The MaddAddam Trilogy

by Margaret Atwood

  Snowman can imagine. The sight of these preternaturally calm, well-muscled men advancing en masse, singing their unusual music, green eyes glowing, blue penises waving in unison, both hands outstretched like extras in a zombie film, would have to have been alarming.

  Snowman’s heart is going very fast now, with excitement or fear, or a blend. “Were they carrying anything?”

  “One of them had a noisy stick, like yours.” Snowman’s spraygun is out of sight: they must remember the gun from before, from when they walked out of Paradice. “But they didn’t make any noise with it.” The Children of Crake are very nonchalant about all this, they don’t realize the implications. It’s as if they’re discussing rabbits.

  “When did they come here?”

  “Oh, the day before, maybe.”

  Useless to try to pin them down about any past event: they don’t count the days. “Where did they go?”

  “They went there, along the beach. Why did they run away from us, oh Snowman?”

  “Perhaps they heard Crake,” says Sacajawea. “Perhaps he was calling to them. They had shiny things on their arms, like you. Things for listening to Crake.”

  “I’ll ask them,” says Snowman. “I’ll go and talk with them. I’ll do it tomorrow. Now I will go to sleep.” He heaves himself upright, winces with pain. He still can’t put much weight on that foot.

  “We will come too,” say several of the men.

  “No,” says Snowman. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

  “But you are not well enough yet,” says the Empress Josephine. “You need more purring.” She looks worried: a small frown has appeared between her eyes. Unusual to see such an expression on one of their perfect wrinkle-free faces.

  Snowman submits, and a new purring team – three men this time, one woman, they must think he needs strong medicine – hovers over his leg. He tries to sense a responding vibration inside himself, wondering – not for the first time – whether this method is tailored to work only on them. Those who aren’t purring watch the operation closely; some converse in low voices, and after half an hour or so a fresh team takes over.

  He can’t relax into the sound as he knows he should, because he’s rehearsing the future, he can’t help it. His mind is racing; behind his half-closed eyes possibilities flash and collide. Maybe all will be well, maybe this trio of strangers is good-hearted, sane, well-intentioned; maybe he’ll succeed in presenting the Crakers to them in the proper light. On the other hand, these new arrivals could easily see the Children of Crake as freakish, or savage, or non-human and a threat.

  Images from old history flip through his head, sidebars from Blood and Roses: Ghenghis Khan’s skull pile, the heaps of shoes and eyeglasses from Dachau, the burning corpse-filled churches in Rwanda, the sack of Jerusalem by the Crusaders. The Arawak Indians, welcoming Christopher Columbus with garlands and gifts of fruit, smiling with delight, soon to be massacred, or tied up beneath the beds upon which their women were being raped.

  But why imagine the worst? Maybe these people have been frightened off, maybe they’ll have moved elsewhere. Maybe they’re ill and dying.

  Or maybe not.

  Before he reconnoitres, before he sets out on what – he now sees – is a mission, he should make a speech of some kind to the Crakers. A sort of sermon. Lay down a few commandments, Crake’s parting words to them. Except that they don’t need commandments: no thou shalt nots would be any good to them, or even comprehensible, because it’s all built in. No point in telling them not to lie, steal, commit adultery, or covet. They wouldn’t grasp the concepts.

  He should say something to them, though. Leave them with a few words to remember. Better, some practical advice. He should say he might not be coming back. He should say that the others, the ones with extra skins and feathers, are not from Crake. He should say their noisy stick should be taken away from them and thrown into the sea. He should say that if these people should become violent – Oh Snowman, please, what is violent? – or if they attempt to rape (What is rape?) the women, or molest (What?) the children, or if they try to force others to work for them …

  Hopeless, hopeless. What is work? Work is when you build things – What is build? – or grow things – What is grow? – either because people would hit and kill you if you didn’t, or else because they would give you money if you did.

  What is money?

  No, he can’t say any of that. Crake is watching over you, he’ll say. Oryx loves you.

  Then his eyes close and he feels himself being lifted gently, carried, lifted again, carried again, held.

  15

  ~

  Footprint

  ~

  Snowman wakes before dawn. He lies unmoving, listening to the tide coming in, wish-wash, wish-wash, the rhythm of heartbeat. He would so like to believe he is still asleep.

  On the eastern horizon there’s a greyish haze, lit now with a rosy, deadly glow. Strange how that colour still seems tender. He gazes at it with rapture; there is no other word for it. Rapture. The heart seized, carried away, as if by some large bird of prey. After everything that’s happened, how can the world still be so beautiful? Because it is. From the offshore towers come the avian shrieks and cries that sound like nothing human.

  He takes a few deep breaths, scans the ground below for wildlife, makes his way down from the tree, setting his good foot on the ground first. He checks the inside of his hat, flicks out an ant. Can a single ant be said to be alive, in any meaningful sense of the word, or does it only have relevance in terms of its anthill? An old conundrum of Crake’s.

  He hobbles across the beach to the water’s edge, washes his foot, feels the sting of salt: there must have been a boil, the thing must have ruptured overnight, the wound feels huge now. The flies buzz around him, waiting for a chance to settle.

  Then he limps back up to the treeline, takes off his flowered bedsheet, hangs it on a branch: he doesn’t want to be impeded. He’ll wear nothing but his baseball cap, to keep the glare out of his eyes. He’ll dispense with the sunglasses: it’s early enough so they won’t be needed. He needs to catch every nuance of movement.

  He pees on the grasshoppers, watches with nostalgia as they whir away. Already this routine of his is entering the past, like a lover seen from a train window, waving goodbye, pulled inexorably back, in space, in time, so quickly.

  He goes to his cache, opens it, drinks some water. His foot hurts like shit, it’s red around the wound again, his ankle’s swollen: whatever’s in there has overcome the cocktail from Paradice and the treatment of the Crakers as well. He rubs on some of the antibiotic gel, useless as mud. Luckily he’s got aspirins; those will dull the pain. He swallows four, chews up half a Joltbar for the energy. Then he takes out his spraygun, checks the cellpack of virtual bullets.

  He’s not ready for this. He’s not well. He’s frightened.

  He could choose to stay put, await developments.

  Oh honey. You’re my only hope.

  He follows the beach northward, using his stick for balance, keeping to the shadow of the trees as much as possible. The sky’s brightening, he needs to hurry. He can see the smoke now, rising in a thin column. It will take him an hour or more to get there. They don’t know about him, those people; they know about the Crakers but not about him, they won’t be expecting him. That’s his best chance.

  From tree to tree he limps, elusive, white, a rumour. In search of his own kind.

  Here’s a human footprint, in the sand. Then another one. They aren’t sharp-edged, because the sand here is dry, but there’s no mistaking them. And now here’s a whole trail of them, leading down to the sea. Several different sizes. Where the sand turns damp he can see them better. What were these people doing? Swimming, fishing? Washing themselves?

  They were wearing shoes, or sandals. Here’s where they took them off, here’s where they put them on again. He stamps his own good foot into the wet sand, beside the biggest footprint: a signature of a k
ind. As soon as he lifts his foot away the imprint fills with water.

  He can smell the smoke, he can hear the voices now. Sneaking he goes, as if walking through an empty house in which there might yet be people. What if they should see him? A hairy naked maniac wearing nothing but a baseball cap and carrying a spraygun. What would they do? Scream and run? Attack? Open their arms to him with joy and brotherly love?

  He peers out through the screen of leaves: there are only three of them, sitting around their fire. They’ve got a spraygun of their own, a CorpSeCorps daily special, but it’s lying on the ground. They’re thin, battered-looking. Two men, one brown, one white, a tea-coloured woman, the men in tropical khakis, standard issue but filthy, the woman in the remains of a uniform of some kind – nurse, guard? Must have been pretty once, before she lost all that weight; now she’s stringy, her hair parched, broom-straw. All three of them look wasted.

  They’re roasting something – meat of some kind. A rakunk? Yes, there’s the tail, over there on the ground. They must have shot it. The poor creature.

  Snowman hasn’t smelled roast meat for so long. Is that why his eyes are watering?

  He’s shivering now. He’s feverish again.

  What next? Advance with a strip of bedsheet tied to a stick, waving a white flag? I come in peace. But he doesn’t have his bedsheet with him.

  Or, I can show you much treasure. But no, he has nothing to trade with them, nor they with him. Nothing except themselves. They could listen to him, they could hear his tale, he could hear theirs. They at least would understand something of what he’s been through.

  Or, Get the hell off my turf before I blow you off, as in some old-style Western film. Hands up. Back away. Leave that spraygun. That wouldn’t be the end of it though. There are three of them and only one of him. They’d do what he’d do in their place: they’d go away, but they’d lurk, they’d spy. They’d sneak up on him in the dark, conk him on the head with a rock. He’d never know when they might come.

  He could finish it now, before they see him, while he still has the strength. While he can still stand up. His foot’s like a shoeful of liquid fire. But they haven’t done anything bad, not to him. Should he kill them in cold blood? Is he able to? And if he starts killing them and then stops, one of them will kill him first. Naturally.

  “What do you want me to do?” he whispers to the empty air.

  It’s hard to know.

  Oh Jimmy, you were so funny.

  Don’t let me down.

  From habit he lifts his watch; it shows him its blank face.

  Zero hour, Snowman thinks. Time to go.

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to the Society of Authors (England), as the literary representative of the estate of Virginia Woolf, for permission to quote from To the Lighthouse; to Anne Carson for permission to quote from The Beauty of the Husband; and to John Calder Publications and Grove Atlantic for permission to quote eight words from Samuel Beckett’s novel, Mercier and Camier. A full list of the other quotations used or paraphrased on the fridge magnets in this book may be found at oryxandcrake.com. “Winter Wonderland,” alluded to in Part 9, is by Felix Bernard and Richard B. Smith, and is copyrighted by Warner Bros.

  The name “Amanda Payne” was graciously supplied by its auction-winning owner, thereby raising much-needed funds for the Medical Foundation for the Care of Victims of Torture (U.K.). Alex the parrot is a participant in the animal-intelligence work of Dr. Irene Pepperberg, and is the protagonist of many books, documentaries, and Web sites. He has given his name to the Alex Foundation. Thank you also to Tuco the parrot, who lives with Sharon Doobenen and Brian Brett, and to Ricki the parrot, who lives with Ruth Atwood and Ralph Siferd.

  Deep background was inadvertently supplied by many magazines and newspapers and non-fiction science writers encountered over the years. A full list of these is available at oryxandcrake.com. Thanks also to Dr. Dave Mossop and Grace Mossop, and to Norman and Barbara Barichello, of Whitehorse, in the Yukon, Canada; to Max Davidson and team, of Davidson’s Arnheimland Safaris, Australia; to my brother, neurophysiologist Dr. Harold Atwood (thank you for the study of sex hormones in unborn mice, and other arcana); to Lic. Gilberto Silva and Lic. Orlando Garrido, dedicated biologists, of Cuba; to Matthew Swan and team, of Adventure Canada, on one of whose Arctic voyages a portion of this book was written; to the boys at the lab, 1939–45; and to Philip and Sue Gregory of Cassowary House, Queensland, Australia, from whose balcony, in March 2002, the author observed that rare bird, the Red-necked Crake.

  My gratitude as well to astute early readers Sarah Cooper, Matthew Poulakakis, Jess Atwood Gibson, Ron Bernstein, Maya Mavjee, Louise Dennys, Steve Rubin, Arnulf Conradi, and Rosalie Abella; to my agents, Phoebe Larmore, Vivienne Schuster, and Diana Mackay; to my editors, Ellen Seligman of McClelland & Stewart (Canada), Nan Talese of Doubleday (U.S.A.), and Liz Calder of Bloomsbury (U.K.); and to my dauntless copyeditor, Heather Sangster. Also to my hardworking assistant, Jennifer Osti, and to Surya Bhattacharya, the keeper of the ominous Brown Box of research clippings. Also to Arthur Gelgoot, Michael Bradley, and Pat Williams; and to Eileen Allen, Melinda Dabaay, and Rose Tornato. And finally, to Graeme Gibson, my partner of thirty years, dedicated nature-watcher, and enthusiastic participant in the Pelee Island Bird Race of Ontario, Canada, who understands the obsessiveness of the writer.

  VINTAGE CANADA EDITION, 2010

  Copyright © 2009 O. W. Toad

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Published in Canada by Vintage Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, in 2010, and simultaneously in the United States of America by Anchor Books, a division of Random House Inc., New York. Originally published in hardcover in Canada by McClelland & Stewart, Toronto, in 2009, and simultaneously in the United States of America by Nan A. Talese, a division of Random House Inc.

  Distributed by Random House of Canada Limited.

  Vintage Canada with colophon is a registered trademark.

  www.randomhouse.ca

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Atwood, Margaret, 1939–

  The year of the flood / Margaret Atwood.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-39892-5

  I. Title.

  PS8501.T86Y43 2010 C813’.54 C2010-900793-X

  v3.0

  For Graeme and Jess

  CONTENTS

  Master - Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Garden

  THE YEAR OF THE FLOOD

  CREATION DAY

  THE FEAST OF ADAM AND ALL PRIMATES

  THE FESTIVAL OF ARKS

  SAINT EUELL OF WILD FOODS

  MOLE DAY

  APRIL FISH

  THE FEAST OF SERPENT WISDOM

  POLLINATION DAY

  SAINT DIAN, MARTYR

  PREDATOR DAY

  SAINT RACHEL AND ALL BIRDS

  SAINT TERRY AND ALL WAYFARERS

  SAINT JULIAN AND ALL SOULS

  Acknowledgments

  THE GARDEN

  Who is it tends the Garden,

  The Garden oh so green?

  ’Twas once the finest Garden

  That ever has been seen.

  And in it God’s dear Creatures

  Did swim and fly and play;

  But then came greedy Spoilers,

  And killed them all away.

  And all the Trees that flourished

  And gave us wholesome fruit,

  By waves of sand are buried,

  Both leaf and branch and root.

  And all the shining Water

  Is turned to slime and mire,

&nb
sp; And all the feathered Birds so bright

  Have ceased their joyful choir.

  Oh Garden, oh my Garden,

  I’ll mourn forevermore

  Until the Gardeners arise,

  And you to Life restore.

  From The God’s Gardeners Oral Hymnbook

  THE YEAR OF THE FLOOD

  1

  TOBY

  YEAR TWENTY-FIVE, THE YEAR OF THE FLOOD

  In the early morning Toby climbs up to the rooftop to watch the sunrise. She uses a mop handle for balance: the elevator stopped working some time ago and the back stairs are slick with damp, and if she slips and topples there won’t be anyone to pick her up.

  As the first heat hits, mist rises from among the swath of trees between her and the derelict city. The air smells faintly of burning, a smell of caramel and tar and rancid barbecues, and the ashy but greasy smell of a garbage-dump fire after it’s been raining. The abandoned towers in the distance are like the coral of an ancient reef – bleached and colourless, devoid of life.

  There still is life, however. Birds chirp; sparrows, they must be. Their small voices are clear and sharp, nails on glass: there’s no longer any sound of traffic to drown them out. Do they notice that quietness, the absence of motors? If so, are they happier? Toby has no idea. Unlike some of the other Gardeners – the more wild-eyed or possibly overdosed ones – she has never been under the illusion that she can converse with birds.

  The sun brightens in the east, reddening the blue-grey haze that marks the distant ocean. The vultures roosting on hydro poles fan out their wings to dry them, opening themselves like black umbrellas. One and then another lifts off on the thermals and spirals upwards. If they plummet suddenly, it means they’ve spotted carrion.