“Bring home the bacon,” he says. He can almost smell it, that bacon, frying in a pan, with an egg, to be served up with toast and a cup of coffee … Cream with that? whispers a woman’s voice. Some naughty, nameless waitress, out of a white-aprons-and-feather-dusters porno farce. He finds himself salivating.
Fat isn’t a carbohydrate. Fat is a fat. He whacks his own forehead, lifts his shoulders, spreads his hands. “So, wise guy,” he says. “Next question?”
Do not overlook a plentiful source of nutrition that may be no farther away than your feet, says another voice, in an annoying, instructive tone he recognizes from a survival manual he once leafed through in someone else’s bathroom. When jumping off a bridge, clench your bum so the water won’t rush up your anus. When drowning in quicksand, take a ski pole. Great advice! This is the same guy who said you could catch an alligator with a pointed stick. Worms and grubs were what he recommended for a snack food. You could toast them if you wanted.
Snowman can see himself turning over logs, but not just yet. There’s something else he’ll try first: he’ll retrace his steps, go back to the RejoovenEsense Compound. It’s a long hike, longer than any he’s taken yet, but worth it if he can get there. He’s sure there will still be a lot left, back there: not only canned goods, booze as well. Once they’d figured out what was going on, the Compound inhabitants had dropped everything and fled. They wouldn’t have stayed long enough to clean out the supermarkets.
What he really needs is a spraygun, though – with one of those, he could shoot pigoons, hold off the wolvogs – and, Idea! Light bulb over head! – he knows exactly where to find one. Crake’s bubble-dome contains a whole arsenal, which ought to be right where he left it. Paradice, was what they’d named the place. He’d been one of the angels guarding the gate, in a manner of speaking, so he knows where everything is, he’ll be able to lay his hands on the necessary items. A quick in and out, a snatch and grab. Then he’ll be equipped for anything.
But you don’t want to go back there, do you? a soft voice whispers.
“Not particularly.”
Because?
“Because nothing.”
Go on, say it.
“I forget.”
No, you don’t. You’ve forgotten nothing.
“I’m a sick man,” he pleads. “I’m dying of scurvy! Go away!”
What he needs to do is concentrate. Prioritize. Whittle things down to essentials. The essentials are: Unless you eat, you die. You can’t get any more essential than that.
The Rejoov Compound is too far away for a casual day trip: it’s more like an expedition. He’ll have to stay out overnight. He doesn’t welcome that thought – where will he sleep? – but if he’s careful he should be okay.
With the can of Sveltana sausages inside him and a goal in sight, Snowman’s beginning to feel almost normal. He has a mission: he’s even looking forward to it. He might unearth all sorts of things. Cherries preserved in brandy; dry-roasted peanuts; a precious can of imitation Spam, if serendipity strikes. A truckload of booze. The Compounds hadn’t stinted themselves, you could find the full range of goods and services there when there were shortages everywhere else.
He gets to his feet, stretches, scratches around the old scabs on his back – they feel like misplaced toenails – then walks back along the path behind his tree, picking up the empty Scotch bottle he threw down at the wolvogs the night before. He gives it a wistful sniff, then tosses it and the Sveltana can onto his middenheap of empty containers, where a whole crowd of debauched flies is making merry. Sometimes at night he can hear the rakunks pawing through this private dump of his, searching for a free meal among the leavings of catastrophe, as he himself has often done, and is about to do again.
Then he sets about making his preparations. He reties his sheet, arranging it over his shoulders and pulling the extra up through his legs and tucking it in through the belt effect at the front, and knotting his last chocolate energy bar into a corner. He finds himself a stick, long and fairly straight. He decides to take only one bottle of water: most likely there’ll be water along the way. If not, he can always catch the runoff from the afternoon storm.
He’ll have to tell the Children of Crake he’s going. He doesn’t want them to discover he’s missing and set out looking for him. They could run into dangers, or get lost. Despite their irritating qualities – among which he counts their naive optimism, their open friendliness, their calmness, and their limited vocabularies – he feels protective towards them. Intentionally or not, they’ve been left in his care, and they simply have no idea. No idea, for instance, of how inadequate his care really is.
Stick in hand, rehearsing the story he’ll tell them, he goes along the path to their encampment. They call this path the Snowman Fish Path, because they carry his fish along it every week. It skirts the edge of the beach while keeping to the shade; nevertheless he finds it too bright, and tilts his baseball cap down to keep out the rays. He whistles as he approaches them, as he always does to let them know he’s coming. He doesn’t want to startle them, strain their politeness, cross their boundaries without being invited – loom up on them suddenly out of the shrubbery, like some grotesque flasher exposing himself to schoolkids.
His whistle is like a leper’s bell: all those bothered by cripples can get out of his way. Not that he’s infectious: what he’s got they’ll never catch. They’re immune from him.
Purring
~
The men are performing their morning ritual, standing six feet apart in a long line curving off into the trees at either side. They’re facing outward as in pictures of muskoxen, pissing along the invisible line that marks their territory. Their expressions are grave, as befits the seriousness of their task. They remind Snowman of his father heading out the door in the morning, briefcase in hand, an earnest aiming-for-the-target frown between his eyes.
The men do this twice a day, as they’ve been taught: it’s necessary to keep the volume constant, the odour renewed. Crake’s model had been the canids and the mustelids, and a couple of other families and species as well. Scent-marking was a wide-ranging mammalian leitmotif, he’d said, nor was it confined to the mammals. Certain reptiles, various lizards …
“Never mind about the lizards,” said Jimmy.
According to Crake – and Snowman has seen nothing since to disprove it – the chemicals programmed into the men’s urine are effective against wolvogs and rakunks, and to a lesser extent against bobkittens and pigoons. The wolvogs and bobkittens are reacting to the scent of their own kind and must imagine a huge wolvog or bobkitten, from which they would be wise to keep their distance. The rakunks and pigoons imagine large predators. Or this was the theory.
Crake allotted the special piss to men only; he said they’d need something important to do, something that didn’t involve child-bearing, so they wouldn’t feel left out. Woodworking, hunting, high finance, war, and golf would no longer be options, he’d joked.
There are some disadvantages to this plan, in action – the ring-of-pee boundary line smells like a rarely cleaned zoo – but the circle is large enough so that there’s ample smell-free room inside it. Anyway Snowman is used to it by now.
He waits politely for the men to finish. They don’t ask him to join them: they already know his piss is useless. Also it’s their habit to say nothing while performing their task: they need to concentrate, to make sure their urine lands in exactly the right place. Each has his own three feet of borderland, his own area of responsibility. It’s quite a sight: like the women, these men – smooth-skinned, well-muscled – look like statues, and grouped like this they resemble an entire Baroque fountain. A few mermaids and dolphins and cherubs and the scene would be complete. Into Snowman’s head comes the image of a circle of naked car mechanics, each holding a wrench. A whole squad of Mr. Fix-its. A gay magazine centrefold. Witnessing their synchronized routine, he almost expects them to break into some campy chorus line from one of the seedier nightclubs
.
The men shake off, break their circle, look over at Snowman with their uniformly green eyes, smile. They’re always so goddamn affable.
“Welcome, oh Snowman,” says the one called Abraham Lincoln. “Will you join us inside our home?” He’s getting to be a bit of a leader, that one. Watch out for the leaders, Crake used to say. First the leaders and the led, then the tyrants and the slaves, then the massacres. That’s how it’s always gone.
Snowman steps over the wet line on the ground, ambles along with the men. He’d just had a brilliant idea: what if he were to take some of the saturated earth with him on his journey, as a protective device? It might ward off the wolvogs. But on second thought, the men would find the gap dug in their defences and would know he’d done it. Such an act could be misinterpreted: he wouldn’t want to be suspected of weakening their fortress, exposing their young to danger.
He’ll have to cook up a new directive from Crake, present it to them later. Crake has told me you must collect an offering of your scent. Get them all to piss in a tin can. Sprinkle it around his tree. Make a fairy ring. Draw his own line in the sand.
They reach the open space at the centre of the territorial circle. Off to one side, three of the women and one man are tending to a little boy, who appears to be hurt in some way. These people are not immune from wounds – the children fall down or bash their heads on trees, the women burn their fingers tending the fires, there are cuts and scrapes – but so far the injuries have been minor, and easily cured by purring.
Crake had worked for years on the purring. Once he’d discovered that the cat family purred at the same frequency as the ultrasound used on bone fractures and skin lesions and were thus equipped with their own self-healing mechanism, he’d turned himself inside out in the attempt to install that feature. The trick was to get the hyoid apparatus modified and the voluntary nerve pathways connected and the neocortex control systems adapted without hampering the speech abilities. There’d been quite a few botched experiments, as Snowman recalled. One of the trial batch of kids had manifested a tendency to sprout long whiskers and scramble up the curtains; a couple of the others had vocal-expression impediments; one of them had been limited to nouns, verbs, and roaring.
Crake did it though, thinks Snowman. He pulled it off. Just look at the four of them now, heads down close to the child, purring away like car engines.
“What happened to him?” he asks.
“He was bitten,” says Abraham. “One of the Children of Oryx bit him.”
This is something new. “What kind?”
“A bobkitten. For no reason.”
“It was outside our circle, it was in the forest,” says one of the women – Eleanor Roosevelt? Empress Josephine? – Snowman can’t always remember their names.
“We were forced to hit it with rocks, to make it go away,” says Leonardo da Vinci, the man in the purring quartet.
So the bobkittens are hunting kiddies now, thinks Snowman. Maybe they’re getting hungry – as hungry as he is himself. But they have lots of rabbits to choose from, so it can’t be simple hunger. Maybe they see the Children of Crake, the little ones anyway, as just another kind of rabbit, though easier to catch.
“Tonight we will apologize to Oryx,” says one of the women – Sacajawea? – “for the rocks. And we will request her to tell her children not to bite us.”
He’s never seen the women do this – this communion with Oryx – although they refer to it frequently. What form does it take? They must perform some kind of prayer or invocation, since they can hardly believe that Oryx appears to them in person. Maybe they go into trances. Crake thought he’d done away with all that, eliminated what he called the G-spot in the brain. God is a cluster of neurons, he’d maintained. It had been a difficult problem, though: take out too much in that area and you got a zombie or a psychopath. But these people are neither.
They’re up to something though, something Crake didn’t anticipate: they’re conversing with the invisible, they’ve developed reverence. Good for them, thinks Snowman. He likes it when Crake is proved wrong. He hasn’t caught them making any graven images yet, however.
“Will the child be all right?” he asks.
“Yes,” says the woman calmly. “Already the tooth holes are closing. See?”
~ ~ ~
The rest of the women are doing the things they usually do in the morning. Some are tending the central fire; others squat around it, warming themselves. Their body thermostats are set for tropical conditions, so they sometimes find it cold before the sun is high. The fire is fed with dead twigs and branches, but primarily with dung, made into patties the size and shape of hamburgers and dried in the noonday sun. Since the Children of Crake are vegetarians and eat mostly grass and leaves and roots, this material burns well enough. As far as Snowman can tell, fire-tending is about the only thing the women do that might be classified as work. Apart from helping to catch his weekly fish, that is. And cooking it for him. On their own behalf they do no cooking.
“Greetings, oh Snowman,” says the next woman he comes to. Her mouth is green from the breakfast she’s been chewing. She’s breastfeeding a year-old boy, who looks up at Snowman, lets the nipple pop out of his mouth, and begins to cry. “It’s only Snowman!” she says. “He won’t hurt you.”
Snowman still hasn’t got used to it, the growth rate of these kids. The yearling looks like a five-year-old. By the age of four he’ll be an adolescent. Far too much time was wasted in child-rearing, Crake used to say. Childrearing, and being a child. No other species used up sixteen years that way.
Some of the older children have spotted him; they come closer, chanting, “Snowman, Snowman!” So he hasn’t yet lost his allure. Now all the people are gazing at him curiously, wondering what he’s doing here. He never arrives without a reason. On his first visits they’d thought – judging from his appearance – that he must be hungry, and they’d offered him food – a couple of handfuls of choice leaves and roots and grass, and several caecotrophs they’d kept especially for him – and he’d had to explain carefully that their food was not his food.
He finds the caecotrophs revolting, consisting as they do of semi-digested herbage, discharged through the anus and re-swallowed two or three times a week. This had been another boy-genius concept on the part of Crake. He’d used the vermiform appendix as the base on which to construct the necessary organ, reasoning that at an earlier evolutionary stage, when the ancestral diet had been higher in roughage, the appendix must have fulfilled some such function. But he’d stolen the specific idea from the Leporidae, the hares and rabbits, which depend on caecotrophs rather than on several stomachs like the ruminants. Maybe this is why bobkittens have started hunting the young Crakers, Snowman thinks: beneath the citrus overlay, they can smell the rabbity aroma of the caecotrophs.
Jimmy had argued with Crake over this feature. However you look at it, he’d said, what it boiled down to was eating your own shit. But Crake had merely smiled. For animals with a diet consisting largely of unrefined plant materials, he’d pointed out, such a mechanism was necessary to break down the cellulose, and without it the people would die. Also, as in the Leporidae, the caecotrophs were enriched with Vitamin B1, and with other vitamins and minerals as well, at four or five times the level of ordinary waste material. Caecotrophs were simply a part of alimentation and digestion, a way of making maximum use of the nutrients at hand. Any objections to the process were purely aesthetic.
That was the point, Jimmy had said.
Crake had said that if so it was a bad one.
Snowman is now surrounded by an attentive circle. “Greetings, Children of Crake,” he says. “I have come to tell you that I’m going on a journey.” The adults must have deduced this already, from his long stick and the way he’s tied his sheet: he’s gone on journeys before, or that’s what he’s called his looting forays into the trailer parks and adjacent pleeblands.
“Are you going to see Crake?” asks one of the chil
dren.
“Yes,” says Snowman. “I’ll try to see him. I’ll see him if he’s there.”
“Why?” says one of the older children.
“There are some things I need to ask him,” says Snowman cautiously.
“You must tell him about the bobkitten,” says Empress Josephine. “The one that bit.”
“That is a matter for Oryx,” says Madame Curie. “Not for Crake.” The other women nod.
“We want to see Crake too,” the children begin. “We too, we too! We want to see Crake too!” It’s one of their favourite ideas, going to see Crake. Snowman blames himself: he shouldn’t have told them such exciting lies at the beginning. He’d made Crake sound like Santa Claus.
“Don’t bother Snowman,” says Eleanor Roosevelt gently. “Surely he is making this journey to help us. We must thank him.”
“Crake is not for children,” says Snowman, looking as stern as he can manage.
“Let us come too! We want to see Crake!”
“Only Snowman can ever see Crake,” Abraham Lincoln says mildly. That seems to settle it.
“This will be a longer journey,” Snowman says. “Longer than the other journeys. Maybe I won’t come back for two days.” He holds up two fingers. “Or three,” he adds. “So you shouldn’t worry. But while I’m away, be sure to stay here in your home, and do everything the way Crake and Oryx have taught you.”
A chorus of yesses, much nodding of heads. Snowman doesn’t mention the possibility of danger to himself. Perhaps it isn’t a thing they ever consider, nor is it a subject he brings up – the more invulnerable they think he is, the better.
“We will come with you,” says Abraham Lincoln. Several of the other men look at him, then nod.
“No!” says Snowman, taken aback. “I mean, you can’t see Crake, it isn’t allowed.” He doesn’t want them tagging along, absolutely not! He doesn’t want them witnessing any weaknesses or failures on his part. Also, some of the sights along the way might be bad for their state of mind. Inevitably they would shower him with questions. In addition to all of which, a day in their company would bore the pants off him.
The MaddAddam Trilogy Page 14
