Tides From the New Worlds

by Tobias S. Buckell

Old Ma shifted the rice on her head and didn’t look down.

  Times, she said, shift around, go from here to there, and are often what you make of them. We’ve had worse times, we’ve had better times. No matter what times they are, there are always people outside the land who come in and tell us what times to have.

  And with that she walked faster, her bare callused feet slapping the ground hard, kicking up small puffs of dust.

  • • •

  Old Ma was old. Very old. But she could walk like a demon. Sweat poured from my forehead and I felt faint when we found our tent. There were many other tents all around us, and some men in jeeps asked us who we where, and were we where going.

  They walked us to the tent, winked at Old Ma, then turned to me.

  You are a little old to be walking with an old woman. You should ride with us. Be strong. Kill our enemies.

  Who are our enemies? I asked. Old Ma smiled.

  The men conferred among themselves, but could not come up with a single enemy. The enemy, they finally announced, are all who oppose us.

  Then since I… I would have said: oppose you; I must be your enemy. But it was a foolish thing to say. Old Ma saw my words even before I did, and spoke.

  This one looks old for his age, she said. And I clamped my mouth shut.

  The men laughed at us, then left to climb into their jeep and harass someone else. Old Ma shot me a nasty look, then crawled into the tent to start a dung fire and make us rice.

  • • •

  It is a hard thing to eat rice over and over and over again. The little brother and I left to hunt birds with a slingshot. A woman in red stripes stopped us at the edge of the tents.

  Where is your mother? She demanded. She looked at my dreads with suspicion.

  We have no parents, little brother said.

  Then who takes care of you?

  Old Ma.

  Who?

  Old Ma, I interjected. The old lady in the tent cooking rice. And we pointed Old Ma out, sitting with her legs crossed in front of the fire.

  The witch takes care of you? The woman shakes her head. You should not go out past the tents, you will die.

  Not that easily, I protested. We can both see the dreadlocks.

  The woman looked at us sideways, her hands on her hips, mouth slightly open.

  Why do you think we never walk in a straight line? Little brother laughed. And we ran out into the dust, leaving the woman to forget to scream at us.

  • • •

  Old Ma came out of the jungle during one of the wars, when mom and dad died. She took us under her flabby arms and told us stories, dried our tears, and fed us some soup. She tried to take us back to the forest one night, but Mouwanat started crying, and the relief workers found us.

  Later, men in trucks packed us up and took us to the tents. There were explosions in the trees, making us so scared we cried until our lungs hurt, and Old Ma looked back out past our village clearing and cried with us.

  The tent people didn’t like her, because she had a necklace with bones and things on it. They would spit in her face, and Old Ma ignored them, muttering things under her breath and sighing to the old Gods. The problem with casting at them, she told me, is that they don’t believe, and so I cannot affect them.

  But I believe, Old Ma, I would say.

  I know, child.

  So she would explain to me and little brother why, just under the surface of the infertile land, we could see the long snaking black strands, the dreadlocks that coiled around everything.

  When I saw them push into the trees and jungle, she told us, I knew Death came for me, and I had to follow them out. And that was when I found you! She would tell us about the old Gods, and the story about Death and how his dreadlocks now draped out across the whole land like a spider’s web.

  • • •

  We didn’t find any birds to kill with our stones, and other boys were out looking. Tired and dusty, little brother and I returned. On our way back we heard gunfire, and the crackle of tents in flames.

  Dreadlocks, black and sinewy, moved just under the ground away from the relief tents.

  Stepping carefully over them, we walked to the tents. Men in jeeps rode around, and one of them recognized me.

  See, he said. Ride with us little one, and you will vanquish our enemies.

  All around the white relief workers lay with dreadlocks curled around their bodies, the tightly wound hair soaking up the red blood oozing from their torn bodies. I recognized the pretty lady who asked about our souls.

  The men in jeeps spun more dust into the sky.

  • • •

  Late, late, into the night, I woke little brother up.

  Times are going to get worse, I said.

  He agreed with a nod.

  The relief tents fed us, but now the rice is in flames. We are many miles from Old Ma’s jungle. People are being crazy. I don’t think any more relief people will come if they keep getting killed, and so we will starve.

  Little brother agreed.

  So I must go out and find us a new place, or food, I said.

  I will go with you, little brother declared.

  No. I will go alone.

  So little brother helped me pack, and then gave me a small portion of dried beef he has stolen from somewhere in the tents and hidden under his bedsack. I tried to make him keep it, but he insisted, and we cried together and hugged. Then I left.

  • • •

  Far from the tents, on my own in the morning cool, I watched the great ochre sun rise above the distant mountains, and paid homage. I crouched on the sand and waited, and waited, for a plan.

  As I watched, two vans chased a jeep across the flat dust. They shot and shot until the jeep exploded. They fired at it some more, then left. When I reached the jeep I recognized the men.

  One stirred and looked at me with one eye.

  Dreadlocks circled around and sniffed.

  Is Death the instigator of all this, I wondered, or merely just circling around like a buzzard?

  • • •

  I followed the locks. I started at the burned out jeep, and ended up near the foot of the mountains. They stretched up towards the heavens above me. There was even some scraggly jungle around.

  The dreadlocks all converged here. They all wound themselves towards a large bunker. The concrete was the same color as the hard earth around it.

  When I walked in, the smell of rotting animals dizzied me. I steadied myself and walked on through many rooms. They were sumptuous rooms, tall and gilded with glittering objects, jewelry that must have once adorned beautiful men and women.

  I followed the thick shanks of dung smelling hair into a grand pit of a throne room. The air was dark, and dust hung still on everything. The hair all ran up into the center of the room, up the back and shoulders of a giant, as dark as the shadows. The giant’s belly had rolls and rolls of fat that overflowed onto his crossed feet, and when he stirred, all the dreadlocks leading to the room shifted and coiled around the corners like snakes. It made me shiver, and I wished that times were different, and that I had never seen all the things that I had seen this day.

  Hello, children, he said.

  Who else is here? I demanded in a shaky voice. A small form stepped out from the hallway behind me.

  My name is Kofi, the boy whimpered. Please don’t hurt me. I followed. I was hoping I could steal some bread, or rice.

  The giant, his dreadlocks shifting about us, laughed the deepest, most fetid smelling, belly laugh. A thousand TVs fastened to the walls flickered on, bathing everything in a cold blue light.

  Of course I have bread, and rice, he said. But why would you want such boring and tasteless foods, when I have much better.

  He took from his side two large brown paper bags. They were stained on the bottom with grease. Kofi ran forward and snatched the bag, impossibly small against the giant’s hand.

  The bags smelled heavenly, and Kofi pulled a meat sandwich from his bag. There w
ere more inside. He began to eat them rapidly. The giant flicked the other bag at me, and I caught it. As I opened it, my small stomach growling with excitement, I thought; if those are Death’s Dreadlocks, then this giant is obviously Death. And if he is Death, then there is no doubt that something is not right about this food.

  I decided I would wait and watch what happened to Kofi. And as I watched Kofi, the giant, Death, also watched Kofi. Kofi ate, and ate, and ate, until he grew heavy with all the food, and lay down against the side of the room.

  If you will not eat, the giant said, why don’t you enjoy yourself. And the TV closest to me started to show movies. Pick a movie, the giant said. Any movie.

  So I watched men leap around buildings and fight each other, until the flickering made my eyes heavy, and against my will I drifted to sleep.

  • • •

  When I woke I found my wrists bound with a heavy iron. The giant chuckled to himself in the corner, and my heart thudded with fear.

  What is going on here? I demanded.

  The giant chuckled some more, and picked his teeth with a bone. He smiled at me, and his smile carried a rank, rotten smell. Like that of a man left in the desert to bloat and be picked at by carrion.

  You have pretty dreadlocks, just like me, the giant said. He leaned forward with a blast of a belch, and touched the top of my head with his smallest finger. I wanted to vomit as the giant leaned back, still picking his teeth with the piece of bone.

  Where is Kofi? I asked.

  He went to play, the giant said. He snapped the bone in half and tossed it aside. I shuddered, for I knew it was most surely Kofi’s last remains. I shook even harder, imagining what it would be like to die under the giant’s greasy, chubby, fingers. More than anything I wanted to run from the dank bunker out into the hot dust outside. But I was trapped.

  Please don’t eat me, I cried out, holding my manacled wrists into the air.

  Why not, the giant demanded angrily. I can do with you as I please.

  I thought hard and quick, looking to save my skin.

  I have brothers! I yelled.

  The giant was interested. His eyes gleamed, and I saw my chance.

  I said: my brothers are warriors, and plump with victory and full of life. They are young and strong, with supple dark skin and tight curly hair.

  The giant drooled and swallowed noisily. He pulled at my manacles with a dreadlock, like it was a tentacle of some sort, and I stumbled closer. I did not breathe, scared to smell his stench, as his nasty breath wet my face.

  Bring them to me, he declared with moist lips, and I will spare your life.

  • • •

  When I returned to the tents my skin was dry and dusty, and my ribs showed beneath my skin. Little brother grabbed my legs, and all my brothers stepped out from the tent. They hugged me and gave me water, then hugged me more.

  I was surprised to see Mouwanat cry and hug me the most.

  That is the way it is with older brothers.

  Where have you gone? Kuabi asked.

  Who did this to you? Mouwanat demanded.

  And little brother said in a small, wavering, voice; the Old Ma is gone. She walked out into the night and never came back. We think men have killed her. Then we all hugged and cried again.

  Brothers, I said, after grieving Old Ma. I was captured by a giant that showed me shows on TV, and gave me food in a paper bag.

  Little brother took the bag I pulled from my waist and looked at it. He wiped his forefinger on the grease and sniffed it.

  Is that a bad thing? My brothers asked.

  In response I opened my robes, and showed them the dreadlock that had lodged itself in the hollow place in my chest, just below my heart. For Death was not stupid, he had me just as surely as if I were still in the bunker with the blue light.

  All raised by Old Ma, my brothers saw the dreadlock, and cursed and swore.

  What shall we do? They all asked me.

  You should follow me, I said. We will face Death.

  For I had made something of a plan during the long trip back, all the while ignoring the evil-sweet smells of the bag on my waist. Old Ma told us stories of tricksters who had been trapped by Death, and jabbed him with spears to kill him. We would do the same.

  • • •

  We drove back to the bunker, after bribing a warrior with our bag of evil-sweet food. The man never saw the faint dreadlock clinging to the bag, and though we felt sorry for him, our compassion fled as we saw him eat the food so fast he grew sick.

  As we drove we sang together. Old songs, new songs, and some in between. We kicked up dust, and drove over dreadlocks bravely. Here they were thick in the ground, and we could hear the sounds of war in the distance, feeding the ever-hungry fatness of Death. And when we drove up to the bunker with our truck, my brothers leaped from its sides and ran down into the darkness to face the giant, defiance in their eyes.

  Ho, the giant said, dreadlocks squirming with eagerness among the sides of the walls. Little brother’s eyes opened wide, and he looked around at the TVs. A table filled with food and fruit sat near the giant.

  Come, eat, the giant beckoned to us.

  I turned to my brothers and nodded. We all turned weapons onto the giant. I fired a small pistol at the giant’s face, and watched his cheek shatter with a great gout of blood.

  Kuabi threw grenades into the folds of the giant’s belly, and the flesh flew apart with a great fart of sludginess.

  Little brother threw stones.

  Mouwanat held his flamethrower forward and a great stream of fire leapt out and struck the giant. Fat burned and slid to the ground, and the giant’s arms beat against the sides of the walls. His dreadlocks slid up into his body, and kept sliding and sliding. Mouwanat turned his flame to them, and the dreadlocks lit up and spread crackling blue fire all over the bunker.

  We burned and shot until there was nothing left to burn and shoot, and we walked out with smiles on our faces. We have killed death, we celebrated among ourselves.

  And saved our brother, Mouwanat said.

  • • •

  Outside the dreadlocks had dried up, and were rusting into the sand.

  If we killed Death, Kuabi thought out loud, aren’t we immortal?

  From by us came a loud chuckle. We turned, and there stood Old Ma, barefoot and sweaty, by the side of the jeep.

  You can’t kill Death, children! She walked over to me and put a hand on my chest. She ran her hands through my locks, and kissed my forehead. She put a salve on my chest, and it raised my spirits and let me breathe easier.

  My brothers embraced Old Ma, and shouted and cried to see her alive.

  But Old Ma, little brother cried, what about the stories you told us? Where they killed Death with spears?

  Those, Old Ma said, turning away from me. Those were just stories. Stories to teach you, stories to help you be brave, stories to warn you, but still, just stories. Everyone tells stories. All over the world they tell stories, to help explain why things are just the way they are. Death will always be with us.

  Kaubi said, if these were just stories how could we see his dreadlocks?

  Just stories? Old Ma snorted, as she shooed us all back into the jeep. Kuabi started to drive us off across the land. Crowded around her, we listened as she spoke.

  Stories can build up an empire, or strike down a people. You can spell the most powerful spell, ease a friend’s hurt, or break an enemy. Stories make you believe.

  But how can we fight Death, little brother shouted, his eyes misting.

  Old Ma took his hand. I told you a story to help you see the ugly Death in our land. But now you have to look for it on your own. There are other Deaths to face, other stories. Ones more cruel, others hopeful, kind. You have heard mine.

  I looked around the jeep. My brothers had left their weapons with Death. We jounced on through the dust.

  I nodded.

  Old Ma was right. She had helped us, come from the bush to guide us. And no
w we had our own story to tell.

  Many miles passed, and Old Ma waved us towards the forest, where we could hide and be safe. As I looked all around us, the world seemed eerie and still. A dead quiet had fallen. Even the dust hardly dared stir.

  We had been brave, and faced Death. Now we had to be even braver and face the things that Death fed off. We could not fight Death with weapons. Death was not something we could burn, or knife. These things made it stronger, harder to see.

  And we could never kill Death. We could only make it gentler, kinder, a friend who came after many years. But this Death would only come to us when we changed the current story, the one with Kalichnikovs, dreadlocks and fear, with the dust heavy in the air as it was kicked up by wheels.

  Smooth Talking

  Deep into the last couple of weeks of the Clarion workshop I came up with the slightly fun idea of a salesman going mad seeing dryads in the cut wood of the houses he’s trying to sell. The story veered from that a bit, but the central image of a man arguing with trees, which is the note I wanted the story to end on, remained in the story.

  Marcus pulled on the steering wheel with both hands and forced the Ford Ranger right. The front wheels skipped, bounced, then the rear dug in. Spinning and spewing mud out past the flaps, his truck slowly started up the switchback. Marcus glanced at the passenger’s side of the bench seat.

  “Shit!”

  He reached out and righted his cup of Pepsi, wedging it again between the half-eaten burger and scuffed beige satchel. Marcus shifted into second, steering away from the edge. The road itself barely offered enough room for the Ranger and he kept a nervous eye on the edge. It was barely delineated in the dusk against all the other mud and greenery.

  Why me? Marcus wondered. Firing Roger was one thing. Driving up killer mountain switchbacks to do it was a whole different story.

  The demands of leadership, he sighed.

  Marcus wrestled the Ranger up one last switchback. At this point he managed it well, popping the front up and over, then barreling straight for the main clearing.

  And there sat Roger’s small hatchback near several halved logs, looking almost green rather than light blue in the orange twilight. Marcus surged his truck through several enormous ribbed tracks and pulled up into the impromptu parking lot.