This news caused another outbreak of speculation: the rumour was that Aunt Immortelle had been murdered, and who more likely to have done it than the missing Canadian recruit known as Jade? Many of the Aunts—among them those who had greeted her arrival with such joy and satisfaction—were now saying that they’d always believed there was something fraudulent about her.
“It’s a terrible scandal,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “It reflects so badly on us!”
“We will cover it up,” I said. “I shall take the view that Aunt Immortelle was simply trying to investigate the faulty cistern, in order to spare valuable manpower that chore. She must have slipped, or fainted. It was an accident in the course of selfless duty. That is what I shall say at the dignified and laudatory funeral we will now proceed to have.”
“That is a stroke of genius,” said Aunt Helena dubiously.
“Do you think anyone will believe it?” Aunt Elizabeth asked.
“They will believe whatever is in the best interests of Ardua Hall,” I said firmly. “Which is the same as their own best interests.”
* * *
—
But speculation grew. Two Pearl Girls had passed through the gate—the Angels on duty swore to that—and their papers were in order. Was one of them Aunt Victoria, who still had not appeared for meals? If not, where was she? And if so, why had she left early on her mission, before the Thanks Giving? She had not been accompanied by Aunt Immortelle, so who was the second Pearl Girl? Could it be that Aunt Victoria was complicit in a double escape? For, increasingly, it was looking like an escape. It was concluded that the elopement note had been part of it: intended to deceive, and to delay pursuit. How devious and cunning young girls could be, the Aunts whispered—especially foreigners.
Then news came that two Pearl Girls had been spotted at the Portsmouth bus station in New Hampshire. Commander Judd ordered a search operation: these imposters—he called them that—must be captured and brought back for interrogation. They must not be allowed to speak to anyone but himself. In the case of a probable escape, the orders were to shoot to kill.
“That is somewhat harsh,” I said. “They are inexperienced. They must have been misled.”
“Under the circumstances, a dead Baby Nicole is much more useful to us than a living one,” he said. “Surely you realize that, Aunt Lydia.”
“I apologize for my stupidity,” I said. “I believed that she was genuine; I mean, genuine in her desire to join us. It would have been a marvellous coup, had that been the case.”
“It’s clear she was a plant, inserted into Gilead under false pretenses. Alive, she could pull both of us down. Don’t you understand how vulnerable we would be if anyone else got hold of her and she were made to talk? I would lose all credibility. The long knives will come out, and not just for me: your reign at Ardua Hall will be over, and so—quite frankly—will you.”
He loves me, he loves me not: I am assuming the status of a mere tool, to be used and discarded. But that’s a two-handed game.
“Very true,” I said. “Some in our country are unfortunately obsessed with vengeful payback. They do not believe that you have always acted for the best, especially in your winnowing operations. But in this matter you have chosen the wisest option, as ever.”
That got a smile out of him, albeit a tense one. I had a flashback, not for the first time. In my brown sackcloth robe I raised the gun, aimed, shot. A bullet, or no bullet?
A bullet.
* * *
—
I went to visit Aunt Vidala again. Aunt Elizabeth was on duty, knitting one of the little caps for premature babies that are in fashion nowadays. I remain deeply grateful that I have never learned to knit.
Vidala’s eyes were closed. She was breathing evenly: worse luck.
“Has she spoken yet?” I asked.
“No, not a word,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “Not while I’ve been here.”
“Good of you to be so attentive,” I said, “but you must be tired. I’ll spell you off. Go and get a cup of tea.” She threw me a suspicious look, but she went.
Once she was out of the room I leaned over and spoke loudly into Vidala’s ear. “Wake up!”
Her eyes opened. She focused on me. Then she whispered, with no slurring: “You did this, Lydia. You’ll hang for it.” Her expression was both vindictive and triumphant: finally she had an accusation that would stick, and my job was very nearly hers.
“You’re tired,” I said. “Go back to sleep.” She closed her eyes again.
I was rummaging in my pocket for the vial of morphine I’d brought with me when Elizabeth walked in. “I forgot my knitting,” she said.
“Vidala spoke. When you were out of the room.”
“What did she say?”
“She must have some brain damage,” I said. “She’s accusing you of having struck her. She said you were in league with Mayday.”
“But no one can possibly believe her,” Elizabeth said, blanching. “If anyone hit her, it must have been that Jade girl!”
“Belief is hard to predict,” I said. “Some might find it expedient to have you denounced. Not all of the Commanders appreciated the ignominious exit of Dr. Grove. I have heard it said that you are unreliable—if you accused Grove, who else might you accuse?—in which case they will accept Vidala’s testimony against you. People like a scapegoat.”
She sat down. “This is a disaster,” she said.
“We’ve been in tight spots before, Elizabeth,” I said mildly. “Remember the Thank Tank. We both made it out of that. Since then, we have done what was necessary.”
“You are so bolstering, Lydia,” she said.
“Such a shame about Vidala’s allergies,” I said. “I hope she won’t suffer an asthmatic attack while sleeping. Now I must rush off, as I have a meeting. I will leave Vidala in your nurturing hands. I notice that her pillow needs rearranging.”
Two birds with one stone: if so, how satisfactory in ways both aesthetic and practical, and a diversion that will create more runway. Though not ultimately for me, as there is scant chance I myself will escape unscathed from the revelations that are sure to follow once Nicole appears on the television news in Canada and the cache of evidence she is carrying for me is displayed.
* * *
—
The clock ticks, the minutes pass. I wait. I wait.
Fly well, my messengers, my silver doves, my destroying angels. Land safely.
XXVI
LANDFALL
Transcript of Witness Testimony 369A
69
I don’t know how long we were in the inflatable. It felt like hours. I’m sorry I can’t be more precise.
There was fog. The waves were very high, and spray and water were coming in on top of us. It was cold as death. The tide was fast, and it was sweeping us out to sea. I was more than frightened: I thought we were going to die. The inflatable would be swamped, we would be thrown into the ocean, we would sink down and down. Aunt Lydia’s message would be lost, and all the sacrifices would be for nothing.
Dear God, I prayed silently. Please help us get safe to land. And, If someone else has to die, let it be only me.
We were rowing and rowing. We each had an oar. I’d never been in a boat before so I didn’t know how to do it. I felt weak and tired, and my arms were cramping with the pain.
“I can’t,” I said.
“Keep going!” Nicole shouted. “We’re okay!”
The sound of the waves hitting the shore was close, but it was so dark I couldn’t see where the shore was. Then a very big wave came right into the boat, and Nicole called, “Row! Row for your life!”
There was a crunch, which must have been gravel, and another big wave came, and the inflatable tipped sideways, and we were hurled up onto the land. I was on my knees in the water, I was knocked over by another wave,
but I managed to right myself, and Nicole’s hand reached down out of the dark and pulled me up over some large boulders. Then we were standing, out of the reach of the ocean. I was shivering, my teeth were chattering together, my hands and feet were numb. Nicole threw her arms around me.
“We made it! We made it! I thought we were dead!” she shouted. “I sure as hell hope this is the right shore!” She was laughing but also gasping for air.
I said in my heart, Dear God. Thank you.
Transcript of Witness Testimony 369B
70
It was really close. We almost kicked the bucket. We could have been swept out with the tide and ended up in South America, but more likely picked up by Gilead and strung up on the Wall. I’m so proud of Agnes—after that night she was really my sister. She kept on going even though she was at the end. There was no way I could have rowed the inflatable by myself.
The rocks were treacherous. There was a lot of slippery seaweed. I couldn’t see very well because it was so dark. Agnes was beside me, which was a good thing because by that time I was delirious. My left arm felt as if it wasn’t mine—as if it was detached from me and was just held on to my body by the sleeve.
We clambered over big rocks and sloshed through pools of water, slipping and sliding. I didn’t know where we were going, but as long as we went uphill it would be away from the waves. I was almost asleep, I was so tired. I was thinking, I’ve made it this far and now I’m going to lose it and fall and brain myself. Becka said, It’s not much farther. I couldn’t remember her being in the inflatable but she was beside us on the beach, I couldn’t see her because it was too dark. Then she said, Look up there. Follow the lights.
Someone shouted from a cliff overhead. There were lights moving along the top, and a voice yelled, “There they are!” And another one called, “Over here!” I was too tired to yell back. Then it got sandier, and the lights moved down a hill towards us along to the right.
Holding one of them was Ada. “You did it,” she said, and I said, “Yeah,” and then I fell over. Someone picked me up and started carrying me. It was Garth. He said, “What’d I tell you? Way to go! I knew you’d make it.” That made me grin.
We went up a hill and there were bright lights and people with television cameras, and a voice said, “Give us a smile.” And then I blacked out.
* * *
—
They airlifted us to the Campobello Refugee Medical Centre and stuffed antibiotics into me, so when I woke up my arm wasn’t so puffy and sore.
My sister, Agnes, was there beside the bed, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that said RUN FOR OUR LIFE, HELP FIGHT LIVER CANCER. I thought that was funny because that’s what we’d been doing: running for our lives. She was holding my hand. Ada was there beside her, and Elijah, and Garth. They were all grinning like mad.
My sister said to me, “It’s a miracle. You saved our lives.”
“We’re really proud of both of you,” said Elijah. “Though I’m sorry about the inflatable—they were supposed to take you into the harbour.”
“You’re all over the news,” said Ada. “ ‘Sisters defy the odds.’ ‘Baby Nicole’s daring escape from Gilead.’ ”
“Also the document cache,” said Elijah. “That’s been on the news too. It’s explosive. So many crimes, among the top brass in Gilead—it’s much more than we’ve ever hoped for. The Canadian media are releasing one disruptive secret after another, and pretty soon heads will roll. Our Gilead source really came through for us.”
“Is Gilead gone?” I said. I felt happy but also unreal, as if it hadn’t been me doing the things we’d done. How could we have taken those risks? What had carried us through?
“Not yet,” said Elijah. “But it’s the beginning.”
“Gilead News is saying it’s all fake,” said Garth. “A Mayday plot.”
Ada gave a short growly laugh. “Of course that’s what they’d say.”
“Where’s Becka?” I asked. I was feeling dizzy again, so I closed my eyes.
“Becka’s not here,” Agnes said gently. “She didn’t come with us. Remember?”
“She did come. She was there on the beach,” I whispered. “I heard her.”
* * *
—
I think I went to sleep. Then I was awake again. “Does she still have a fever?” said a voice.
“What happened?” I said.
“Shh,” said my sister. “It’s all right. Our mother is here. She’s been so worried about you. Look, she’s right beside you.”
I opened my eyes, and it was very bright, but there was a woman standing there. She looked sad and happy, both at once; she was crying a little. She looked almost like the picture in the Bloodlines file, only older.
I felt it must be her, so I reached up my arms, the good one and the healing one, and our mother bent over my hospital bed, and we gave each other a one-armed hug. She only used the one arm because she had her other arm around Agnes, and she said, “My darling girls.”
She smelled right. It was like an echo, of a voice you can’t quite hear.
And she smiled a little and said, “Of course you don’t remember me. You were too young.”
And I said, “No. I don’t. But it’s okay.”
And my sister said, “Not yet. But I will.”
Then I went back to sleep.
XXVII
Sendoff
The Ardua Hall Holograph
71
Our time together is drawing short, my reader. Possibly you will view these pages of mine as a fragile treasure box, to be opened with the utmost care. Possibly you will tear them apart, or burn them: that often happens to words.
Perhaps you’ll be a student of history, in which case I hope you’ll make something useful of me: a warts-and-all portrait, a definitive account of my life and times, suitably footnoted; though if you don’t accuse me of bad faith I will be astonished. Or, in fact, not astonished: I will be dead, and the dead are hard to astonish.
I picture you as a young woman, bright, ambitious. You’ll be looking to make a niche for yourself in whatever dim, echoing caverns of academia may still exist by your time. I situate you at your desk, your hair tucked back behind your ears, your nail polish chipped—for nail polish will have returned, it always does. You’re frowning slightly, a habit that will increase as you age. I hover behind you, peering over your shoulder: your muse, your unseen inspiration, urging you on.
You’ll labour over this manuscript of mine, reading and rereading, picking nits as you go, developing the fascinated but also bored hatred biographers so often come to feel for their subjects. How can I have behaved so badly, so cruelly, so stupidly? you will ask. You yourself would never have done such things! But you yourself will never have had to.
* * *
—
And so we come to my end. It’s late: too late for Gilead to prevent its coming destruction. I’m sorry I won’t live to see it—the conflagration, the downfall. And it’s late in my life. And it’s late at night: a cloudless night, as I observed while walking here. The full moon is out, casting her equivocal corpse-glow over all. Three Eyes saluted me as I passed them: in moonlight their faces were skulls, as mine must have been to them.
They will come too late, the Eyes. My messengers have flown. When worst comes to worst—as it will very soon—I’ll make a quick exit. A needleful or two of morphine will do it. Best that way: if I allowed myself to live, I would disgorge too much truth. Torture is like dancing: I’m too old for it. Let the younger ones practise their bravery. Though they may not have a choice about that, since they lack my privileges.
But now I must end our conversation. Goodbye, my reader. Try not to think too badly of me, or no more badly than I think of myself.
In a moment I’ll slot these pages into Cardinal Newman and slide it back onto my shelf. In my end is my be
ginning, as someone once said. Who was that? Mary, Queen of Scots, if history does not lie. Her motto, with a phoenix rising from its ashes, embroidered on a wall hanging. Such excellent embroiderers, women are.
The footsteps approach, one boot after another. Between one breath and the next the knock will come.
The Thirteenth Symposium
The Thirteenth Symposium
HISTORICAL NOTES
Being a partial transcript of the proceedings of the Thirteenth Symposium on Gileadean Studies, International Historical Association Convention, Passamaquoddy, Maine, June 29–30, 2197.
CHAIR: Professor Maryann Crescent Moon, President, Anishinaabe University, Cobalt, Ontario.
KEYNOTE SPEAKER: Professor James Darcy Pieixoto, Director, Twentieth- and Twenty-First-Century Archives, Cambridge University, England.
* * *
—
CRESCENT MOON: First, I would like to acknowledge that this event is taking place on the traditional territory of the Penobscot Nation, and I thank the elders and ancestors for permitting our presence here today. I would also like to point out that our location—Passamaquoddy, formerly Bangor—was not only a crucial jumping-off point for refugees fleeing Gilead but was also a key hub of the Underground Railroad in antebellum times, now more than three hundred years ago. As they say, history does not repeat itself, but it rhymes.
The Testaments Page 33
