“You even talk like him. My son. ‘Leeching the city’s resources’. ‘Keeping the Vary in order’.” Grizmare lifted the sour gin bottle to her lips, drinking deeply. She wiped her lips with the back of a hand. “Tell me, did you swallow every one of my son’s tracts, page by page?”
The man was too quick in his response to have understood the criticism. “But of course, Madam Titian. My family is grateful for High Judge Titian’s efforts to cleanse this nation of…”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Grizmare took a fresh mouthful of liquor and swilled it around her gum to get rid of the crud the man was spouting. “Oh, I can’t abide sycophants. Worse still, ignoramuses! Tell me, what is your name?”
“Rogber, madam.”
“Tell me, Rogber. How close have you really come to the squalor you and your kind helped elicit?”
“I’m not sure that I understand, madam…”
“Lower the shield, front and back.”
“But, Madam Titian, the Vary will see you!”
“Will they? Will they really, Rogber? And what will they do when they see me? Will they infect me with their fetidness? Will they make my teeth grow, my limbs lengthen? Will I lose my faculties? Have my mind dulled?”
“You could inhale lungrot.”
“I risk that by sitting in my own garden, you ridiculous man! Lungrot doesn’t care who is rich and who is poor. It’s the eternal leveller! Now” – she wielded the bottle like a cosh – “Let the real world in!”
The driver didn’t argue further. He lowered the shield and the darkness of the cab gave way to searing sunlight.
Six weeks after the death of the Speaker, Mohab sat on his father’s low cot and whispered to the men in the barracks.
“There was a man once – tall as a saguaro cactus and just as spikey on the inside. The man’s name was Master Huck and he was a swineherd. His house was fourteen storeys high. Master Huck had built it from the ground up, taking pride in the placement of every brick and each smear of mortar. The windows were hand-glazed, the washhouse paved with imported slate. A generator was installed in the basement of the house and powered by excrement – both his own and that of his pigs.
“Yes, Master Huck was a self-made man, and the tighter the rein he kept on his swine, the more neighbouring farmers and other swineherd wanted to learn from him. ‘Share your secrets of success,’ they would beg, offering up family heirlooms, I.O.U.s, pension funds, and loyal daughters.
“Soon, Master Huck – once a lowly swineherd shin-deep in pig shit – was an esteemed business man. ‘It’s all a matter of hard work, self-belief, and quality control,’ he would tell the farmers and neighbouring swineherds, and, soon enough, the farmers and swineherds in the next state, and then the next state after that. ‘My Swine System,’ he called his patented approach, explaining how he separated males and females, and rehoused the piglets with an old sow that acted as wet nurse. The adult pigs were fattened with a mix of vegetable peel, brewing sops and a chemical bio agent, Zyklan B. When the time came to slaughter the livestock, he processed them in batches, saving only the strongest for future breeding.
“It was a fine and worthy approach to animal husbandry and, before long, Master Huck was far more than a businessman. He was a government minister and, soon, the sole advisor on the processing of swine. His marketing message infiltrated the country’s economy and everyone prospered because Master Huck understood pigs.
“As his System spread far and wide, Master Huck assembled a fleet of hot air balloons, each grander than the last. Beneath gas-filled polyps, he would ride in a great wicker basket accompanied by his trusted advisors and the bold young cadets who had embraced his Swine Solution with zeal.
“The largest of the fleet was the High Hunt, named so because, on occasion, Master Huck and his favoured staff liked to lean out of the basket and take pot shots at the fields of swine below. The guns would recoil back against their shoulders and the air would crack while the ground turned red.
“But there was one factor Master Huck had not accounted for. Through his efforts in selective breeding, he had accidentally homed in on a gene which emphasised intelligence. In other words, pigs being the clever motherfuckers they already are, were being bred exponentially wise. And with this increased intelligence came the ability to rebel.
“So came a day when Master Huck and his crew flew overhead and, while taking their pot shots, noticed how the herd banded together.
“‘What are those swine doing down there?’ asked one ballooner, a whiskery man with a penchant for pigskin boots.
“‘They are running from us,’ said Master Huck, peering down at the strange behaviour.
“The swine broke out of their pens, kicking up buckets of pignuts as they went. It appeared that they were intent on swarming directly beneath the High Hunt.
“‘What are they doing now?’ said a second aviator, a woman with a fat mole on her chin and dripping emeralds from a lifetime farming swine.
“‘They are just stretching their necks,’ said Master Huck, and he pointed his gun at the misbehaving pigs.
“But even though he picked off a good number, he could not halt the incessant swarming below. Pigs clambered over pigs which, in turn, clambered over pigs until soon there was a discernible hill of swine rising ever closer to the craft.
“‘What do we do?’ asked a third occupant of the basket – a young man with excellent blue eyes and hair that had the sun in it. He used his gun on the pigs below, grinning with every shot.
“Master Huck was busy demanding the balloon’s pilot take them higher. But unknown to Master Huck, the pilot was a friend of the pigs and, instead, he helped the balloon descend. With the mountain of swine drawing closer, Master Huck was forced to act. Out went the man in the pigskin boots, hoisted over the basket and dropped into the squirming mass below.
“But they were still going down – which meant more ballast had to be jettisoned. Out went the woman with the mole and the hefty emeralds. Out went the young hunter with the blue eyes and hair full of sun. Even the pilot was shoved overboard. (The pigs cushioned his fall and one particularly reasonable hog insisted on transporting him far away from the warzone to a very fine coffee house.)
“Free of his compatriots, Master Huck felt the balloon start to rise. Except, again Master Huck had not accounted for one factor – an added weight that began to drag that basket down in spite of its buoyant balloon.
“The mountain of pigs knew what the weight was. Broken on the ground and taking their last breaths, the man in the pigskin boots and the woman with the mole and the emeralds and the young man with the blue eyes and sunlit hair knew what the weight was. So did the pilot, watching the decent of the High Hunt from a safe distance while sipping an espresso.
“Despite his prowess as a swineherd, business man and politician, Master Huck had not accounted for the weight of his sins against the swine. As the mountain of pigs peaked, he drew level with the topmost creature.
“‘You shall yield to me, pig!’ cried Master Huck, and he threw off the last bags of sand ballast in the hope the basket might rise. But it kept on sinking and rested at last aloft the pig mountain.
“‘And now you are among us!’ said the topmost pig, and he gave a great snort and all the pigs assembled below answered in kind until the ground shook.
“And so ends the tale of the greedy swineherd and the intelligent pigs. As to what happened to Master Huck, well, they ate him, of course, shared out in the tinniest slivers so that even the youngest got a taste. As to the fate of that grandiose balloon, the High Hunter, the old sow who had acted as wet-nurse climbed into the basket and set sail for bluer skies.”
Mohab got up from the low bunk, knees cracking where the joints had prematurely worn. Had the story been subtle enough? He glanced over at the two blockers who listened in at the doorway. They appeared intent on chewing their tobacco wad. There was no raising of the alarm, no taking matters into their own hands and beating him senseless.
Hopefully only the men in the barracks, those listeners treated daily like swine, would understand the story as a call to rise up when the time was right. Maybe even commit the ultimate act of sacrifice to liberate their fellow prisoners.
All around, men sat in quiet contemplation. For a moment, Mohab worried about the quality of the story. He wasn’t his father. He hadn’t studied the family books of the Vary, or told his versions of these tales over decades. But he had grown up as the Speaker’s son, even if he had done all in his power to forget the fact. He had listened to bedtime stories, fairy tales, songs from the old country, and poems in honour of Mama Sunstar. To conjure up the parable of Master Huck and his rebellious swine had felt like breathing. And, after all, what was the point of rejecting his family legacy any more? He was swiftly approaching his end days, his body all but used up. He might as well do a service to his people before he went. Maybe even find some comfort after the final loss of his father.
The doubts fell from his shoulders as, slowly, men placed one hand over their hearts, thumb to forefinger – sign of Mama Sunstar – and, in so doing, signalled their agreement with the plan disguised as a story.
Eighteen
Kali had often wondered what happened to Mister Thatchett. Did the old man finish packing up all those empty boxes himself and make a successful journey to Augland, a sanctuary where, even now, he and his friend sat in chairs opposite one another, sucking their gums and berating the weather? It was a picture which appealed to Kali’s new sensibilities. Except then she would remind herself of all the years which had passed since that day when she ran from an old man needing help. And she would force herself to confront the reality of another, deep-seated memory – of all that took place the day after.
Gathering in her grandmother’s driveway, the guards had arranged themselves in pairs standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Watching from her hidey-hole in a large bush of feather gorse near the open gates, Kali had noticed how serious the guards looked – ten of them, dressed in long boots which came just short of the knees. She felt a mix of feelings in the pit of her stomach. Awe, because the guards looked so innately uniform, jacket buttons dazzling like tiny bites of light, and caps worn low over the eyes at an identical angle. Intimidation too, because there were so many of them, and because they moved as one.
To the fore of the group stood the sergeant; Kali had not known the woman’s rank at the time, but there had been a clear indication of leadership in the way she stood apart from the others and spoke with efficiency. Kali couldn’t hear more than a murmur, but the woman commanded the rapt attention of her unit.
Soon enough, Kali had begun to feel uncomfortable in her hiding place. The plumes of feather gorse had appeared soft enough, but now she remembered her grandmother’s warning about the sap which oozed from the plant’s exposed roots. ‘Give you ants in your pants!’ Grizmare Titian had warned, puckering her lips like a maw cat’s anus.
Her grandmother was right. Kali’s bare legs were beginning to itch.
She emerged from the bush, blotchy legged and ratty haired, just as the guards were marching out of the gates. Shading her eyes with the flat of a hand, Kali thought about calling out, just to see if any of the soldiers broke rank. What would happen if one of their number disobeyed an order, or allowed themselves to be distracted? Would the sergeant beat them for insolence? Would she produce a rock shot pistol and shoot the dissenter on the spot? Would she turn her gun on Kali?
In the end, as much as Kali was desperately, almost perversely, keen to find out, she was distracted when the National Guard marched dead ahead onto Mister Thatchett’s driveway and the sergeant approached the old man’s front door. ‘Too trusting’, her grandmother had always called the gateless property. Watching the guards smash down Mister Thatchett’s front door, Kali wondered if any number of gates would have stopped their assault.
“What are you gawking at there, child?” Her grandmother was coming down the driveway, floor length kaftan billowing, her thin grey hair disguised under a turban.
“National Guard,” said Kali, matter-of-fact. Opposite, the guards charged inside the white sugar cube house.
Grizmare Titian huffed. She knitted her hands together, the generous sleeves of her kaftan covering them as if a deliberate effort to contain her natural emotions. “I told Tomlin to have you help him pack his things away. I hope you did.”
“Uh-huh.” Kali rubbed at her scarlet thighs. She hoped her guilt wasn’t too obvious.
“Let’s hope Tomlin set out on his journey before… Motherfuckers!”
The guards were emerging back into the sunlight with the old man between them. He’s walking funny, thought Kali. All heavy on one side, as if he was the halves of two different living men stitched together. His right trouser leg was bright scarlet at the knee, and the whole of the right side of his face was blood-stained from a gash at his temple.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Her grandmother stomped between the gates. Kali hurried to catch up, heart skittering with the excitement of the blood and her grandmother’ anger.
The sergeant moved to the front of the unit. The woman’s height was exaggerated next to Grizmare, who looked like a hairy old goat wearing a bedsheet she had run through.
“Madam Titian. I am Sergeant Yorsef of the Bleekland National Guard. This man –” She nodded towards Mister Thatchett, who stood blinking against the sun’s glare and clutching a pair of embroidered bloodstained slippers. He didn’t appear to notice Kali, even when she stared at him hard, mentally begging him to look her way. ‘I see you in a mess’, she wanted her eyes to say.
“This man has been placed under arrest for conspiracy to trade in Stonemaker contraband.”
“He is rich, you imbecile! He collects historical artefacts.” Grizmare was spitting now; Kali half-expected her grandmother to start frothing at the mouth like the tiger dog. “Mister Thatchett has been my neighbour for ten long years. I can vouch for his innocence.”
“It is shocking the kinds of illegal activities one’s neighbour can get up to behind closed doors.” The sergeant towered over Grizmare. Not that Kali had the impression her grandmother gave a jot for the woman’s attempts at intimidation.
“This is thuggery, pure and simple,” Grizmare said with a snarl. “The man is bleeding!”
Kali was caught off guard as her grandmother grabbed her by the arm and thrust her forward.
“This child helped him pack those boxes. She was witness to their contents. Tell them, Kali! Tell them what you saw.”
Kali felt as if she stood on sand that was funnelling away from beneath her, threatening to suck her under. All eyes turned her way. Her voice became scratchy and small.
“Gloves. Lots of gloves. And a scarf thing, and a knotted belt. Everything smelt old, a bit like the zoo smells. And there was a big old book, where Mister Thatchett said the stories live.”
Kali didn’t get to find out if her revelations mattered. At that instant, there was a jolting cry of “Halt!” from behind – both sharp and impassioned.
Begrudgingly, Kali peered back over a shoulder. Her father stood between the open gates, hands behind his back, chest barrelled.
“Ah, good. You can call off your moronic guard here! My neighbour has already been assaulted to within an inch of his life.” Grizmare carried on snorting and grumbling. Between the guards, old Mister Thatchett swayed, the blood soaking his shirt bib.
Kali walked over to her father and put her hand in his. Her father’s grip was firm, reassuringly so, and with a heat that radiated.
“The male has been placed under arrest, High Judge Titian, as per our earlier consultation,” said the sergeant.
The hand let go and Kali felt a sense of loss.
“This is my house!” her grandmother was squawking, a new haggardness to her expression that reminded Kali of a wicked witch. “You might have purchased it once upon a time, but it is my name on the deeds.”
High Judge Titian paid his mother no mind, just gave
a stiff salute to suggest the guards should go about their business. The sergeant returned the salute and Mister Thatchett was bundled into a waiting truck. The rest of the guards climbed aboard at the back of the vehicle, hanging off foot and handholds.
The truck pulled away in a cloud of dust, leaving behind broad skid-marks from its tyres and a patch of drying blood on Mister Thatchett’s gateless drive.
xx
The temperature was unbearable. In the factory, the furnaces belted out thick welts of smoke without pause. Bones splintered in the grates. The living raked out the crud of the dead. Occasionally, overhead, the filmy trail of a gunner left its ghost upon the sky. On battle days, the tiny black stars of smaller craft – twin tanks, F-22s, and coil-wings – were ever so faintly visible in their thousands. Whispers suggested High Judge Titian was on the verge of pushing through the airspace over Augland. But rumours festered inside Abbandon and it was hard to trust anything that came from the lips of broken men.
In the weeks since his father’s death, Mohab had gained the ears and eyes of a Gothendore Sister and, with them, another side to the story. “Titian is up against it, as are his allies. Jonet and Greater Sangolia are plagued with infighting. Greater Sangolia’s troops are losing ground to the ice.” Sister Eva kept her voice low, her crystalline green eyes lost to the shade of her wimple. “We’ve been circulating photostats from the border. Fuck! You should see the soldiers’ chilblains where the skin is exposed. Great fiery birthmarks, as if the breath of Mama Sunstar herself had touched their skin.” Pretending to be loyal to Lord Gothendore, Sister Eva worked her prayer beads through her hands as a couple of blockers passed by. “Cross the arms!” she said loudly, pointing at the body on the ground. Mohab did as he was told. The blockers spat aside mouthfuls of tobacco and moved off.
“And do we have movement on the United Dominions Alliance?” Mohab straightened out the legs of the corpse.
Rise Page 12
