#Inktober2019 - Day 05, 'Build'

What makes a home?

Is it a place that feels comfortable? Four walls, a roof, a nice picket fence? No, that can’t be it. We had homes long before those things were an option, continue to want homes even now they’re gone.

Is it people? Being surrounded by the ones you love? That’s better, but still not right. I kept my family close through all the months we ran, and no matter how much that grotty tent began to stink it never once felt like home.

Maybe it’s safety, then. A place you can feel at ease putting your head down at night, knowing it’ll still be attached come morning. That’s closer, I think. But how easily does a prisoner sleep in solitary confinement?

No, there’s something more to it than that. It’s a feeling, a sense of belonging, not a bunch of boxes to be ticked off a list. That night, when the tide came in and never stopped rising, it wasn’t the TV that I wept for. I didn’t cry for a wardrobe full of fine clothes, or the expensive chandeliers.

When they finally came, as we gazed into the pearly murk from atop the foothills of the Alps, my tears were for the flowers I knew would begin to wither in the garden. For the drowsy mornings next to my husband as we’d awaken and embrace in the light and warmth of the rising sun. For my children’s scribbles on the refrigerator, worthless and priceless in equal measure.

I don’t know how long we sat and watched as the ocean swallowed Sanremo. The moon was so clear that night, as bright and cold as dawn over ice, drowning the world in crystalline light. The way the buildings sparkled, gleaming with all the beauty of God, I couldn’t tell the difference between the spires and the mist which claimed them. I don’t know when the moment was that they slipped away forever: all I remember is realising that they were already gone.

And then the devils came.

We didn’t know what to make of the shadows which bobbed and weaved through the mist at first. Survivors, perhaps? We’d heard tales of those poor souls who touched the clouds and weren’t carried away. Their eyes would crack, their skin would harden and their lungs would fill with blood as the sea-plague took them, hour by hour. We’d see it more and more over the coming weeks, hear them begging for the mercy of death.

But on that first night, they weren’t survivors. What rose through the mist were creatures of shell and bone, hissing and chittering as they stalked from the darkness, their speed unnatural and impossible over such broken ground. We ran: it was all we could do. Turned and ran for the mountains, stumbling and staggering in the half-light with no care but for ourselves. I remember the moment where a man reached out for me, begged me to help. His leg was trapped, caught up in a tangle of roots and vines, his thrashings only serving to hold him faster. His face was shining with sweat, his eyes wide, his voice desperate, and I left him there, listened to his pleading as it grew fainter until it was ended by a single, horrible wail.

Afterward, I told myself that it was because I didn’t have time to save him; that I couldn’t risk touching someone who might be contaminated; that I was too caught up in panic to do anything but run. Lies, all. The truth is that I wanted him to be caught. Wanted the monsters to reach him, to drag him screaming into the missing, to stop and butcher him where he stood for the simple reason that his death would put a few more seconds between my family and the devils.

The monsters made monsters of us in turn.

It was like that for months. Everyone from that night must have had a similar story, a shame which kept them from others as surely as their knowledge of those others’ shame fostered mistrust. What trust can be formed when all the world is sinners?

It nearly happened on the day the Cialdinis arrived, clad in rags and slick with the sweat of the desperate. None of us knew what to do at first as we gazed at one another, trying to decide whether to call out or raise weapons. In the end, they made the choice, calling out to us to beg for help. Their daughter, barely a week old and deathly ill. It could have been a trap, a trick, some perverse ploy to lower our guard, but I couldn’t take that chance. That night, for the first time in the four months since we had watched decency die, we put our trust in another family. We traded medicine and clean water for food and clothes, and so my children stayed warm and their baby lived.

In the morning, they stayed. It was a spot as good as any - high in the hills with a spring of fresh water, beside a meadow of fruit and the occasional errant goat. Weeks later, we came upon another group picking at that fruit, agreed to trade a little. The next pair were less friendly, but the guns of our new companions were enough to drive them away. After that we began to build the wall, little more than a fence in those days. One of our new companions said he knew another group not so far away who might have the tools we’d need, and offered to go to them.

Little by little, we grew. As the word spread, more people began to arrive, each bringing their own goods and skills. Sometimes they’d leave once they were done, happy to trade and keep moving, but most chose to stay, to make a go of things. With each new arrival, what was once but seven people trying to survive became a trading hub for those in the area, and that trading hub slowly became a community.

Sometimes I look around, and see what we’ve become. Over there, Paolo scowls over the walls, a rifle slung over his knees. To you he’d be nothing but a foul temper, all ruddy cheeks and wild eyes, but to me he’s the man who took my hand as I tended his wounds and swore he’d give his life to protect my family. By the stream, my children work hard in the afternoon sun to carry water where it is needed, already growing as tall and strong as their father. Behind the gate, baskets in hand, Amita and Leonardo bicker cheerfully as they prepare to risk their lives outside the walls to trade for the supplies we need.

By the standards of the world that was, this is a poor place. And yet, as I load magazines in the warmth of the sun, I can’t help but smile. I’d give my life for any of the people here, and I know they’d do the same for me. It’s not the shelters that makes this place what it is, though they’re far better than the world below. Nor is it the people, many of whom I barely know as more than neighbours, brought together by the desire to survive. It’s not even the safety, really. We’re under no illusions that this place is immune to attack.

No, looking around, my heart swelling with pride at what we’ve managed to build with just a few hundred ordinary people and some second-hand tools and material, I realise that I know the answer to my question.

What is home?

Home is what you’d die to defend.