by Larissa Lai
As quickly as she appeared, Isabelle Chow vanishes.
Kora stays in the shrine until the sky grows dark and the air cools. The night fills with its own noises. Through the slats of the fort, she sees a fire light up on the nearest street corner. Around it, dark figures gather. She hears their laughter, full of threat. It’s no time to be out in the city. She will have to stay the night.
It starts to rain. She pulls her hood over her head and hunkers down in the driest corner. Her stomach would grumble with hunger if she weren’t so thirsty. She sticks her head out the back corner of the fort, puts out a finger to test the water. It sizzles slightly on her skin.
She closes her eyes. Sees her beloved goat Delphine, writhing in a wet, whirling cloud of death blood. Kora can’t bear it. She opens her eyes again and stares at nothing. She sleeps.
It’s still dark when she wakes. The sky is clear now that the rain has washed it clean. Through the leaves, brambles, and unripe blackberries, she watches peaceful Eng rise in the south and journey across the blue-black sky, smooth and lazy. Eng appears large some years and small others, depending on her proximity to Earth in her wide elliptical orbit. She is larger this year than she was last year. Closer satellites cross her path like bright insects. Great Chang rises suddenly and obscures Eng’s face. For a brief moment, he is so close Kora can feel his gravitational pull. If Eng is self-effacing, Chang is bloated, angry, and sick. He leans towards Earth way too intimately.
Kora tries to imagine how people from the time before got them up there. Uncle Wai told her once about a thing called “rocket,” and black, sticky stuff that used to make the world go round.
“Get me a scale?” she’d asked.
“Expensive,” he’d said. “Maybe for your next birthday.”
Fast as he came up, Chang goes down.
Was that projection of Isabelle that Kora saw real? Perhaps, in her rage and sadness, she dreamt what she saw?
Kora shivers. Lit only by the pale light of Eng and a smattering of starlight, the shrine has become dead creepy. Isabelle’s photographed eyes and the eyes of all the little statuette-avatars scattered beneath her stare at Kora. She is cold, hungry, and very thirsty.
She doesn’t feel sleep when it descends upon her. She only knows she’s slept when she wakes, just in time to see Eng set quietly in the north, as the sky begins to grow light. Chilled to the core and still full of sorrow, she darts back onto the quiet streets to the rear entrance of the Woodward’s Building.
Two scale-covered girls doze side by side against the chain-link fence. She approaches quietly. Asleep, they are all bone. Their pale, pocked skin lies over their meagre flesh like scum on a dirty puddle. She doesn’t get too close, but still they don’t smell good.
Softly, softly, she unlocks the gate and pushes it silently shut behind her. She dashes into the building and takes the elevator up to the fortieth floor.
8
THE LAST DOUBLER
KIRILOW GROUNDSEL // GRIST VILLAGE
NODE: GRAIN IN BEARD
DAY: 1
AUNTIE RADIX CHOKES FOR BREATH. HER FACE BURNS BRIGHT AS A RED apricot in the season when kernels plump. Peristrophe Halliana’s beautiful brown eyes bulge from her fleshy face.
My mother double rushes to her side. “Calm now, Radix,” she soothes. “Breathe, slow and easy. Kirilow is here. She will save you, but you must calm down.”
Behold the last
Doubler is gold
In the interests of the Grist, I swallow my rage, direct its energy towards the work.
“Willow bark!” I shout.
The young groom should already know this. She rushes off to get it while Old Glorybind and I help Auntie Radix lie down.
Auntie Radix huffs desperately. I lay both palms firmly over her chest and begin to pump, one two one two, just as Glorybind taught me when I was a child and she was the village’s best healer.
The groom returns with willow bark, which we give Auntie Radix to chew. Pump thump. Pump thump. She chomps and I knead, but the old engine number nine beats fainter and fainter. I pump faster, but the beat skips, then slips. I push deeper into her chest. Pump thump. Pump thump. Pump thump.
There is strength there again!
Pump thump pump thump pump thump.
All on its own! Praise be to Our Mother who loves us all, young and old.
The young groom comes to Auntie Radix’s bedside, tenderly takes her hand. “Much gratitude, Groom Kirilow.”
I smile and nod.
We wait for a few minutes to make sure she is stable. Then Mother Glory and I head back to our cave, chanting the happy rhyme of Grandma Chan Ling, who led the Grist sisters to this holy place eighty years ago:
Jemini factory returnee
Saltwater City not so free
First Plague Ring and Saltwater Flats
Where you’re at is where you’re at
Second Plague Ring, Cosmo Earth
Places of hope, no more dearth
Third Plague Ring and NOA
Nearly there, not far away
Princeton, Syilx, Hedley, Pente
Rest for many, places of plenty
Fourth Plague Ring and through the wood
Home is food is brood is good!
We’re barely at our door when Auntie Radix’s young groom runs up behind us, out of breath. “Groom Kirilow, Auntie Glorybind, you’ve got to come back. Her heartbeat has slipped again.”
Our Mother have mercy. I run behind the groom fast as my young legs will carry me. Mother Glory limps behind, shouting “Go ahead! Don’t wait for me!”
When I get there, Auntie Radix is gasping desperately. I return to the ministrations I only just left off. Pump thump pump thump. She takes a great inward breath. Pump thump pump thump pump thump. Her fourth partho breast, one of the extra pair that all doublers grow, flops over the side of the bed. I push it back to join its sisters.
Pump thump pump thump pump thump.
Crack. I feel the sharp snap of a rib.
Pump thump pump thump pump thump pump thump.
She chokes.
Pump thump.
Auntie Radix can barely get words out, but somehow she manages. “I told you, Groom Kirilow—”
“Concentrate on the beat, auntie.”
Pump thump.
“Too late—”
“There’s time.”
Pump thump pump thump.
“You should have given—”
“I’m going to save you! You must try too.”
Thump pump.
“Selfish—”
Her heart gives what I think is its last feeble push. Thump thump. After a long delay, a surprise follow-up. Pump bump.
Then nothing.
I push into her chest one last time.
But that was it. Before Mother Glory even makes it to the door, Auntie Radix is gone.
My mother double enters. We are all standing at the bedside, numb with shock.
Glorybind Groundsel catches her breath. Takes a moment to be sure of what she sees. She whispers, “Our Mother be praised. Though we may not understand her actions, her will is done.” She bows her head reverently.
The young groom sits, twitching. Her whole being vibrates with a restlessness that is not exactly grief. We sit with her as she twitches like this, for an hour, then longer. We sit with Auntie Radix’s body as it cools, palpably releasing its heat. I wonder if it is too late to retrieve Peristrophe Halliana’s eyes, but I know the question is not appropriate. I push it down. At least Peristrophe’s heart is safe, for the time being.
“I could use a drink,” I say to the young groom, hoping she’ll offer something from Auntie Radix’s stash—and have something herself to stop the twitching. But she sits silent.
At last, she says, “I hope you are pleased with yourself, Kirilow Groundsel.”
My jaw drops.
“This is not the time, Bombyx,” says Old Glorybind. “We must mourn Auntie Radix now. She was our queen, and th
e Grist has lost its last doubler. Kirilow is our best and most gifted groom. You should revere her as a teacher. She did everything she could for Auntie Radix.”
“That she didn’t,” the young groom says. “Auntie Radix needed a heart transplant. Kirilow Groundsel knew this, and it was within the power of the starfish Peristrophe Halliana to give.”
“It was not,” I hiss-whisper. “It was not.”
“I know you’ve already got plans to replace my lady. I know you have a Salty in your cave. You’ve robbed me. You’ve robbed the Grist itself, Kirilow Groundsel. You’re a yellow, a Salty sympathizer, a traitor. When will you be happy? When the whole Grist sisterhood is dead and gone?”
“That Salty is a starfish,” I say, getting out of my chair. “I have no replacement for Auntie Radix.” If she’s not going to offer the least little sip of mother moonshine, I’ll help myself. I step towards Auntie Radix’s medicine cabinet. She comes for me then, but Old Glorybind is faster than I thought she could be.
She takes the young groom by the shoulders. “You still have duties to Auntie Radix, my friend,” she says. “Auntie Radix’s daughter doubles will want to know, even if they weren’t getting along. And the high priestess and groom elder should be here to administer last rites.”
The young groom knows Glorybind Groundsel is right. She casts me a last resentful glance but does what she’s told.
I take a good swig of Auntie Radix’s moonshine and allow myself to feel relief. Mother Glory and I sit with the cooling body. Evening descends outside Auntie Radix’s four wide windows and, with it, a heavy coat of ash. The sorrow of loss seeps into me. Although I didn’t like Auntie Radix much, the Grist sisterhood has lost its last doubler. Stricken also with the deaths of three young folk to non-productive mutation this past year, the village is not long for this world, unless we get more doublers, and more starfish.
The young groom returns with a contingent of Grist villagers. “The high priestess has been signalled. She can’t come but will send a proxy. Proxy arrives tomorrow,” she tells us. Glares at me. “I get my duty done.”
I scowl at her. But as custom and solidarity demand, I stay with the young groom and Old Radix’s body until dawn.
9
GOAT STEW
KORA KO // SALTWATER FLATS
NODE: KERNELS PLUMP
DAY: 3
CHARLOTTE IS MAKING A MODEST BREAKFAST OF HASH BROWNS AND mushrooms. Once, they would have had eggs to go with this meal, but the rooftop chickens have long since been eaten.
“There you are,” she says, as Kora slinks in. “Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”
Kora smiles wanly. She grabs a glass from beside the barrel of drinking water, fills it, and guzzles it down. Refills and repeats. Water has never tasted so good. She sits at the counter, hoping to be fed.
“We should send you to live with those girls who were at our gate all night. How would you like that?”
“I wouldn’t.” Her head is still full of the strange projection she saw. Maybe she should have kept the filigree scale. But someone could have come after her for it. It’s better that she left it at Isabelle’s shrine.
“You know they trade with the Coast Salish Timeplace.”
“I don’t know anything about that.” Which is a lie, because they all know that the Coast Salish Timeplace across the river, and the Cosmopolitan Earth Council of which it is a member, offer a route to a better life. HöST Security forbids any communication across the Stó:lō. But it’s a public secret that some of the wet market girls have a way of bypassing the police, though they do so only for the purposes of trade.
Charlotte plops a plate in front of Kora. The diced chunks amount to almost a full potato. The mushrooms have been quartered. Kora counts nineteen pieces, which is nearly five whole ones. Charlotte doesn’t know how long their supply is going to last, so she has to ration. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I know it’s not a lot. There will be stew later.”
Kora shoots Charlotte the evil eye.
Charlotte says, “When you’re done, can you please take some to your uncle?”
Kora is too hungry not to eat. She scarfs the meagre breakfast down in two seconds flat. “Is he really sick?”
“Your uncle is in bed. Thanks to you.”
Uncle Wai is asleep in the old oak bed salvaged by his father in the aftermath of the first wave of Caspian tiger flu. His breath stutters. He’s thrown off all the covers in his sleep. When she gets closer, she can see why. He’s sweating copiously. The sheets are drenched. She puts the tray down and rushes to get a damp cloth and thermometer.
The thermometer is made of low-quality plastic and is cracked in several places. Charlotte thinks the Drs Bloom bought it in the last days of the time before, from a place called “Dollar Store.”
“What’s a dollar?” Kora asked the first time Charlotte showed her the thermometer.
“Dollars were units of exchange,” she explained. “Kind of like renminbi, only from here, not the United Middle Kingdom.”
She places the fragile instrument in Uncle Wai’s ear, gently so she neither breaks the thermometer nor wakes her uncle. Miraculously, he sleeps on as the red stuff inside the thermometer rises. Ethanol, that’s what it’s called—the same stinky liquid they use to power the world’s last remaining hummers, the ones that HöST Security use to police their streets.
It was Uncle Wai himself who taught her how the thermometer works. She watches the ethanol climb to 37 on the C side and 98 on the F side. Normal. It seems to rest there for a moment before climbing farther. 99, 100, 101, 102, 103 … It vacillates between 103 and 104, then settles at 103 and a bit. His temperature is very high but still below 105°F, the temperature at which brain damage occurs. Uncle Wai is by far the smartest member of the Ko family. They need his brain.
She mops his forehead with a cool, damp cloth. He moans softly. “Daughter, is that you?”
“Niece,” she says. It’s not the first time he’s made this mistake.
He doesn’t speak again but soon drifts back to sleep. She leaves the breakfast tray in case he wants to eat something when he wakes up.
She goes back to get some food for K2. Her mother stands in the kitchen, the right half of the goat’s split carcass slung over her shoulder. It reeks of death and urine.
Kora runs to her room.
She can hear Charlotte yelling for her to come back. She puts her hands over her ears and closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to see, hear, or feel anything. But she can’t close her nose. Soon, the savoury smell of goat stew wafts through the cracks around her door. She tries to shut it out, but her stomach has other ideas. It rumbles insistently. In her mind’s eye, she can see the pot, simmering gently on the old stovetop. She hears Charlotte periodically shovel fuel in. Lately, they have been supplementing their diminishing stock of bamboo with broken-up furniture from the abandoned apartments around them.
Charlotte knocks on her door. “Are you going to eat, Kora?”
“No way!” she shouts, without opening the door. “Butcher.”
She hears Charlotte place a tray on the floor in the hall. She ignores the sound. She puts on her headphones and turns on Molten Mabel. Stares up at the row of toy owls she’s collected from plague house garbage bins on her periodic forays out of the apartment. They stare back. Her stomach growls indignantly, but she won’t be betrayed by her flesh.
She spends the day in her room, hungry and furious, listening to album after album. When hunger overwhelms her, she wills herself to sleep.
In the middle of the night, she jolts awake. Eng is at her window, high and distant. Kora has the impression of a face staring in. Although it must be cold now, she can smell the bowl of goat stew sitting on the other side of the door. Maybe Charlotte has made potato bread to go with it and she can eat that. She opens the door. There is no potato bread, just the bowl of pure meat stew, with a spoon and a napkin beside it. It is cold and congealed. A thin skin has formed on the surface.
&nbs
p; Kora is ravenous. She snatches the bowl up and gobbles the whole thing down. For a brief moment, she feels satisfied. Then her stomach begins to churn. She runs to the bathroom and barely makes it to the composting toilet before the poor dead goat gushes out of her mouth.
When her stomach is empty and the convulsing stops, she gets up off the cold tile floor. Rinses her mouth with good water from clean rain days. Drinks a little. Goes back down the hall, not to her own room but to Uncle Wai’s.
He lies there, bathed in Eng’s blue light, snoring softly. She has a terrible feeling she is never going to see him again. She sits at the foot of his bed and soon is fast asleep.
10
DANCING FOOL
KIRILOW GROUNDSEL // GRIST VILLAGE
NODE: GRAIN IN BEARD
DAY: 2
I’M GLAD TO GET OUT OF AUNTIE RADIX’S CAVE AND AWAY FROM HER angry young groom. Old Chang rises behind us, backlit by the pale yellow glow of the distant sun. Glorybind Groundsel and I follow the bluff back to our own cave. We are only halfway there when we hear the music.
Moon mother moon mother
Moon sister moon brother
No time like the present
No rain like the torrent
No flood like the recent
No wind that ain’t decent
You and me
Forever free
From the stranglehold of Jemini
I laugh out loud. “There’s a choir at our house, singing the old songs! Such voices!” It’s not that I’ve forgotten Auntie Radix. It’s that I don’t want to think about her.
Glorybind Groundsel scowls, then smiles. She begins to run. I run after her, cackling gleefully.
Peristrophe Halliana has risen from bed and the Salty has burst from its bomb. They’ve got some of the old junk from the time before out of the storeroom. Like a couple of glad rabbits, they bounce around the room, shake and shimmy as though their hearts could burst. Burst like poor old Radix’s heart or a fairground balloon. Burst and laugh and burst again, like fireworks from the time before. Peristrophe howls and hoots as though the time of all time, past and present, future and distant future wants to rush from her lungs. I open my mouth to chastise her and find that I’m howling too. What is this music? What is this machine? To my shock and horror, Old Glorybind begins to dance, tentatively at first, but soon her body falls into a rhythm. I gape like an idiot. I grit my teeth and clench my arms at my sides. I won’t be touched by this dirty Salty’s forest-of-the-night magic. But then my feet begin to move too. I shuffle reluctantly. My feet are not my own. An electric vitality rushes into them and I’m a dancing fool.
