by Neil Randall
Educated at home by a personal tutor, Charles and I spent the majority of our free time roaming the woodland abutting the nearby river, not a stone’s throw from the main house. To ensure our safety, we were always accompanied by a few local children, “the savages” or “the little nigger boys”, as my father called them. Half-naked, shoeless, these children nevertheless used to frolic around with such carefree abandon it made me feel left out, reserved and stuffy, as if I couldn’t really, properly enjoy myself to the full, have fun like them, be a child, and deep down, I envied them their freedom. One boy in particular, however, Bunthu was his name, revolted me. Victim of an exacting childhood illness, the boy was hideously ugly, had what I could only describe as a brutal harelip, which exposed his fleshy gums and crooked teeth, his glazy eyes were always covered with a sickly-yellow film, he had a deformed hand, more like a claw, the arm of which he always held tightly to his side. Such was the repellent nature of his appearance, his own people used to tease and torment him. In the summer months, to amuse themselves, when the heat was incredibly oppressive, the nigger boys would play a cruel not to say incredibly foolhardy game of chicken with the river side alligators. Grabbing Bunthu’s arms, two boys would drag him down close to the water’s edge, where the fearsome reptiles had been known to attack people, striking without warning, clasping their victims in their jaws, and dragging them to a watery grave. From a safe distance, Charles and I would watch this sadistic game, laughing at Bunthu’s pathetic cries for help. And ashamed as I am to admit it, I was almost disappointed when the alligator’s snapping jaws just missed his trembling body, when the other boys pulled him away a fraction of a second before the lunging reptile could strike.
But this was nothing compared to the awful injustice I perpetrated against young Bunthu myself.
One evening, while enjoying a long lazy dinner outside, alfresco as it were, I did something so disgraceful and out of character, it would impact upon me for the rest of my life. At some point during the meal, I excused myself, requesting to use the water closet. As I walked through my aunt and uncle’s part of the main house, I passed the master bedroom, the door of which was wide open. On a fine mahogany dressing-table was Eliza’s jewellery box, like the door, open, as if she had been deliberating over which set of earrings or what particular necklace to wear for dinner. In one of the silk-lined compartments was a ruby brooch, one of the most beautiful trinkets I had ever seen. Unable to resist, I slipped inside the room, took the brooch from the box and fastened it to my blouse. Before the mirror, I performed a few shuffling balletic turns, right and left, hands on hips, admiring my reflection, the way the fading sunlight that filtered through the main window reflected off the ruby-red stone. So taken was I by this wonderful adornment, I couldn’t bear to be parted with it. More than once, I unfastened the brooch and put it back in the box, exactly as I had found it, only to race back into the room and stow it away in my pocket. Conscience pricked, knowing that taking the brooch was very wrong, I did, nevertheless, steal it.
Early next morning, when I entered the kitchen, my parents were deep in conversation.
“Fiona,” my father said with an unusually stern edge to his voice, turning when hearing my approaching steps, “yesterday evening, a very valuable piece of jewellery, a ruby brooch, was stolen from your Aunt Eliza’s bedroom. Now, cast your mind back, child, did you see any savages, the nigger boys, playing near the house last night?”
Heart beating fast, a horrible guilty feeling gnawing away at the pit of my stomach, I nonetheless told the cruellest and most preposterous lie of my young life.
“Why yes, Daddy, I remember seeing Bunthu out in the clearing, by the woods.”
“I knew it!” My father slapped an open palm against the tabletop. “Those blasted savages! Can’t they keep their hands off other people’s property? No! We shall have to teach this one a lesson.” He turned to my mother, who was then at the stove, preparing our breakfast. “I’ll go and see Humph now. We’ll drive out and visit the elder, demand the return of the stone, and the severest punishment possible.”
Not just content with denouncing the wretched young creature, I went so far as to plant the brooch in the scrubland, near where I informed my father that I had seen Bunthu playing alone yesterday. This done, and for the rest of the morning, I felt a strange sense of relief, a curious lightness of spirit, as if I had exonerated myself, transferring the guilt onto the unfortunate Bunthu, who nature had already treated so accursedly, that I had undone a great wrong, because I was superior, so much better than that disfigured, deformed savage, that I had, in short, done what was only right and proper.
Early that afternoon, my father returned to the house, in a distant, prickly mood.
“What is it?” asked my mother – I could hear her from my bedroom, where I lay huddled up in anticipation, eager to hear the judgment passed down on the innocent Bunthu.
“Well,” said my father, “the good news is we’ve recovered the stone – right where Fiona saw that sticky-fingered young bastard skulking around yesterday. Bad news: the local elder will not hand the boy over to us. No! They say that they want to exact a fitting punishment, as if they are better administers of justice then their colonial rulers. Huh!”
“What’s going to happen to him, then?” asked my mother, seemingly as curious as I was.
“Later this afternoon, they’re going to hold some kind of tribal hearing, where, no doubt, some woefully inadequate punishment will be handed down.”
Although my attendance at the hearing was not strictly prohibited, I knew my parents would not have approved of me leaving the house to witness events, events that, as aforementioned, would have a profound impact upon the rest of my life. Accordingly, therefore, I complained of a slight headache and tiredness, retired to my room, only to sneak out of the window, and trek my way over to the tribal lands, a half a mile or so walk from our farmstead.
When I arrived, it looked as if some kind of verdict had already been pronounced, for Bunthu had been taken to a primitive livestock enclosure, and tied to a wooden stake. In local tongues, of which I had no understanding whatsoever, one of the spirit doctors, face and body painted, admonished the captive, performing a jerky yet aggressive dance, while all the other tribesmen and -women mouthed words of sombre prayer. In the moments that followed, I couldn’t quite keep track of what was going on (my vantage point, behind a tree, twenty or so metres from the enclosure, wasn’t the best). The next thing I saw with any clarity was a stream of savages shuffling out of the enclosure, spreading out along the fence-line, two deep in places, like spectators at a sporting event. It was then I saw a fearsome boar being led inside the enclosure, a hulking, highly dangerous breed, native to the surrounding lands, an animal which often attacked humans, young children, especially, an animal which had been known to go so far as to snatch babies from cots. As if uncertain, the hideous, mud-spattered creature circled Bunthu, sizing him up, snuffling around by his feet and ankles. Then, letting out a rasping snort, it reared up on its powerful hind legs, arched its great neck, opened its fang-like jaws and tore the flesh clean from the young boy’s face, literally stripping it away from his cheekbones, in the same way someone would peel skin from a chicken leg. Blood spurted everywhere. Again and again, the boar leapt up and attacked, sinking its fangs into Bunthu’s body, devouring him in noisy, insatiable, frenzied mouthfuls. And how he screamed! How he howled in utmost agony. All the way home, tripping at every step, almost falling over, tears streaming down my face, all I could hear were those plaintive cries, all I could see was that rampant boar feasting upon Bunthu’s helpless body.
A long silence followed.
“But – But, Mater,” said Gideon, “you can’t blame yourself for the boy’s death. You were only a young child; you didn’t know any better. Besides, how were you supposed to know that his own kinfolk would act so cruelly?”
“You don’t understand,” said Mrs Forbes-Powers. “That very evening, I was visited by a da
rk spirit, in the form of a horned owl, the very representation of which now hangs on your wall, watching over you. Late at night it bashed into my bedroom window, time and again. When I pulled back the curtains to investigate, I saw two great round luminous eyes staring back at me, eyes which told me I would have to pay a great price for my callous untruths, that a mark of death now hung over me.”
“A coincidence!” said Gideon, getting more and more worked up. “Don’t believe in such superstitious nonsense, Mater. It’s only natural for you to feel guilty for the part you played in the boy’s death, but—”
“But, Gideon, the same owl visited me as my waters broke when I was carrying you and your twin brother. Seven days after the birth, he died.”
Gideon gasped and buried his face in his hands – clearly this was the first time he’d heard the story. In the silent moments that followed, there were so many things I wanted to say, about the owl, how I knew of the legend, but before I could even begin to formulate my words, Mrs Forbes-Powers started speaking again:
“Then, the night before your father complained of stomach pains, the ones which compelled him to visit his GP in the first place, the pains which ultimately led to a terminal cancer diagnosis, the same owl woke me from my sleep, bashing against our bedroom window. And – And I’ve never told you this before, but the evening you were due to call in to discuss your future, following your unacceptable behaviour at university, the horned owl appeared yet again, outside the kitchen window, its eyes as bright and malevolent as they had been all those years ago in Africa. It was then I knew I had to keep you safe.”
“What?” Gideon lifted his head. “So all this, keeping me down here, has been for my own benefit?”
“Of course,” she replied. “I may be many things, but I’m not completely out of my mind.”
Chapter Eighteen
“You know,” I said to Gideon as he paced around the basement, showcasing his exercise regime, his ‘system’ as he called it, “everything I told you and your mother last night is true – about the murders I’ve inadvertently become involved with. To make matters worse, my former partner has now gone missing. A couple of days ago, the police dug up some old diaries she’d written, mainly about my violence towards her, our supposedly abusive relationship.”
“Really? Doesn’t sound as if she portrayed you in a particularly good light, then.”
“That’s just it. For ten years, she recorded a litany of untruths, complete fantasies, lies, saying that I beat and abused her, when I’d done nothing of the sort. For the vast majority of our time together, we were truly happy, in love. And I never once raised my hands to her. So, as you can imagine, it’s made the police look on me as a bit of a nutcase, an unreliable witness, with her disappearing around the time of the first set of murders.”
“Not good,” said Gideon. “But it’s funny you should mention diaries, because I’ve been keeping what you might call a fictitious journal myself, an alternative history of my life had I not had the misfortune of being trapped down here.” He broke off from his pacing, walked across the room, pulled up the bed covers and removed what could best be described as a thick, bound manuscript from under the bed itself. “Work on it has been a bit sporadic, but I started on the night Mater pushed me down those steps. In this version, I call round like the prodigal son, a beautiful girl on my arm. Why don’t you read it? Might help stave off the boredom, until you get your own system in place.” He handed me the manuscript. “No pressure. If you don’t find it of interest, don’t feel obliged to plough through it.”
Gideon walked for approximately another hour, our conversation sporadic, despite me trying to coax more information out of him regarding our incarceration. He then did something very odd, well, perhaps not odd, but unsettling, overly familiar – he stripped naked in front of me, and, unabashed, lingered by my bed, making lots of chit-chat, as if to delay the hot shower he said he was looking forward to so much.
“I suppose this is something else we’ll have to get used to,” he said, “– undressing in front of each other, bathing, going through our daily ablutions as it were, bowel movements et cetera. Probably best if we avert our eyes and whistle a cheery tune. Ha!” He grabbed a towel from his bed and walked over to the washroom, saying over his shoulder, “Then again, I’m sure it’s something we’ll get used to.”
As Gideon took a long-drawn-out shower, humming an irritating tune I didn’t recognise, I picked up the manuscript and started to read from what he said were his diaries. And I express myself in such a doubtful manner because what I found was not a personal journal of any kind, but the opening chapters of a novel.
The Magister’s Analects
1
Armed guards ushered the detainees into a squat grey building of only thirty-four storeys. The words Central Party Re-Assimilation and Conditioning Centre were inscribed above the main door, alongside the Party’s revised motto: Stability and Identity through New Confraternities. Once inside, they were taken to the main processing room and lined up in front of an imposing, pony-tailed figure with elaborate moustaches.
“I shall begin at the beginning,” he told them. “Since the Great Catastrophe our industrial output has dropped to an unacceptable level. Worker numbers as well as morale are now at an all-time low.”
He walked over to a ragged, emaciated detainee and made such intense eye contact, the prisoner had to look away.
“I am your Magister. Here you will display a capacity and eagerness to learn as if you were behind in your learning, showing fear of losing what has already been learned.” He started to pace up and down. “The follies of the great demographers have left us in an unenviable position. As a result of strict family planning many of you have never known the intimacies of your fellow workers, past and present, the things that give a man purpose in life.”
The Magister approached another detainee, a tall, proud-faced man who was in much better physical condition than the others.
“What’s you name?”
“Ye Ting Fang.”
“Why are you here?”
He was slow in answering so the Magister dealt him a blow to the head.
“I, erm…I don’t know.”
“If you don’t know now,” said the Magister. “You will by the time you leave here.”
The other detainees exchanged worried looks.
Moving on, the Magister continued his address:
“The human heart is more dangerous than mountains or rivers, more difficult to know than heaven. Heaven has its seasons of spring, summer, autumn and winter, and its times for sunrise and sunset. But humanity has a thickly-coated exterior and its true nature is hidden deep within.” He paused and adjusted the lapels of his silken robe. “There will be three stages to your reintegration. There is learning, there is understanding, and then there is acceptance. You will now be taken to the sanitation units where you will be shaved, deloused and disinfected. In the morning, we shall begin the first stage of your training.”
2
Pale moonlight filtered in through the window of cell number sixty-eight. Ye Ting Fang lay on his bunk, staring at the indent in the mattress above. His cellmate, a scrawny young man with wire-framed glasses, shifted position, rolling onto his side.
“My name is Chun Zeng,” he whispered. “And you are Ye Ting Fang. I heard you tell the Magister earlier. Where are you from?”
“Hubei province.”
“Hubei province! You were there during the Great Catastrophe?”
“Yes. I was amongst an elite group of workers sent to assist with the installation and maintenance of the new turbines.”
“Ah, you talk of the mighty Three Gorge Dam.”
“That’s correct. I was training to become an engineer. But not long after I arrived the rains started.”
“The rains!” Chun Zeng sat up. “Who could’ve foreseen such a tragedy when water was so sought after?”
“Exactly. Now I realise that you cannot tinker with nature, no mat
ter how clever or powerful you think you are, or how much scientific knowledge you acquire. Nature is unconquerable. Building such restrictive barriers to try and constrain her was a grave error.”
“There were so few survivors,” said Chun Zeng. “You must’ve lost some loved ones.”
“Yes,” Ye Ting Fang said slowly. “My – My wife.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve never had a woman before, let alone a wife, so I can only imagine a small proportion of your pain. As the proverb says, how can the frog in a well discuss the ocean? Still, it must’ve been a truly blessed thing: to have had someone to love, a companion to receive your affections, to go through life together, hand-in-hand.”
They fell silent for a few moments.
“I’m very afraid,” said Chun Zeng. “Have you any idea why we’re here?”
“No I don’t, friend Chun. But do not fear. Fate has brought us together, and from this day forward I promise to look out for you.”
3
The sun rose in a pinkish plethora of fractured sky. A convoy of giant hover vehicles rumbled into the main compound, parking close to the processing room. In pairs, guards unloaded the contents from the storage facility of each vehicle. From the doorway, the Magister supervised the delivery, his thick, plaited ponytail hanging limply from the back of his head.
Two guards dropped a bulky container.
“Careful, you imbeciles!” the Magister shouted. “This apparatus is crude enough without you wantonly damaging it!”
They picked up the container, stacked it, kowtowed, and scuttled away.
“Your Excellency!” A chubby, red-faced cadre in a military tunic rushed over. “I’ve just checked the consignment, and am happy to report that all requested items have arrived intact.”
