A Mother's Unreason

by Andy Graham

  “People hate more easily than they love,” Rose replied.

  The Elder’s head dropped. “In which case the creature would have killed Brooke or let her die. Measure others not by your standards, Rose, but by theirs. You can’t always see what people have lived through to get to the action you are judging.”

  “Inaction can be as poisonous as action.” The sentence was out before she could stop it. It sounded petulant, even to her ears. After Rose’s own mother had died, Kaleyne had become a surrogate parent for a while, and there were moments when the older woman brought that recently bereaved fifteen-year-old kicking and spluttering back to the surface.

  “Do you speak as one against the inaction of political apathy or as one who was an inactive, absent mother?” Kaleyne asked.

  Rose’s hand whipped up, a quivering finger pointing at her companion. There was a growl from the column of sleeping dogs. The grey half-wolf lumbered to his feet, hackles raised, ears flat. After a few quiet words in a language that Rose had refused to learn, the dog lay down. Its head rested on its paws, eyes fixed on Rose. The rest of the canine column fidgeted under the dust motes that drifted in the sunshine.

  Kaleyne pulled out a hair clip and started snipping loose threads off the blanket. “Lukaz, the leader of the Hoyden, found Brooke in what we call the Resting Room, where our dead wait for the End Times. The only entrance we know about is behind the waterfall beyond the Dawn Rock. I’m sure she didn’t get there that way. There must be an entrance that we don’t know about but, because of the creature, investigating the tunnels is a problem now.” The snip, snip, snip of the scissors paused. “We brought Brooke up to the village and tried to look after her there. The morning after the first night, we found her curled up under one of the statues that line the palisade around our village. After the second night, deep in the woods under the scare-devils that protect our forest. For a week after, we found her next to an underground pool that leads to the Resting Room.”

  “Why didn’t you try and stop her sleepwalking?”

  The older woman continued her pruning. “You should never try to stop a sleepwalker. Especially not one as dangerous as she is. It was Lukaz who suggested moving her here. He thought that maybe being back under the mountain would help. He was right. Since then she’s stopped sleepwalking. As for the element…” Kaleyne’s eyes traced the thin amber capillaries that trailed through the cave walls, streaks of bright colour that pulsed in time with the arteries in the sleeping woman’s neck. “Even the meddling, repressive peace” — Kaleyne spat the final word — “that we have endured for the last few decades is preferable to what we face now. Since your government learnt of what they call gwenium and its sister blue-green rock that make up the heart of this mountain, I have begun to fear our people’s time is at an end.” The hair clip shook in her hand. “And if that is the case, then I will embrace the old ways with the Hoyden and bring down the End Times on your government.”

  Rose rested her hand on the other woman’s arm. “They’re not my government. They aren’t anyone’s government but their own. Neither they nor the legions of Ailan represent me.”

  “You’ve made that abundantly clear since we gave you a home as a tearaway teenager.” Kaleyne squeezed Rose’s shoulder, the red-faced anger draining. “If there were such a thing as a rule book for rebellious children, you would have memorised every letter and punctuation mark.”

  “Or ripped it up and started from scratch.”

  “Yes, that too.” The Donian woman’s face crinkled into a smile. She returned to her work. “What happened to the rest of the squad? I know Sci-Captain James never left the caves alive. I watched the rescue team scoop whatever was left of him into a body bag small enough for a child.” She shuddered. “Despite everything your armies, and the 10th Legion in particular, have done to our people, I was sorry that happened. Especially to a squad containing your son and one of our own. How many of the rest of those legionnaires still live?”

  “Baris Orr and Jamerson Nascimento. They were assigned out of the 10th Legion. I haven’t been able to find out where they are now. Captain Aalok is dead. I don’t know how it happened but I have a source that claims he died saving my son.”

  “A lot of people have died for Ray, including his twin brother. How many more will suffer before you get what you want?”

  This time Rose’s reaction provoked a crescendo of excited barks and howls. It took more than a few words to settle the baying animals down. Rose watched Kaleyne slapping the muzzles of more than one dog. The skin on her cheek smarted as she remembered the older woman doing this to her.

  The sleeping figure twitched, mumbling words Rose didn’t understand. Kaleyne hurried over, concern wrapping her face.

  “What did she say?”

  “‘Where is he? Why has he deserted me? Why has he left us? Our child?’” She fixed Rose with a level gaze. “Now you know the answer to your question.”

  Rose’s breath caught in her throat. “It’s true?”

  “Yes. Your trip here wasn’t wasted.” Kalyene pushed the last snipped thread into a pocket (they would be respun and reused) and slid the hair clip back into her bun. “Your people’s tradition dictates I should congratulate you. I’m not sure why, grandparents have very little to do with the creation of their grandchildren. Though there once was a tribe who tried it for a while. Their argument was that the elderly were old, the young dumb. Use the elderly people to create the young and their wisdom would be pre-emptively passed on to their grandchildren. Two generations of multi-thumbed psychopaths stopped that particularly impressive example of screwed-up logic in its web-footed tracks.”

  The two women shared a revulsed smile.

  “Our people would congratulate grandparents-to-be.” The statement wasn’t petulant Rose assured herself, just factual.

  “Our people save the congratulations for when the grandparent has actively contributed to the life of the grandchild. And given your track record, I hope you will understand why I cannot do that just yet.”

  “This woman is pregnant with my grandchild,” Rose said fiercely.

  “This woman’s name is Brooke.”

  “What was wrong with her original name?”

  “Nothing. She chooses to identify herself as Brooke, so I will respect that. My happiness doesn’t depend on forcing another to agree with me. Brooke is pregnant with her and your son’s child. They deserve the praise. Not you. And if I had my way, parental praise would also be reserved until they have shown they deserve the pregnancy, that they are contributing to the child’s life rather than using the child to bolster their own self-esteem. Too much is given away too freely these days. Accolades need to be earned not gifted like sweets or bribes.”

  One of the dogs behind them cracked its jaws open in a wide yawn. With a grunt, it stood, circled the small patch of rock beneath it and flopped back down, satisfied that its master was still there.

  Rose thrust her hands deep into her pockets, balling them into fists. “The two are healthy, at least?”

  “So far. Though we are not sure what the close proximity of the rocks will have done to her and the baby. The red rock, this gwenium, has had a disastrous effect on the creature under the mountain, a result that even our old records have very little information on. We don’t know what the other rock does to people, if anything. No one has ever studied what either will do to an unborn child.” Her voice descended to a guttural snarl. “Even in our darkest times, when blood and vengeance were a common currency to all our tribes, the Donian people respected the sanctity of pregnancy. Unlike the drug companies and your government, which have trialled all manner of unlicensed products and experimental procedures on the unborn, all for the promise of a potential profit.”

  “Those drug companies are part of the Ailan government in everything but name, Kaleyne. We have the same enemy, you and I. The reasons may be different, but the goal is the same. Will you think on my proposal?”

  “I will put it to the v
illage and the Hoyden.”

  “The Hoyden will listen?”

  “An unexpected side effect from your son’s trip to the mountain.” Kaleyne’s face softened. “Sub-Corporal Baris Orr fought Lukaz, the leader of the Hoyden. Lukaz insisted on it in order to permit passage. Baris won a lot more than just that fight. He won himself a place in a community that I think he had been searching for for a long time.”

  “I didn’t know this.”

  The corners of Kaleyne’s lips twitched upwards. “Then it can’t possibly be true, can it?”

  Rose opened her mouth to protest, but the words wouldn’t come.

  “Since Baris Orr’s victory around the Dawn Rock, the young men and women of the Hoyden have been more amenable to discussion.” She straightened the blanket. “Come, let Brooke sleep in peace. The dogs will warn us if she wakes, and protect her from anything down here, even the ghosts.”

  Brooke moaned, her head twitching from side to side. Rose lay her hand on Brooke’s belly. Beneath the rhythmical rise and fall, there was the sense that something was stirring there; a kicking and straining of another future biding its time, waiting its turn to be the present and then the past. A vicious hope stirred in her own womb, a womb that she had once considered to have betrayed her. She had failed her children — all three of them — this time it was going to be different. Rose followed the Elder to the entrance, pulling her coat tight around her as the shadows closed in. A thought struck her. “What if it’s twins?”

  Kaleyne stopped. Rose stumbled to avoid walking into her.

  “Then we bring them up according to our laws, not yours. Both will live.”

  A smile crept across Rose’s face. “Twice as many grandchildren means twice as many chances for redemption.”

  “You don’t need to redeem yourself for my sake. Ray’s twin is long dead. But he and his other brother still live.”

  The smile fled. “What do you know of him?”

  “Of Ray, not much. Of the other one, only that he exists and he is as dangerous as a hungry wolf.”

  Rose grabbed the other woman’s sleeve. Kaleyne’s dog growled, a throaty rumble that Rose felt through her shoes. “You mustn’t tell anyone. At least not until I can tell Ray.”

  Kaleyne placed her free hand over Rose’s. “He needs to know before his child is born. Before my great-grandchild is born.”

  Another piece of the puzzle slotted into place. “Brooke is your granddaughter.”

  The Elder smiled. “Yet another troubled teenager who thought theirs was the first fight against the world.”

  Rose took the other woman’s hands in hers. “Congratulations, Kaleyne.”

  “That is not our way.”

  “It is mine, and I want to.”

  “In which case, I’ll take the praise. I would be a rude host to do otherwise. And it is good to know there is at least one thing you do want.”

  Rose straightened her coat. “The other accusations and facts you have thrown at me I will take, as uncomfortable as some may be. But my not knowing what I want is one thing which I refuse to accept. I know exactly what I want: to restore the sovereignty of the Donian nation. And I will fight the Ailan government with their own weapons: division, deception, lies and violence. I will rid the country of Laudanum and her ilk.”

  “The Donian tribes have no sovereign. Our people do not believe in genetic primacy. Is that really what you are fighting for?”

  Rose’s voice quivered. “Yes, and I want my sons back. I will go to war to get them.”

  “War takes sons, it does not usually return them.”

  “In which case I will bend that vicious spiral of yours until I get to choose my children’s future.”

  In the half-light of the corridor, Kaleyne’s eyes were black. “I hope your plans work, Rose, truly. I should also very much like to talk to your youngest, Ray, about this war you plan and his role in my family’s future. I am the senior member of this family, and the Donian tribes still believe in the young respecting their elders.”

  Rose stared down at her feet. “I wasn’t so good at that, was I?”

  “No, Rose, you weren’t.” Kaleyne smiled softly. “Where is Ray now?”

  “The last I heard? In trouble.”

  6

  Smack Time (One)

  Fifteen years ago, a young Ray Franklin, soft skinned and sporting the early tufts of hair that may one day be a beard, was walking down the hill in his home of Tear. He passed the village green and sheltered from the heat of the sun in the shadows under the wolfbark tree. A little further down the green curve of the slope was Stann Taille’s home, his dad’s father. Most villages had a drunk that came with them; Tear had a bitter old man who would be better as a drunk.

  Stann Taille had boxed for the army before he had lost his leg. The accident had cost him his friendship with Ray’s maternal grandad, Rick Franklin. Whatever the truth of the incident in Castle Brecan — and Ray had heard conflicting stories — Stann had changed. When Stann’s son, Ray’s father, had walked out on his pregnant wife, that change had soured further. Stann was determined to suck the sunshine out of any day in an attempt to prepare young Ray for life in a world that took more from you than it ever gave back.

  “Society has become more dystopian than anything any imagination could ever create,” he’d said one year at Hallowtide, the festival he had claimed as his own. “Drivers choose to make sure a pedestrian is dead when they hit them to avoid paying a lifetime of maintenance. Politicians ruin the lives of millions to ensure their opponent doesn’t win. Businessmen strip out pensions from companies so they can get an extra room on their yacht. It’s a world where the Devil sits back and watches as humankind does his work for him.” Stann had repeated those words two days ago. They were as bitter now as they were then, undercutting young Ray’s excitement for the evening festival.

  Ray stopped to rearrange the wood piled around the village green firepit.

  Walked three steps.

  Stooped to retie his laces.

  Walked two steps.

  Stared at the birds swooping in the sky as they traced lines between the dull flash of the drones.

  Walked a step.

  Sighed.

  Every other day, he made this trip to Old Man Taille (‘Sir’ to his grandson) for his lessons.

  Ray had never met his father, so Stann had taken it upon himself to teach him ‘what a man needs to know’. Ray learnt woodcraft: tracking and trapping, how to lay a snare and disguise pits in the ground. Sir had shown Ray how to gut a fish and a pig. Stann said it was the same principle with a person. Not man. Person. Stann maintained that if women wanted equality, then they should get that in death, too. Lately (and apparently with as much success as teaching a fish to fuck in a tree) Stann had been teaching Ray how to box.

  His prosthesis made it harder for the old git to move but didn’t stop his mouth. Ray had wondered if losing the ability to dole out physical punishment had sharpened Stann’s ability to dole out verbal abuse. The summer air was filled with expletives as Stann watched Ray flailing away at a stuffed pig skin that hung on the porch.

  “No, no, no. No! Precision not power. Speed not strength. Brains and balls will beat brawn every time. Remember that.”

  Under the scathing stare of Stann’s sniper’s eyes, Ray set to the pig again. His hands were swimming around inside the oversized leather gloves, stained with years of sweat and blood.

  He hated these times: Stann Taille sitting in his rocking chair, cursing his grandson every time he stumbled or his punch didn’t make a crisp enough sound as it connected. Ray mistimed his step. Missed the pig. His fist whipped into open space. His elbow jarred. He snapped his arm back to his side, resisting the temptation to rub the sore joint.

  He had tried wheedling his way out of these lessons again today. He’d promised Lenka, the old lady who took care of him in his mother’s long absences, that he’d do extra chores. Somehow, like he always did, he had ended up at Grandad’s place, standi
ng next to the skeleton of an old armchair until Stann was ready for him.

  He worked the pig, picking his shots, ducking and weaving. Stann’s cane lashed out at his ankles. Ray pivoted and sunk another right hand into the pig skin.

  He knew why he was here.

  It wasn’t only because he wanted to learn to fight. (Though there was that cute girl from Axeford with the curls you could lose your hands in. She liked a good tear up.) It wasn’t just to be able to beat the other kids in his village. It wasn’t because, despite his unpleasant nature, Stann was the only living relative Ray saw regularly (as Lenka gently reminded him each time he complained). It was something else. Ray’s urge to avoid the white-stubbled old man with his yellow fingernails and slimy lips was beaten by his urge to prove that he was stronger than both Stann and the pig.

  Ray’s right hand flashed out and caught the pig square in the belly. He ducked, adjusted his weight, spun on his feet and thumped a left hook into the pig’s side. There was a murmur of approval from the rocking chair. Ray hit the pig with the same shot. This time trying to split the skin on the far side.

  “Good.”

  The gloat shot, his grandad called it. Hit someone in the head, they go out cold. Hit someone in the liver, they collapse and get to watch you dancing around them as their insides curdle.

  “Time.”

  The pig juddered to a halt.

  Stann reached for a roll-up, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked on one end. The other end glowed a black-flecked red as it sheltered in the remains of his hand. “Maybe there is some Taille blood floating around in all that Franklin filth. You’ll need that when you sign up. Though I wish those bloody recruitment vans would leave this place alone for a change.”

  That was the closest to a compliment Ray had heard in a long time.

  “Do you think I could be regimental boxing champion like you were?” Ray asked, emboldened.

  Stann grinned. His laugh disintegrated into a gurgling cough as he pointed to the green in front of his run-down cottage. The other village kids were preparing for the summer solstice. They were floating balloons up into the leaves of the tree that towered over the green. Some had hurled plastic streamers up into the branches. Others were chalking their wishes onto the bark in picture puzzles. The more enigmatic the better; if someone else guessed your wish correctly, you owed them a forfeit. The older kids were preparing the fire that would burn throughout the night to drag out the longest day that little bit longer.