Fiction

Anchoress

Peace, she worried, might have even more intractable dangers than war. All the people wondering about what they should do, filling the spaces of peace, rather than war, with danger. This person that person saluting, pointing, as if when you weren’t wearing a uniform, you were wearing a uniform.

With this in mind she looked both ways before she stepped out of her house to go check the forest. That was a great thing that you did for that poor person, said a voice, immediately approaching her. She thought she had done it incognito so now she was nervous, as if the voice had been waiting for her, as if peace, even a charitable act, held a hidden danger. This person that person, the voice said, with a sweep of the arm… but before the voice could erect the platform from which he was about to make a speech, she managed to duck back inside.

Inside the house was peaceful, and so the question of whether or not she’d been rude worried her. In all that stillness. She went to the old telephone in the hallway and rang her son, who she knew would be troubled. She spoke to him and her fears were confirmed. They’re cutting down the red cedars, he told her. Toona ciliata. He would lose his job soon and would have to become a lifesaver. He’d have to wear a peach and apricot uniform. It is terrifying, he said. She agreed but sat by the phone twirling her hair. She did not betray any anxiety in her voice. She was his mother. In peace there were dangers, not only in war. Things you could do. Everyone was on the telephone, having anxious conversations, ringing their sons because the peace was unnerving. As if it was hardly peace at all. Someone close, preferably a blood relation, had always to be given the opportunity to erect their platform.

Three times she tried to leave the house to get to the forest and see for herself, and three times unsuccessfully. Instead she stayed inside and made donations, reaching out to those in need. Reaching out, she thought, because her fears were so often confirmed. Peace had, after all, if not greater dangers than war, then at least those unnerving voices approaching her on the road. Thanking her for all she’d done. When she thought she’d done next to nothing. And told no one. Which was okay as long as you realised it was dangerous. Only then, when you understood the danger, could you feel any kind of comfort, though not exactly peace.

That night she lay on her couch listening to the currawongs in the distance. They were getting closer. Currawongs never called at night. They had her undivided attention. She heard them slowly spreading, the numbers seeping, echoing. Was that speech, she wondered, or something more instrumental? She realised that, no, the currawongs were not erecting any platforms. This was not a performance. It was chilling. Peace, she reminded herself, was no less a performance than war. The birds were presumably not worried about what they should do so they were not experiencing peace. Possibly something closer to war. If it is a spectrum.

She nodded off on the couch and when she woke she was terrified. All that stillness. There was no wind. All she could think about was the future, when it all might come. She felt guilty then, thinking it was her all along. She was where her son got it from. The cedars are going, he had said. He would have to wear a peach and apricot uniform. It was terrifying, he said. She went to the cupboard and poured herself a drink. What time was it? The darkness gave her no indication.

If it is a spectrum, from dusk to dawn, if it is a spectrum, the dusk, in its stages, if it is a spectrum, the dawn, in its stages. And peace, all the shadows it held. Eventually she poured herself another glass of wine.

The next morning she woke with the same idea. The cedars are being cut. She showered, dressed, and remembered how rude she’d been to the man who’d approached her, the voice erecting the platform. She resolved to go out again, to go look at the forest, to see for herself where they’d got to. Peace, after all, might be just as dangerous as war. And if she heard the voice again, the voice that thanked her for the great thing she’d done for that poor person, she would apologise. For what she’d done. Peace had its dangers, and she’d made all those donations. She’d thought they were done privately. The prayers of an anchoress. If he erected his platform again, she would say nothing. She would stop and listen. But would that be the wrong thing to do if the platform was made of cedar?

She fixed herself a coffee, recalling the currawongs overnight. The machine grinding, her fears were confirmed. It was as her son had said. He would soon be out of a job. He would have to wear a peach and apricot uniform. She was his mother. She would gladly wear it for him. The lifesaver’s uniform. Something close to war. Closer to her house. Three times again she tried to leave that morning but three times unsuccessfully. Three times she tried to leave again that morning but three times unsuccessfully. She stayed inside, and eventually, after much research and deliberation, she went to the old telephone in the hallway and rang her son.

This article was first published in the print edition of The Saturday Paper on November 29, 2025 as "Anchoress".

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