The MaddAddam Trilogy

by Margaret Atwood

  And the bad men did come. But that is in the next part of the story.

  And now I am really, really tired too. And I am going to sleep.

  Good night.

  That is what she’ll say when it’s time for the next story.

  Piglet

  Guru

  The morning after her visit to Pilar’s elderberry bush, Toby is still feeling the effects of the Enhanced Meditation mixture. The world’s a little brighter than it should be, the scrim of its colours and shapes a little more transparent. She puts on a bedsheet in a calming neutral tone – light blue, no pattern – gives her face a quick wash at the pump, and makes it over to the breakfast table.

  Everyone else seems to have eaten and gone. White Sedge and Lotis Blue are clearing off the dishes.

  “I think there’s some left,” says Lotis Blue.

  “What was it?” Toby asks.

  “Ham and kudzu fritters,” says White Sedge.

  Toby has dreamt all night: piglet dreams. Innocent piglets, adorable piglets, plumper and cleaner and less feral than the ones she’d actually seen. Piglets flying, pink ones, with white gauzy dragonfly wings; piglets talking in foreign languages; even piglets singing, prancing in rows like some old animated film or out-of-control musical. Wallpaper piglets, repeated over and over, intertwined with vines. All of them happy, none of them dead.

  They did love to depict animals endowed with human features, back in that erased civilization of which she had once been a part. Huggable, fluffy, pastel bears, clutching Valentine hearts. Cute cuddly lions. Adorable dancing penguins. Older than that: pink, shiny, comical pigs, with slots in their backs for money: you saw those in antique stores.

  She can’t manage the ham, not after a night full of waltzing piglets. And not after yesterday: what the sow communicated to her is still with her, though she couldn’t put it into words. It was more like a current. A current of water, a current of electricity. A long, subsonic wavelength. A brain chemistry mashup. Or, as Philo of the Gardeners once said, Who needs TV? He’d done perhaps too many Vigils and Enhanced Meditations.

  “Think I’ll skip that,” says Toby. “It’s not so great warmed over. I’ll go get some coffee.”

  “Are you all right?” says White Sedge.

  “I’m fine,” says Toby. She walks carefully along the path to the kitchen area, avoiding the places where the pebbles are rippling and dissolving, and finds Rebecca drinking a cup of coffee substitute. Little Blackbeard is there with her, sprawled on the floor, printing. He’s got one of Toby’s pencils, and he’s swiped her notebook too. But useless to call it “swiping” – the Crakers appear to have no concept of personal property.

  “You didn’t wake up,” he says, not reproachfully. “You were walking very far, in the night.”

  “Have you seen this?” Rebecca says. “The kid’s amazing.”

  “What are you writing?” Toby says.

  “I am writing the names, Oh Toby,” says Blackbeard. And, sure enough, that’s what he’s been doing. TOBY. ZEB. CRAK. REBECA. ORIX. SNOWMANTHEJIMY.

  “He’s collecting them,” says Rebecca. “Names. Who’s next?” she says to Blackbeard.

  “Next I will write Amanda,” says Blackbeard solemnly. “And Ren. So they can talk to me.” He scrambles up from the floor and runs off, clutching Toby’s notebook and pencil. How am I going to get those back from him? she wonders.

  “Honey, you look wiped,” Rebecca says to her. “Rough night?”

  “I overdid something,” says Toby. “In the Enhanced Meditation mix. A few too many mushrooms.”

  “It’s a hazard,” says Rebecca. “Drink a lot of water. I’ll make you some clover and pine tea.”

  “I saw a giant pig yesterday,” says Toby. “A sow, with piglets.”

  “The more the merrier,” says Rebecca. “So long as we’ve got sprayguns. I’m running out of bacon.”

  “No, wait,” says Toby. “It – she gave me a very strange look. I got the feeling that she knew I’d shot her husband. Back at the AnooYoo Spa.”

  “Wow, you really went to town on the mushrooms,” Rebecca says. “I once had a conversation with my bra. So, was she mad about the … I’m sorry, I just can’t call it a husband! It was a pig, for chrissakes!”

  “She wasn’t pleased,” says Toby. “But more sad than mad, I’d say.”

  “They’re smarter than ordinary pigs, even without the Meditation booster,” says Rebecca. “That’s for sure. By the way, Jimmy came to breakfast today. No more invalid trays for him. He’s doing well, but he’d like you to double-check his foot.”

  Jimmy has his own cubicle now. It’s a new one, in the cobb-house addition they’ve finished at last. The cobb walls still smell a little damp, a little muddy; but there’s a larger window than in the older part of the building, with a screen set into it and a curtain in a vibrant print of cartoon fish, with big curvy mouths and long-lashed eyes on the female ones. The males are playing guitars, with an octopus on the bongos. This is not the best thing for Toby to be looking at in her present state.

  “Where did those come from?” she asks Jimmy, who’s sitting up on his bed ledge with his feet on the floor. His legs are still thin, wasted; he’ll need to build up the muscles again. “The curtains?”

  “Who knows?” says Jimmy. “Ren, Wakulla – I mean, Lotis Blue. They felt I needed some cheerful interior decoration. It’s like pre-school in here.” He still has his Hey-Diddle-Diddle coverlet.

  “You wanted me to look at your foot?” she says.

  “Yeah. It’s itchy. Driving me crazy. I just hope none of those maggot things got left inside.”

  “If they did, they’d have burrowed out by now,” says Toby.

  “Thanks a million,” says Jimmy. The scar on his foot is red but sealed over. Toby examines it: no heat, no inflammation.

  “That’s normal,” she says. “The itchiness. I’ll get you something for it.” A poultice: jewelweed, horsetail, red clover, she thinks. Horsetail might be the easiest to find.

  “I heard you saw a pigoon,” says Jimmy. “And it spoke to you.”

  “Who told you that?” says Toby.

  “The Crakers, who else?” says Jimmy. “They’re my radio. That kid Blackbeard gave them the whole story, it seems. They think you shouldn’t have killed that boar, but they’re forgiving you because maybe Oryx said you could. You know those pigs have human prefrontal cortex tissue in their brains? Fact. I should know, I grew up with them.”

  “How did the Crakers learn about that?” Toby asks carefully. “Me shooting the boar?”

  “The pigoon gal told Blackbeard. Don’t give me that look, I’m just the messenger here. And according to Ren I’ve been hallucinating for a while, so hey. Maybe I’m not the best judge of reality.” He gives her a lopsided grin.

  “Mind if I sit down?” she says.

  “Help yourself, thousands do,” says Jimmy. “Fucking Crakers wander in here whenever the whim takes them. They want to know more shit about Crake. They think I’m his fucking guru. That he talks to me through my wristwatch. ’Course it’s my own fucking fault because I made that up myself.”

  “And what do you tell them?” Toby asks. “About Crake?”

  “I tell them to go ask you,” says Jimmy.

  “Me?” says Toby.

  “You’re the expert now. I need to take a nap.”

  “No, really, they always say you … they say you knew Crake, in person. When he was walking the earth.”

  “Like that’s supposed to be first prize?” Jimmy gives a sour little laugh.

  “It gives you a certain authority,” says Toby. “In their eyes.”

  “That’s like having a certain authority with a bunch of … Crap, I’m so wrecked I can’t even think of a smartass comparison. Clams. Oysters. Dodos. What I’m saying is. Because, I’m tired. My guru juice is all used up. They wore me out a while ago, to tell you the truth. I never want to think about Crake again, ever, or listen to any more crapulous poop about how
good and kind and all-powerful he is, or how he made them in the Egg and then sweetly wiped everybody else off the face of the planet, just for them. And how Oryx is in charge of the animals, and flies around in the shape of an owl, and even though you can’t see her she’s there anyway and will always hear them.”

  “As I understand it,” says Toby, “that’s consistent with what you’ve been telling them. It’s Gospel as far as they’re concerned.”

  “I know that’s what I fucking told them!” says Jimmy. “They wanted to know the basic stuff, like where they came from and what all those decaying dead people were. I had to tell them something.”

  “So you made up a nice story,” says Toby.

  “Well, crap, I could hardly tell them the truth. So yes. And yes, I could’ve done a smarter job of it, and yes, I’m not a brainiac, and yes, Crake must’ve thought I had the IQ of an aubergine because he played me like a kazoo. So it makes me puke to hear them grovelling about fucking Crake and singing his fucking praises every time his stupid name comes up.”

  “But that’s the story we’ve got,” says Toby. “So we have to work with it. Not that I’ve grasped all the finer points.”

  “Whatever,” says Jimmy. “It’s over to you. Just keep doing what you’re doing. You can add stuff in, go to town, they’ll eat it up. I hear they’re fanboys for Zeb these days. Stick with that plotline, it’s got legs. Just keep them from finding out what a bogus fraud everything is.”

  “That’s very manipulative,” says Toby. “Shoving it all onto me.”

  “Yeah, I’m not denying it,” says Jimmy. “I apologize. Though you’re good at it, according to them. Your choice; you can always tell them to piss off.”

  “You realize we’re under attack, in a manner of speaking,” says Toby.

  “The Painballers. Yeah. Ren told me,” he says more soberly.

  “So we can’t let these people go wandering off on their own too much. They’d most likely be killed.”

  Jimmy thinks about that. “So, then?”

  “You need to help me,” says Toby. “We should get our stories straight. I’ve been flying in the dark.”

  “Nowhere else to fly on the subject of Crake,” says Jimmy gloomily. “Welcome to my whirlwind. He cut her throat, did you know that? Good, kind Crake. She was so pretty, she was … Just thought I’d share that. But I shot the fucker.”

  “Whose throat?” Toby asks. “Who did you shoot?” But Jimmy’s face is in his hands now, and his shoulders are shaking.

  Piglet

  Toby doesn’t know what to do. Is a comforting maternal hug in order, supposing she’s capable of giving one, or would Jimmy find that intrusive? How about a brisk, nurse-like Chin up or a feeble withdrawal, on tiptoe?

  Before she can make up her mind, Blackbeard runs into the room. He’s unusually excited. “They’re coming! They’re coming!” he says. It’s almost a shout, which is rare for a Craker: even the kids aren’t shouters.

  “Who is?” she asks. “Is it the bad men?” Now where did she leave her rifle? That’s the down side of Meditations: you forget how to be properly aggressive.

  “They! Come! Come,” he says, tugging at her hand, then at her bedsheet. “The Pig Ones. Very many!”

  Jimmy lifts his head. “Pigoons. Oh fuck,” he says.

  Blackbeard is delighted. “Yes! Thank you for calling him, Snowman-the-Jimmy! We will need him, to help us,” he says. “The Pig Ones have a dead.”

  “A dead what?” Toby asks him, but he’s out the door.

  The MaddAddamites have dropped their various tasks and are moving in behind the cobb-house fence. Some have armed themselves with axes, and rakes, and shovels.

  Crozier, who must have set out to pasture with his flock of Mo’Hairs, is hurrying back along the pathway. Manatee’s with him, carrying their spraygun.

  “They’re coming from the west,” says Crozier. The Mo’Hairs surround him.

  “They’re … It’s weird. They’re marching. It’s like a pig parade.”

  The Crakers are gathering by the swing set. They don’t seem in any way frightened. They talk together in low voices, then the men begin to move west, as if to meet whatever’s coming down the path. Several women go with them: Marie Antoinette, Sojourner Truth, two others. The rest stay behind with the children, who clump together and stand silently, though no one has ordered them to do that.

  “Make them come back!” says Jimmy, who has joined the MaddAddamite group. “Those things will rip them open!”

  “You can’t make them do anything,” says Swift Fox, who is holding – somewhat awkwardly – a pitchfork from the garden.

  “Rhino,” says Zeb, handing over another spraygun. “Don’t get trigger-happy,” he says to Manatee. “You could hit a Craker. As long as the pigs don’t charge us, don’t fire.”

  “This is creepy,” says Ren timorously. She’s standing beside Jimmy now, holding on to his arm. “Where’s Amanda?”

  “Sleeping,” says Lotis Blue, who’s on the other side of Jimmy now.

  “More than creepy,” says Jimmy. “They’re sly, the pigoons. They’ve got tactics. They almost cornered me one time.”

  “Toby. We’ll need your rifle,” says Zeb. “If they split into two groups, go around to the back. They can root under the fence fast if they’ve got us distracted out front. Then they’ll attack from both sides.”

  Toby hurries to her cubicle. When she comes out carrying her old Ruger Deerfield, the herd of giant pigoons is already advancing into the clearing in front of the cobb-house fence.

  There are fifty or so in all. Fifty adults, that is: several of the sows have litters of piglets, trotting along beside their mothers. In the centre of the group, two of the boars are moving side by side; there’s something lying crossways on their backs. It looks like a mound of flowers – flowers and foliage.

  What? thinks Toby. Is it a peace offering? A pig wedding? An altar-piece?

  The largest pigs are acting as outriders; they seem nervous, pointing the moist discs of their snouts this way and that, snuffing the air.

  They’re glossy and greyish pink, rounded and plump and streamlined, like enormous nightmare slugs; but slugs with tusks, at least on the males. A sudden charge, an upward slash with those lethal scimitars, and you’d be gutted like a fish. And soon they’ll be so close to the Crakers that even a direct hit with a spraygun wouldn’t stop their momentum.

  A low level of grunting is going on, from pig to pig. If they were people, Toby thinks, you’d say it was the murmuring of a crowd. It must be information exchange; but God knows what sort of information. Are they saying, “We’re scared?” Or “We hate them?” Or possibly just a simple “Yum, yum?”

  Rhino and Manatee are stationed just inside the fence. They’ve lowered their sprayguns. Toby has thought it best to conceal her rifle; she’s carrying it at her side, a fold of her bedsheet tucked around it. No need to remind them of her boar-murdering exploits, though they probably need no reminders.

  “Cripes,” says Jimmy, who’s standing behind Toby. “Would you look at that. They’ve got to be planning something.”

  Blackbeard has left the other Craker children and has clutched himself on to Toby. “Do not be afraid, Oh Toby,” he says. “Are you afraid?”

  “Yes, I am afraid,” she says. Though not as afraid as Jimmy, she adds to herself, because I have a gun and he doesn’t. “They have attacked our garden more than once,” she says. “And we have killed some of them, to defend ourselves.” She thinks uneasily of the pork roasts, the bacon, and the chops that have resulted. “And we have put them into soup,” she says. “They have turned into a smelly bone. A lot of smelly bones.”

  “Yes, a smelly bone,” says Blackbeard thoughtfully. “A lot of smelly bones. I have seen them near the kitchen.”

  “So they are not our friends,” Toby says. “You are not the friend of those who turn you into a smelly bone.”

  Blackbeard thinks about this. Then he looks up at her, smiling gen
tly. “Do not be afraid, Oh Toby,” he says. “They are Children of Oryx and Children of Crake, both. They have said they will not harm you today. You will see.” Toby’s far from sure about that, but she smiles down at him anyway.

  The advance deputation of Crakers has joined the herd of pigoons and is walking back with them. The rest of the Crakers wait silently by the swing set as the pigoons advance.

  Now Napoleon Bonaparte and six other men step forward: piss parade, it looks like. Yes, they’re peeing in a line. Aiming carefully, peeing respectfully, but peeing. Having finished, they each take a step back. Three curious little piglets scamper forward, snuffle at the ground, then run squealing back to their mothers.

  “There,” says Blackbeard. “See? It is safe.”

  The Crakers move into a semicircle behind their demarcation line of urine. They begin to sing. The herd of pigoons divides in two, and the pair of boars moves slowly forward. Then they roll to either side, and the flower-covered burden they’ve been carrying slips onto the ground. They heave to their feet again and move some of the flowers away, using their trotters and snouts.

  It’s a dead piglet. A tiny one, with its throat cut. Its front trotters are tied together with rope. The blood is still red, it’s oozing from the gaping neck wound. There are no other marks.

  Now the whole herd is deploying itself in a semicircle around the – what? The bier? The catafalque? The flowers, the leaves – it’s a funeral. Toby remembers the boar she shot at the AnooYoo Spa – how, when she went to collect maggots from the carcass, there were fern fronds and leaves scattered over it. Elephants, she’d thought then. They do that. When someone they love has died.

  “Crap,” says Jimmy. “I hope it wasn’t us who nuked that little porker.”

  “I don’t think so,” says Toby. She would have heard about it, surely. There would have been some culinary chitchat.

  The two piglet-bearers have gone forward to the line of piss. Abraham Lincoln and Sojourner Truth are on the other side of it. They kneel so they’re at the level of the pigoons: head facing head. The Crakers stop singing. There’s silence. Then the Crakers start singing again.