‘Neglectful,’ he said, stretching out the seconds of the girl’s torture until, finally, my mother broke it.
‘This is not the fault of an individual,’ she said. ‘The blame lies with us all. Any one of our systems could have failed and we would not have known. It is our distraction with our own affairs which has led to this. So focussed have we become on transcendence, and other projects—’ she shot me a piercing glance ‘—that we have forgotten the reason we were brought into existence in the first place: the fragility of the planet upon which we walk.’
She turned to me now, fully looking, no glance.
‘We have become concerned only with ourselves, whereas before we were concerned with what was around us. This must change.’
There was an outbreak of discussion as Caige returned to the line.
‘This terrible day has taught us that we erta are vulnerable too,’ he said. ‘It reminds us that this unstable rock is no home for us, and that transcendence is the only way we can achieve a safe and meaningful existence. However, as we strive to achieve this goal we must be mindful of our safety, so, from this day forward we shall divide our efforts. Firstly, we must rebuild those settlements which were destroyed by the storm. Secondly, all those erta with expertise in meteorological, geological and oceanographical monitoring will return to their posts immediately. The rest will increase their efforts on transcendence to ensure that we leave the planet as swiftly and as safely as possible. Every project that does not contribute to this aim will be either reprioritised or terminated immediately.’
Terminated. The word cut me like a blade.
‘Now, go forth and be industrious.’
The crowd dispersed, and through the flow of moving bodies I saw that Caige had taken Benedikt to one side. They were deep in conversation, but when Caige saw me he nodded in my direction.
His eyes were those of a hunter, and you were the prey.
‘What does it mean?’ you said.
I looked down at you, fighting to control my tremble. I had to get you out of there.
‘What?’
‘What the man was saying?’
‘Oh.’ I searched for an escape route through the crowd. ‘It means I must return to work. Come on, we have to go.’
‘In your balloon?’ you said, hurrying behind. ‘Can I come too?’
The hope in your voice appalled me, but this was no time to for wringing hands. I had to get you out.
I allowed the crowd to absorb us, my senses prickling at the sound of every breath and new pattern of steps. If I could just make it into the forest then I could make it to Fane, and… I dared not dwell on what might have to happen then.
Suddenly we were out in the square, where the crowd quickly lost its density. I stumbled on, trying to latch onto a group in which to lose ourselves, but each one seemed determined to dissipate too. Our safety was vanishing like smoke in a breeze.
Before I knew it we were alone and exposed, next to Greye’s body once again. I circled, backing away from an unseen threat, keeping you behind me.
‘Ima.’
I spun around. There was Benedikt with his hands folded before him.
I steadied myself, renewing my protective stance, and lunged my face towards him as he approached.
‘I won’t let you,’ I hissed.
He stopped before me.
‘Won’t let me what?’
‘Take him.’
He frowned. Our faces were close now, and our voices low so you would not hear.
‘Why would I want to do that?’
I blinked.
‘Your father said that projects not contributing to the well-being of the planet would be abandoned. I thought…’
‘You thought that meant him. Well, I can assure you that is not that case.’
My grip on you weakened, and you stepped out from behind me. You were clearly a little unsettled by my behaviour, but this faded with the delight of seeing your recent babysitter.
‘Ben!’
Ben?
Benedikt smiled at you, which looked painful.
‘Hello, Reed.’
‘Then what do you want?’ I said.
‘My father sent me.’
He turned his gaze to Greye’s body and ground his jaw.
‘Something bothers you,’ I said.
‘Hm?’ he said, looking up.
‘You seem troubled.’
‘It is nothing. Just… I have been asked to do something I was not expecting to have to do.’
I pushed you behind me again, ready for whatever had to happen next; run or pounce.
‘Why are you so suspicious?’ he said, watching me with a scornful amusement.
‘You have always wanted the project to fail,’ I said.
He inspected his long thumbnail.
‘With respect, you have no idea what I want. Oh, believe me, if it was up to my father then there would be no question of your project’s termination, but it seems that the council have been convinced of its merits in sufficient numbers to warrant its continuation. Besides, what would the opinion of an individual be worth anyway?’ He nodded at the body beside us. ‘Of course, he has lost a great ally in Greye.’
The sight of his colourless face froze me.
‘He told me something once.’
Benedikt’s eyes flicked up.
‘Really? What?’
‘He told me that something had happened to you. Something that had skewed your perspective. Those were his words.’
He tightened.
‘Did he elaborate?’
‘No.’
I noticed his shoulders slacken somewhat. ‘Good, he was quite right not to. And if I were you I would not concern yourself with the affairs of others. Your own are quite complex enough, and your project is about to enter a new phase.’
‘Then I am not to go back to work?’
‘On the contrary. You must.’
‘But he will need care when I am not there.’
‘And he will get it.’
A chill crept through me. My eyes narrowed.
‘And I suppose you think you are the one to give it to him.’
‘No, actually. I will be… otherwise engaged.’
I studied him, trying to decipher his discomfort.
‘What exactly have you been asked to do, Benedikt?’
His mouth twitched, words skirmishing on his lips.
‘It appears I must care for an ertling.’
What I did next was regrettable and, given the circumstances, utterly out of place. But I was so flushed with relief that I honestly could not help myself.
‘Stop laughing,’ he said, outraged. ‘It is not amusing.’
‘I apologise,’ I said, once I had managed to control myself. ‘It is just that the thought of you caring for anything, Benedikt, is, well…’ I trailed off, noticing a glimmer of hurt in his expression. ‘But I am sure it will be good for you.’
‘That is what my father says.’
I stifled more laughter.
‘Ima?’ you said from behind. ‘What are you and Ben talking about?’
I kept my eyes on Benedikt.
‘I believe we are talking about your education,’ I said. ‘You will be going to school soon, Reed. Isn’t that right, Benedikt?’
‘That is correct,’ he said. ‘It will start in six months, once we have rebuilt the settlements.’
‘He will still be with me?’ I said, keeping my voice low as you absorbed this information.
‘Of course. We could not tear him from his mother, could we? You will still care for him when he is not at school, and when he is, you will be at work.’
‘Thank you. Ben.’
‘Don’t.’
With that, he whirled away back to the halls and slammed the door shut, leaving us alone in the square.
I became aware of you watching me, and turned. Your brow rippled with concern.
‘Do not fret. All is well.’
I was speaking to myself
as much as to you.
‘What is school?’
‘A place where you will go when I am at work. There will be other children there to play with.’ This seemed to lighten your mood. ‘Now go and run in the gardens.’
You hesitated, then did as I suggested, leaving me in the empty square beside Greye’s body. I sat down beside him and took his cold hand in mine.
It was new to me, this grief, but while I may not have had Haralia’s tears, I was no stone; I knew how much I would miss him. All he had left me with were fond memories of tea, books, and a ready smile.
Memories, and questions unanswered.
There are things you need to know.
How would I know them now?
It was some time before I left.
SEVEN YEARS
— THIRTY —
WHEN THE SETTLEMENTS had been rebuilt, we returned to Fane and found it exactly as it had been before. Everything was identical—even our first dwelling, right down to the table, bed, sink, bath. You were delighted, though there was no possible way you could remember it. For me, the place brought strange feelings of anxiety, the opposite of nostalgia.
The only thing different about Fane was a new building beside the paddock. It was single-storey, two-roomed and had a flat, stone yard, fenced and with a single gate. This was your school, and one bright Monday morning I found myself standing outside of it, gripping your hand.
In the playground were twenty ertlings, talking, running, chasing each other, some still holding the hands of those who had volunteered to parent them.
You watched them with me, a bundle of nerves and excitement.
‘I did not know there were so many children in Fane, Ima,’ you said. ‘Do you think they will be my friends?’
I felt a desperate urge to scoop you up and run. Until now it had been easy to maintain the illusion of your existence—it had always just been you and me, barely a lie at all. But now you would be with others, and suddenly the lie was real. I dropped to one knee.
‘Listen to me, Reed,’ I said, ‘this is important. When I leave you at this gate, you will be on your own in there. You will not have me by your side to tell you what is right or wrong, so you will have to make your own decisions, and I need you to promise me something.’
‘What, Ima?’
‘Every decision you make, try to make it with peace in your heart. Everything you do, everything you say, everything you learn—’ I placed a palm on your tiny chest ‘—peace in your heart, Reed. Do not get angry, do not get upset, do not fight, do not shout. Do you understand me?’
‘I think so.’
‘Good. Come here.’
I held you far longer than you were comfortable with, then stood and ushered you through the gate.
The teacher—who was, for an erta, small and kind of face—welcomed you in. She held a bell in her hand, which she rang three times, and the ertlings followed her to the classroom.
‘Ima.’
I turned to the tall, dark presence who had suddenly appeared beside me.
‘Benedikt. Your—’ I hesitated ‘—child is here?’
‘Yes. Lukas is his name.’
He smiled and waved at a tall, blonde-haired ertling near the back of the line heading into the building.
‘And how is fatherhood treating you?’
He turned, with a strange venom in his eyes.
‘He looks after himself, mostly. Different for you, of course. How is he getting on?’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Absolutely fine.’
Benedikt’s smile returned.
‘Good. Well then. We must get to work, must we not? Goodbye, Ima.’ And with that he swept away.
The teacher ushered you inside and, with one last wave, you disappeared into the building. The door shut behind you and all was quiet. I stood at the gate, feeling as if I was falling from a great height.
SYSTEMS HAVE A tendency to become accustomed to other systems. Oceans to shorelines, hillsides to encroaching forests, ecosystems to the introduction of an outside species, planets to the gravitational pull of a star.
In other words, you grow used to things, and I had grown used to you.
The first weeks and months of your schooling were nothing short of torture. I spent the first day in a horrified daze, wandering around our dwelling, clearing away your things though they had already been cleared before. Then I ate some herring and drifted to my balloon shed. This journey took me past the school, where I hoped to catch sight of you. But the door was still shut and the windows were high, showing only the flickering light of the candles within.
My balloon had avoided anything other than superficial damage in the hurricane and, after an hour’s work, was fit for flight. I sat in the bubble, still on the ground, thinking of it—the weightlessness, the distance from the ground, the distance from you. In the end I got out. I would go the next day.
This went on for two weeks. Each day I dropped you at school and waited at the gate until you had disappeared inside and there was nothing left, no sight of you through the window, no lingering sound of your goodbyes or slam of the door, just me, and the leaves scraping against the stone. Then I would go and sit in my balloon and think about flying. Then I would go home and wait until it was time to pick you up.
One day I bumped into Benedikt again at the school gate. I had learned to avoid him by arriving as late as possible, but for some unknown reason he himself was late that morning, so our meeting caused me to flinch.
‘Ima,’ he said when he spotted me. ‘I see your balloon is yet to fly.’
‘What of it?’
He shrugged.
‘Understandable, I suppose. It has been out of action for some time. Enjoy your day.’
And with that he walked away, smiling the same way you had smiled as an infant when passing a particularly troublesome stool.
Out of action. Those were the words he had intended me to hear.
I started my balloon that morning and flew all day. That is when things became easier.
I THOUGHT OFTEN of Jorne. I had not seen him since the hurricane, and with my return to work I had no time to visit Payha in the Sundran village to ask of his whereabouts. It was weeks later, when I was finally giving into my fears that he had perished, that I spotted him from my balloon. I had just taken off and I saw him sitting by the rocks, so I landed nearby and joined him.
He smiled, but said nothing, and I said nothing back. We sat for a while, looking out at the sea, and I took a strange pleasure in knowing that there were a hundred things I could say to him in that moment, and that I was choosing to say none of them. Sharing the pleasure of an ocean view is sometimes just as useful as a bundle of words.
‘Thank you,’ he said at last. ‘For saving my life.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘I’m sorry I have not visited. What with you moving back into your old dwelling, and the renewed activity, and your balloon—’
‘You have been watching me?’
He paused. ‘Of course. Always. And Reed. I see him every day. Is he all right?’
‘He is fine, though he misses you.’ I took a breath, and allowed myself just one of those hundred things. ‘As do I.’
I sensed him smile, though my eyes were still trained upon the water.
‘You’ll have seen he is at a school, now.’
He nodded, a ripple of concern passing his face. ‘And is he doing well? Happy?’
I smiled. ‘He is more than happy.’
IT WAS TRUE. This was in fact your happiest time. You loved school. You loved arriving, you loved learning, you loved playing, you loved talking, you loved being collected.
The methods with which you were educated were simple enough. You and your ertling classmates were each issued with a tablet of slate and a chalk. Upon this, the teacher made you copy out the alphabet until you could do so unbidden. Then she taught you the sound each letter made, followed by the phonemes they made when connected to each other, followed by wor
ds and, finally sentences. All of this I gleaned from our evening conversations, when, unprompted, you would recount your day. These sickened me at first, for they reminded me of the lie you were living, and in which I was complicit. I would sit in silence as you regaled me with the wonders you had learned, nodding at this, raising my eyebrows at that, but keeping quiet—for words would only add weight to my collusion.
The lie. You so loved the lie.
This was how you learned to read and write.
As your literary prowess grew, you were allowed to progress to pencil and paper, which the Halls of Necessity produced especially for the occasion. You liked paper. You liked the way it felt and sounded when you rubbed it, or ran your pencil across its surface. Your pencil itself—though it was not one thing but a chain of many, each replaced when its stub could not be held—became your most prized possession, bettering even your blocks. You took it with you everywhere and would not be parted from it. You sensed magic within.
How could you know how dangerous that magic would be?
— THIRTY-ONE —
ONE MORNING WE were late. I had a longer flight than usual ahead, since I had been tasked by the transcendence team with assessing the exact density of the atmospheric layers above the northern shores of the continent. This was to be the exit point, and the interface itself between our initial stages of materialism and the states that lay beyond.
You were dawdling.
‘Come on, we’ll be late,’ I said, grabbing your canvas satchel and my own supplies and pushing through the door. It was winter and a dusting of snow lay upon Fane’s circle. ‘Reed, please.’
You looked up from the table, where you had been sitting, practising your letters since breakfast, then sighed and gathered your things. At the door, I put on your coat and you handed me the paper upon which you had been scribbling.
‘This is for you.’
I looked down at it, frozen in horror. You had not been writing at all.
‘What is this?’
You beamed up at me.
The Human Son Page 17
