling down the jeans. He gives you the clothing as though he also sees what will come, providing he makes it. He walks towards the black water and when it touches him he jumps, emitting a sound as though it scalds him. The old one chuckles; you flinch. The memory is still raw. This boy is strong, perhaps stronger than you were, and he returns to the water’s edge, looks back once, waits for your confirmation, steps forward again until it reaches his knees, and then his hips, then his chest as he pitches forward. He is swimming. His strokes are choppy, and he kicks up a cloud of water, but he is moving confidently. The old one puts a matey hand on your shoulder. You allow it.

And the boy moves steadily across the city’s wound. Not graceful, not even fast, but a constant, dedicated pace. Soon, he is a third of the way, then half. You are silent, but inside you spur him on. Inside, you are shouting encouragement into the wind. It grows difficult to see his dark head against a dark background in the still of night, and your thoughts drift when all you can make out is the distant cascade of dirty water; you see yourself back in that classroom, faced with the paints and the easels and the vision in your head. You imagine yourself taking a deep breath, steadying nerves. Lifting the brush, dabbing the fibres into the first colour you see in your mind’s eye, Cadmium Yellow Light, making a mark on canvas. This pleases you, and so you make another. And another. You wash the brush in a water pot, select another colour. Ivory Black. You trace thick, straight lines. You are smiling. The tutor looks over your shoulder, whispers. You can’t hear him. You’re lost.

The boy splashes closer to the northern bank. You gasp. He seems to be moving faster. You walk until water caresses your shoes, fingers clenched. You bring them to your mouth, cupped on each side.

‘Go on!’ you are yelling. ‘Go on, you can! Go on!’

And he does. On the other side, a tiny figure drags himself ashore, leaps into the air, cartwheels. You shout congratulations, and although they are lost in the wind, you feel they somehow reach him. You remember the old one, turn back.

‘He did it!’ you scream. ‘He—’

There is no one. Just the lights of the city, a mass of buildings, the gravelled voice of the wind. The old man and the boy are gone. And yet you smile. You turn towards the bank and sit on the mud, and then lie back, oblivious to the cool, slick, wet earth, lifting your right hand before your eyes. The fingers are still as the night, steady. You breathe.

SEED

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