‘No, we are not, just as we are not a lot of things. In fact, our entire existence seems to be defined by things that we are not—not fearful, not distracted, not curious, not wishful, not hasty, not irascible, not passionate—and yet I see these things in us more every day.’
‘Maybe you only see them in yourself.’
I straightened your drawings and pulled them close, for there was strength in them.
‘You are right, Mother, I do have an agenda now. But if some have already made up their minds about Reed, then so do they. He is only eleven years old, and he still has much to learn. Please let him learn it.’
She worked her jaw, thinking. At last she spoke.
‘Go. Continue. I will talk to the council.’ She gestured to the drawings clutched to my breast. ‘But there are to be no more of those.’
She departed, and I stood for some moments in the cold silence before making my way outside. But as I left the Halls I stopped cold; Benedikt was beside you upon the bench, with one arm thrown casually on the backrest. Heart kicking, I marched across the square, hiding my fear behind a thin smile.
He looked up at my approach, retracting his arm.
‘Ima, Reed and I were just chatting. Isn’t that right, Reed?’
‘Is that so?’ I said, my smile already beginning to ache. ‘And what exactly were you chatting about?’
‘Oh, lots,’ you said, standing. ‘Ben was teaching me more about things that happened in the past.’
‘I see. Well, lucky you. Reed, will you please go and see to Boron for our ride home? I just need to talk to Benedikt for a moment.’
Benedikt gave you a friendly wave as you ran for the paddock. Once you were gone, I turned to him.
‘Stop trying to poison my son.’
Benedikt stood, abruptly.
‘Poison? I am merely teaching him about the history of his species, a task you have avoided, it seems.’
‘Of course I have avoided it. I cannot risk him finding out the truth.’
‘Precisely. You wish to raise him in a vacuum. What kind of a test is that?’
I glared at him.
‘You are trying to twist him,’ I said. ‘You think that if you tell him these things, all these woeful, bloody tales about war and murder and sorrow then it will bring out the worst in him. You wish to trigger violent urges.’
He went to protest, but I cut him short.
‘You want to make it harder for him.’
Benedikt narrowed his eyes and leaned in.
‘And why on earth would I want to do that?’
‘Because you want this project to fail. You want him to fail.’
I sensed his fury rise in a single heartbeat.
‘All I have ever wanted,’ he said, throwing a finger at the paddock, ‘was to let the erta see what that creature is capable of.’
His eyes were filled with rage, but there was something else in them too, and whatever it was it was trapped. Benedikt had a secret.
‘What happened to you?’ I said.
Before he could reply Caige called from the Halls.
‘Benedikt,’ he said sharply. Benedikt swung his head. ‘You are wanted inside.’
He took one last look at me—the secret was still in there, I could see it burning—and left.
— THIRTY-FIVE —
‘THEY DIDN’T LIKE my pictures,’ you said gloomily from behind. It was dark, so I had borrowed one of Ertanea’s torches to light our way through the forest, and tree shadows swayed with Boron’s soft plod. The motion calmed me after my altercation with Caige, and I was able to think more clearly. Benedikt was right, I realised: perhaps I had been too protective of you. Perhaps you did need to learn about more than just letters and numbers.
‘It was not that they did not like them,’ I said. ‘They just did not approve of them. There is a difference.’
‘But I’m not allowed to draw any more.’
I thought for a moment, feeling the bound paper stack beneath my cloak.
‘That is not true. You can draw all you like, just not at school.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. We are going to do lots more things at home that you do not do at school. It is not the only place you can learn about the world.’
‘Does that mean I can learn things from Benedikt as well?’
‘That’s not quite what I had in mind.’
‘But he’s interesting. Did you know that the Mayans used to play ball games with people’s heads? Why are we not stopping at Fane?’
‘We are just taking a little holiday,’ I replied. It was a foolish word to use, since the last holiday that had ever existed lasted for almost a century, and resulted in the extinction of your species. But it seemed somehow appropriate.
‘What is a holiday?’
‘A holiday is when you do things differently to the way you normally do them.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, you do not go to school for a start.’
‘But I like school.’
‘I know you do, but it does your brain good to rest sometimes.’
‘What else?’
‘You see different places, you eat different things.’
‘But we always eat herring.’ You yawned and laid your head upon my back. ‘Where are we staying on our holiday?’
‘We are going to stay with a friend.’
‘Who?’
‘You know who.’
This cheered you up, and you spoke no more of Mayans or their heads.
‘IMA,’ SAID JORNE when he opened the door. ‘I heard you were at council. Is everything all right?’
‘Did you ever teach Reed how to draw?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘I just wondered, when we lived on the hill… it does not matter.’
‘Are you in trouble?’
‘No, not any more.’ I looked around the empty square. ‘Where is everybody?’
He smiled.
‘Come with me, you’re just in time.’
Jorne led us through the settlement and into the woods. I let you walk ahead with him, talking about what had happened since you had last seen each other. Eventually we heard voices and a fire crackling.
‘What’s that smell?’ you asked, eyes widening.
‘Come and see,’ said Jorne.
We entered a clearing, in the centre of which was a roaring fire surrounded by Jorne’s fellow villagers—the Sundra—sitting in groups with faces lit orange in the flames. Some held drinks and watched the fire in silence, while others engaged in conversations punctuated by long pauses or awkward flourishes of their hands. One male was attempting to braid another’s hair with a look of intense concentration, as if attempting an impossible calculation. The whole scene appeared as painful as Payha’s first smiles at your bedside.
‘What is this?’ I asked.
‘A gathering to mark the beginning of spring,’ said Jorne as he led us around the circle, greeting others with friendly nods or hellos.
‘Is this another one of your attempts to be human?’ I said, keeping my voice low. ‘Like your shell?’
He ignored me, and turned his attention to the tall, barrel-chested male tending a spit upon which a dead beast turned.
‘What ho, Markus,’ he called. ‘May we try some?’
Markus looked between Jorne and the spit, looking for all the world like somebody who had lost all memory of what he was doing, or why. Eventually he tore off a chunk of meat and threw it to Jorne.
‘Obliged,’ said Jorne. He dangled a shred of wet, white meat before you. ‘Here, try some.’
You licked your lips at the oozing flesh. ‘What is it?’
‘Boar. Try it.’
‘He has never tried meat,’ I said.
But you had already snatched it from his hand and stuffed it into your mouth.
Jorne watched with interest as you devoured your prize with blissful, eye-rolling grunts. He tore off another shred for me. ‘Here.’
I raised an eyebrow at him, so he shrugged and ate it himself. As you both munched happily, I spotted Payha across the fire. Seeing me too, she got up and wandered over.
‘A drink, Ima?’ she said, offering a stone flash.
Jorne looked at it uncertainly, wiping his mouth of grease.
‘I don’t think Ima…’
I took the bottle.
‘What is it?’
‘Huhrwein,’ said Payha. ‘It’s made from berries, pine, other things. Don’t feel you have to.’
I put my nose to it, catching the unmistakable reek of fermentation. I had never tried alcohol before, and would never have thought to before now.
‘I will.’
‘Be careful,’ said Jorne. ‘It is quite…’
But I had already taken a hefty swig. My gullet caught fire, or so it seemed, and I threw a hand to my throat.
‘I did warn you,’ said Jorne.
My reaction had drawn some looks from the crowd. They did not bother me, but then I saw Payha’s smirk.
‘Do you want me to take that for you?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said, straightening up. ‘It is quite all right.’
Keeping my eyes on hers, I took another slug of liquor in one smooth gulp. This time I was prepared, and I swallowed without reaction, holding out my bottle.
Payha took it, nodding her approval.
‘Talk to you later,’ she said, and left.
‘You need to be careful with that stuff,’ said Jorne. ‘It can make you feel unusual.’
I looked into the fire.
‘I already feel unusual. I’ve always felt unusual. How is that possible; to feel different when there is nothing to feel different to?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Jorne, I need your help.’
‘What do you need?’
I looked around. ‘Although your efforts to capture the essence of humanity are dubious, I cannot deny that you have had more experience of them than me. I need Reed to know about them.’
‘You want to tell him the truth?’
‘No. I just need him to understand a little of where he is from. Can you teach him?’
Jorne smiled. His eyes twinkled.
‘I can do better than that.’
— THIRTY-SIX —
YOUR PRESENCE AT the fire seemed to break the tension, and soon the awkwardness of the Sundra’s festival lifted. They were amused by your antics and frequent visits to the spit, from which Markus threw you strips of meat and laughed as you gobbled them up. Three delighted females braided your hair and marked your face to look like theirs, which gave you endless pleasure. So absorbed were you by the fun, in fact, that you hardly seemed to notice when I left.
Jorne led me back to the village. The hurwein had lightened my head, and the bracken felt soft as I followed the sway of his torch. He was unnaturally quiet as we approached his dwelling—this from somebody who did not speak much at the best of times—and it was clear to me that he was deliberating over what was about to happen.
‘Ima,’ he said, as we stood outside a door at the back of his dwelling I had not seen before. ‘Once I open this door, it cannot be shut.’
‘Is it broken?’
‘No, I mean what I am about to show you cannot be unshown.’
‘That is not even a word. What are you trying to say?’
‘I am just—’
‘Oh for goodness sake.’
‘Ima, wait.’
I pushed him aside and threw the door open. But I froze at what lay inside.
‘What is this?’
Jorne sighed.
‘As I said, it cannot be unshown.’
It was a large, oblong room with two windows on adjacent walls, filled with objects. Their shadows stretched in the glow of Jorne’s torch. Some—books, candlesticks, pots—I recognised, but others I did not. In one corner was a great brown globe, and next to it stood a tall curved plank with a faded crest and what looked like aquatic fins protruding from its base. In another corner, resting upon an intricately carved table, was a curious shaped box with a circular hole in the centre and a stick drawing out of it, across which six strings had been pulled taut. Glittering chains of metal were draped over the surface beside it. Coloured fabrics covered with writing hung upon the walls and across chairs, and everywhere there were pictures. Pictures of mountains, pictures of machines, pictures of faces. Human faces.
‘These,’ I stammered, walking slowly around the room, ‘these are human artefacts.’
‘That is correct,’ said Jorne. ‘Payha’s stethoscope is not the only thing we kept.’
He followed me uncertainly, lighting the way with his torch. I picked up a series of small wooden blocks which had been strung together in the shape of a dog, and connected to a wooden cross by further strings.
‘They were all supposed to have been destroyed. How did you come by them?’
His eyes glittered as he looked around the room, as if this was the first time he had seen it too.
‘My friend Thomas—the Frenchman from the boat—he hid them before the clearings happened.’
‘That’s impossible. They would have been found. They would have been found and burned like all the rest, or pulped and flattened and sent up to the little moon. There is no possible way he could have kept them.’
Jorne looked down at me.
‘You are so certain of the past, aren’t you? So certain that you refuse to believe what your eyes tell you. Look, Ima.’
He swung his torch around, illuminating more of the strange relics and causing the shadows to shift. Mirrors and stopped clocks flashed in the light, buildings made of plastic bricks loomed over buttons and leather straps, and the faces of tiny mannequins made to look like children stared at me from lifeless eyes, their mouths pulled into perpetual smiles. I simply could not process it. I staggered away.
‘This is forbidden, contraband, if the council knew about this then—’
‘Then they would burn it and me too, probably.’
‘Then why do you keep it?’
Jorne’s expression hardened.
‘Because this was them, Ima. This was theirs. It simply was not right to destroy it all without trace.’
‘But we had to. They had to be gone, otherwise we could not have achieved our purpose.’
‘Again, you are so certain of your past.’ He shook his head. ‘I should not have shown you.’
‘Then why did you?’
‘Because how else can he learn about who he is?’ He eyed me uncertainly. ‘Are you going to tell the council?’
My eyes travelled the walls, roaming over every rough edge, rusted corner and frayed hem. These things had no right to be there. It was as if they had snuck into the world without permission—memories which should have been forgotten, reminders of the time and place in which they had originated, and the blame that still lay there.
They had crawled through. Just like Reed.
‘No,’ I said, turning to Jorne. ‘I will not tell the council. Let us find Reed.’
THIRTEEN YEARS
— THIRTY-SEVEN —
YOU CALLED IT the “Room of Things”.
And of all the things in the Room of Things, the one you cherished most was the guitar.
‘What is that?’ you said, running across the room and reaching for the instrument I would, much later, miss the sound and sight of so much it hurt my chest.
I lurched after you, as if you were straying too close to a cliff edge.
‘Reed—’
Jorne stopped me.
‘Let him go, Ima,’ he whispered.
You were frozen, hand outstretched, looking back for assurance.
I nodded.
‘Go ahead. You can touch.’
You stroked the dusty, wooden surface and let your eyes travel up what I now know (I know a lot of things now) to be a fretboard. When they reached the tuning locks at the top you cocked your head.
‘What is a… Fender
?’
Jorne went to your side.
‘This is a guitar,’ he said, taking it down. He turned it delicately in his hands, as if it was a thing of such fragility that it would break at the slightest touch.
‘What does it do?’
‘It makes music.’
‘Music?’
‘Listen.’
Jorne ran his thumb over the six strings, each one making a dull thump followed by a hum. Your face lit up with astonishment, and you instantly repeated Jorne’s action, lost in the arc of each pitch as if it were telling you its own secret story. When the sound had faded, you looked around the walls for other treasures.
‘What are all these things?’
I followed as you drifted between the tables, running your hand over anything it met.
‘They are things from the past. Antiquities. This is a special, secret room. You must not tell anyone about it. Not your friends, not your teachers, nobody. Only you, Jorne and I must know. All right?’
You nodded, lost in the shapes.
This was an incredible risk. I had no reason to expect you to be able to keep this secret, and if you did not then I would be as complicit as you.
But I liked this. Suddenly we had our own lie, and this one was against them.
Such was my state of mind at the time; a situation which was about to worsen considerably.
SO THE GUITAR was the first. Then there were the records; a box of ninety-eight black discs in cardboard sleeves with pictures on the front. Some were of people standing around in odd clothes, or crossing roads, or looking fierce about something or other. Others were daubed with lines and flashes of colour, or depicted unlikely events such as a man shaking hands with another who was on fire, or an infant diving beneath water for a piece of green paper, or an elegant female walking, oblivious, from a flood.
You enjoyed these images as much as the music that was on the discs, which Jorne showed you how to play on something called a gramophone. This was a mechanical contraption powered by a spring, which you wound with a handle and which, when released, spun the disc at a certain speed. A needle rested upon a thin groove in the disc, in which a topographical representation of the recorded music had been etched. This, when amplified, produced sound. It was marred with crackles and pops, and the movement of the disc was uneven, which meant that pitch wavered consistently. You loved it nonetheless, and listened to its strange wails, roars and thumps for hours on end.
The Human Son Page 20
