The Human Son

by Adrian J. Walker

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘That is not what I have heard.’

  ‘And what have you heard?’

  ‘What I have heard is that…’

  ‘Magda.’ Niklas silenced her. ‘This does not help. Whatever the priority of your project, Ima, the noise is robbing us of rest. Many of us are involved in transcendence now, and we cannot function when… when that thing is screaming every hour of every night.’

  ‘It is not every hour. He slept for two last night.’

  ‘It must be stopped.’

  The hot mass behind him renewed their baying.

  ‘And how,’ I said—I attempted to keep my voice calm, as much for me as you—‘do you propose I stop it?’

  Niklas glared at your scalp and bent towards you. His right eyelid twitched.

  ‘I know how I would stop it. It would be quick.’

  This was new territory. I had never seen an erta display such aggression in my life. Lack of sleep had more consequences, I surmised, than mere forgetfulness.

  ‘Get away from my door. You are behaving irrationally.’

  ‘No.’ Rain poured from my porch roof and down Niklas’ furious face. ‘Not until you stop this disturbance. For good.’

  ‘But, I cannot.’

  ‘Then put him somewhere else. The food store, wood shed, stables, anywhere far from here. So we can rest.’

  ‘I can’t put him there. He will suffer.’

  ‘You must do something.’

  The figures closed in on my door, and I felt myself shrink beneath them.

  ‘Get away. You are not rational.’

  ‘Take it from her,’ I heard one of them say.

  That was enough. Beyond the wall of figures, fresh waves of rain lashed the stone, but I pulled up my hood and pushed through them, into the storm, leaving them hissing and babbling behind me.

  I RAN THE perimeter of Fane, smothering your cries in my robe, my breath the only other sound above the roar of rain. I soon broke through the trees and found myself on the beach, where I sat upon a rock and, protecting you beneath the canopy of my hood, looked unblinking out at the wild sea. I was alone again, drifting with neither direction nor destination in mind, like…

  It was not like anything.

  I had to think.

  I could walk to Oslo, find Haralia. She could help me. Perhaps we could even swap settlements, so that she and Jakob could be together permanently. Would they actually want this, I wondered? Jakob might, but Haralia—I suspected she somehow drew excitement from their separation, like…

  Not like anything. Nothing is like anything.

  In any case, a move to Oslo would only leave me with a new set of villagers to irritate. Perhaps I could move to Ertanea instead. I could raise you in the cool, empty halls where you would have the freedom to scream all you wished. The echoes would be endless, and nobody would hear them but me.

  But that was the point; you had to be heard. This was the purpose of the whole endeavour. I looked down at you, mouth stretched into a wide bow, eyes squeezed tight. Within half a year, still unable to take a step or utter a word, you had already incensed the 147 erta closest to you, 148 if you counted Haralia. And if you counted me…

  You could not count me. Even here, banished, soaked, starving, and exhausted, you could not count me.

  Now, this is important for you to understand: I did not sit there in that torrent eluded by feelings of sweetness and light; I could still count a hundred ways in which your existence brought me discomfort and frustration. It was just that, in spite of this discomfort, in spite of this frustration, and in spite of the dark and the rain and the wild sea before me, I knew I would rather be on that beach with you than back in Fane with them.

  I knew then that you belonged to me, and I to you.

  This was a fresh variable. But I was too tired to work it into the equation right now. I needed sleep. I looked out at the dark ocean, thinking how easy it would be to wade in and sink beneath it.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  I jumped to my feet and swung to face the voice to my right. It was Jorne.

  ‘You. You should not creep up on others like that.’

  ‘And you should not have a child out in this rain. What are you doing here?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I told you, I walk this coast often.’

  ‘After midnight? In the rain?’

  I stumbled back as he approached, his face caught in dim moonlight.

  ‘Once again, I feel I should point out that I am not the one carrying a child.’

  ‘And once again I feel I should point out that my choices are none of your business.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  I stared back at him. Fane was a black shape beyond. I could still hear the grumbles of shuffles of the mob returning to their homes. You screamed and wriggled in my arms.

  ‘Hiding. They are after me, they came to my house, angry through lack of sleep.’

  ‘Because of his cries?’

  ‘Yes. I believe they want to hurt him. They are senseless. I have never seen erta behave that way.’

  A wave hit the shore near our feet and for a short time you ceased your cries. Jorne turned to me.

  ‘The tide is approaching. Come with me.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘It is just an idea. Come.’

  And there was the smile, the one with nothing else attached to it. Tightening my hood and covering your head, I followed him into the rain.

  ‘WHERE ARE WE going?’ I said, as he led me across the paddock and up the shallow embankment at the base of the cliffs. I kept within the circle of light cast down by his torch.

  ‘Just follow me. The trees will soon give us shelter.’

  We walked for a kilometre, two, into the dripping canopies flickering with shadow. Soon we emerged onto what looked like a tunnel, open at one side. There was the sound of water above us.

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘A waterfall. It leads to a stream, here, look.’

  In the glimmer of Jorne’s torchlight, I saw a brook trickle down over the rock onto flatter ground. We followed it along until we were on a grass bank, protected from the rain by the overhang above. The feeling was of being inside, although the air was still fresh and salty from the sea below. Tall reeds creaked in the rippling water.

  I sat down with you. You were awake, but quiet, at peace. Your eyes twinkled in Jorne’s flame as he knelt down too.

  ‘It is cooler up here, and the rain is not so disturbing. Walls and roofs—they can protect, but they can imprison too.’

  ‘I think he likes the sound of the reeds.’

  ‘I think you are right.’

  I looked up at him, this strange person with an uncomplicated smile. I still did not trust him.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘The same place as you. And him. Everyone.’

  It was a ridiculous answer, but I did not have the energy to argue it. I yawned.

  ‘I am weary,’ I said.

  ‘Then sleep.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Why not? He has.’

  I looked down to see that he was quite right. You had fallen asleep with your hand curled around its new blanket.

  ‘Sleep, Ima,’ he said. ‘It is perfectly safe.’

  I placed you gently upon the grass, and lay down beside you with one hand near your face.

  ‘Have you named him?’ whispered Jorne.

  The reeds creaked and shuffled somewhere far away.

  My name is Japanese. I chose it for its meaning: now, which is the only thing that exists. Yours I chose for a sound that brought you comfort.

  ‘Reed,’ I said. ‘His name is Reed.’

  My eyelids felt heavy, so I closed them.

  TWO YEARS

  — NINETEEN —

  I HAVE SEEN humans before.

  Let me tell you about tea.

  Tea is a drink which I enjoy. You allow me to drink
it now, although for a long while you did not; once you began to move around—crawling at first, then dragging yourself along on your rear-end in the manner of a dog cleaning its back passage, followed, finally, by something approaching ambulation—the level of my engagement required to keep you safe prohibited the completion of most tasks, including personal nourishment and hydration.

  I became a bodyguard of sorts, protecting you as you explored the numerous corners of your small world. You banged into tables, toppled chairs, pulled blankets from beds, reached for boiling cups, fiddled with doors. Our forest walks became exercises in survival training. You would run, giggling towards sheer drops or deep pools and I would be forced to leap after you, snatching you before gravity could.

  I took care not to show you too much, remembering what my mother had said. I moved only as swiftly as required. I knew this subterfuge would grow more difficult as you integrated with others, but for now it was just you and me. And sometimes Jorne.

  The morning after Fane’s mob had descended upon me, I woke to the smell of smoke. Jorne was nowhere to be found, but he had set a fire for us and left a jug of milk and a brace of herring smoking on a pole. The rain had gone, and I watched the bright blue, windless sky, eating the fish and drinking cool stream water while you slept. You were more peaceful than I had ever thought possible.

  It was mid-morning when we returned to Fane. Niklas looked awkward in the square.

  ‘Ima,’ he said. ‘I am sorry for last night. I do not know what happened.’

  I steadied my gaze, though his flitted about. He was hardly able to meet my eyes.

  ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘Most are still asleep.’

  ‘Even Magda?’

  He looked to the floor.

  ‘I do not know about Magda.’

  I took a breath. You lay quietly in my arms.

  ‘You were tired. It is to be understood.’

  ‘It is not. We behaved terribly. I feel shame, Ima. Are you all right? Is… it…?’

  He looked down at you. Though Niklas did not know it himself, I saw shreds of the very same malice in his eyes I had seen the previous night. I inched back.

  ‘I assure you we are fine,’ I said. ‘And thank you for your apology, but it is clear to me that we cannot stay here.’

  He frowned, though I saw relief too.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘We must stay in Fane, but I will build a new dwelling. Technically it will be within the settlement’s borders, but far enough away to guarantee rest. At least for you.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I know of a place.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I will help you. We will—’

  ‘Thank you.’ I turned to leave. ‘But I do not need your help.’

  I set to work that day hauling timber from the forest to the bank within the rocks. I worked with you upon my back. You were at peace in your sling, absorbed in the sound and light of the trees, and the motion of my exertion. At night we camped by the river. We did not see Jorne, but in the mornings I sometimes found more herring, or fruit, or vegetables, and always a fresh fire.

  Soon I had created a cabin for us within the overhang. It had three rooms like our original house, and a plumbing system for waste which led to a small lagoon in which I cultivated my own form of broth. It was better, in my opinion, than that which came from Fane’s own lagoon. Richer and more nourishing.

  But I was not talking about broth, I was talking about tea.

  IF YOU DISCOUNT David, the technician who witnessed my birth, and Dr Nyström herself, whom I saw only briefly as I left to convene with my elders, siblings and cousins beyond her laboratory, the first human being I encountered was a bony old man on a broken pier. His name was Roop, and perhaps it was because of him that, when designing your genetic prototype, I based your appearance on the rich brown skin, dark hair and bright eyes of the Indian subcontinent. It was also here that I first encountered tea.

  I had flown to Assam to study the atmospheric effects of a newly regenerated rainforest, a two-hundred-square kilometre resurrection of barren land overseen by Greye. I landed in the fringes of his forest, in a hot and humid meadow already buzzing with life. Greye met me as I packed my balloon. He was younger then, with blacker hair and brighter eyes.

  ‘A good trip, Ima?’ he said, wrapping his thick hand around mine.

  ‘Always,’ I replied. ‘Shall we?’

  We screamed at each other for 12.3 seconds, disturbing a flock of nearby wood ducks.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Greye once we had finished. ‘Now let me show you the forest. Then we can have tea.’

  ‘Tea?’

  We ran through the forest, covering sixty-eight miles or thereabouts throughout the day. He explained the complexity of the forest’s ecosystem and of the precarious balance between the species that lived there. Sometimes we shared more data, our screeches mingling with the calls of birds and apes. Otherwise we simply talked. I took measurements from the lofty canopies whooping with langurs, and down on the ground, where long-legged spiders scuttled, and leeches stood erect at the smell of our blood, and hordes of ants swarmed, and the bracken began its slow journey into mulch.

  At evening, we emerged by the bank of a great river lined with the bamboo dwellings of Greye and his three sons. Here we sat upon a deck, watching the sun’s descent over the water, where buffalo drank, and Greye showed me this thing called tea.

  ‘You see the leaf?’ he said, holding up a twisted black twig. ‘It must be dry but not brittle, so it does not crumble. Look for golden tips, the second harvest is better. The water must be as free from impurity as possible, and boiled, but it must not be boiling when poured. Ninety-eight degrees will suffice. Watch.’

  He filled the clear flask.

  ‘Two minutes and thirty-eight seconds. That is all. Then remove the leaves.’

  I watched as brown swirls rose up from the submerged leaves, but a shadow on the far bank distracted me. There on a broken pier sat an old man with his legs crossed. His hair and beard were long and matted, and he bowed his head to his hands, which he had brought together.

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Greye was still absorbed in the simple but, admittedly, hypnotising chemical reaction occurring in the flask. He looked up. ‘Oh. That’s one of our assistants.’

  ‘I thought all the humans had been assembled in the Appalachians?’

  ‘They had, but some elected to help rather than just…’

  ‘Die.’

  ‘Exactly. In spite of everything.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He ignored my question, so I did too.

  ‘There’s a whole village on the opposite bank. They shift cargo up and down the river, operate some of the fertilisation drones, take readings, tag animals.’

  ‘And what does he do?’

  ‘He cooks. His name is Roop.’

  ‘He doesn’t sound particularly useful.’

  Greye smiled.

  ‘But he is. Food is important.’

  ‘Of course, but basic nourishment does not require another’s assistance.’

  ‘Eating is a ritual to them. It’s not merely for nourishment, not of the stomach anyway.’

  ‘What other kind of nourishment is there?’

  He frowned, amused.

  ‘How long have you been up in your balloon, Ima?’

  ‘Sixty-eight years, but I have not been up there for the whole time.’

  ‘Just most of it.’

  ‘78.23%. Yes.’

  He laughed.

  ‘That explains it.’

  I turned back to the old man on the pier. He was just a silhouette now, a dark smudge on the dilapidated wooden planks. His head was still bowed towards the water, and strange noises rose up from his throat. Thin, nasal cries that quivered and disappeared.

  ‘What is he doing? Why is he making that noise?’

  ‘He is praying.’

  ‘What does tha
t mean?’

  ‘It means he’s talking to his creator.’

  ‘His mother?’

  Greye laughed.

  ‘Father then? What is so amusing?’

  ‘You and your balloon, Ima.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  Greye stood and walked to the edge of the balcony, where he leaned, stroking his beard and looking out across the calm water.

  ‘Like many of them, he believes he was created by a greater being. God.’

  ‘But he was not. He is a part of the planet’s system of life, a chemical reaction. Chemical reactions are not created, they merely occur.’

  ‘This belief operates in a different space to chemical reactions.’

  I stood and joined Greye at the balcony edge.

  ‘So, Roop prefers to imagine a more powerful being was responsible for him. This God.’

  ‘That is what he believes.’

  ‘And he communicates with this God by calling to it?’

  Greye returned to watching his tea’s progress.

  ‘That’s what he believes.’

  ‘How curious. Where exactly is this God?’

  Greye shrugged and tapped the flask, inspecting the colour of the water.

  ‘Nowhere. Everywhere. I don’t know. Every belief system is different.’

  ‘Why does he call to it? What does he ask of it?’

  He looked up.

  ‘Life is difficult for them. Most of what they do is an effort to make sense of it. Like stories. Have you read any?’

  ‘No. Why on earth would I?’

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, and left the room with a wink. When he returned he held four coverless tomes of battered, yellow paper, which he held out for me. I looked at them in disgust.

  ‘I thought they had all been destroyed,’ I said.

  ‘They will exist for as long as humans do. After that—’ he shrugged, ‘—gone the same way. Go on, take them.’

  I accepted them, looking through the titles with disinterest. Carrie, Perfume, The Once and Future King, Ted Hughes—Collected Works.

  ‘I fail to see how a string of words could ever have made life easier for them.’

  Greye leaned heavily upon the railing.

  ‘It is a riddle to them, often painful. They do not understand it the way we do.’