The Raintree Rebellion

by Janet Mcnaughton

  Finally, I force myself to go downstairs. Erica joins me, wearing the beautiful blue skirt the weavers made for her and a white silk blouse. We both look like other people. I glance out the window. “There’s a vehicle outside.”

  “That’s our driver,” Erica says. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

  The vehicle they sent for us is finer than anything I’ve ever seen. The driver actually opens the door to let us in and closes it behind us. The seats seem to be covered in leather.

  “Erica,” I whisper quickly before the driver gets in, “this is ridiculous.”

  “I’m afraid most of the evening will seem that way to you, Blake. The Transitional Council is accustomed to doing things in style.”

  “But what are we supposed to do tonight?”

  “Nothing, really. There might be a few speeches, but mainly we’re just supposed to mingle.”

  “What does that mean, ‘mingle’?”

  “It means we try to meet people we’ll be working with and have light, meaningless conversations. The last thing anyone wants under these circumstances is a disagreement. Even a serious discussion is considered in poor taste.”

  In Kildevil, where Erica and I lived, people only talk when they have something to say. “I’m not sure I can do that for a whole evening.”

  Erica gives me a grim smile. “Neither am I. We’ll have to do our best. If you notice me shouting at anyone, come over and spill a drink or knock over a tray of hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Of what?”

  “Little snacks. You’ll see.” Erica laughs, but this reception sounds more and more intimidating. I sink back into the soft, deep seat, wishing we could spend the evening at home.

  This is the first time I’ve gone right into the heart of the city. Buildings get higher and higher as we go, the streets more crowded. The city at night, seen from the inside of this luxury vehicle, looks like some sort of exotic jewel. I’m sure the same streets would look tawdry, even dangerous, from Hanif’s minibus. Or walking alone. Suddenly, I’m glad of this luxury.

  We turn into a curved driveway and the door beside me flies open. I instinctively shrink back, but Erica whispers, “Don’t worry. It’s just the doorman. We’re here.”

  We are ushered through huge glass-and-gold doors into a large, busy room. “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “The main ballroom,” Erica replies. “According to that display, we go this way.”

  “We’re going to watch a ball game?”

  Erica laughs. “No history lesson tonight. Remind me to explain another time.”

  The ballroom turns out to be a large hall full of people.

  No balls in sight. The entrance is crowded with serious-looking men in black uniforms speaking quietly into audio implants. Erica goes to a table covered in little cards and tells the woman who we are. She picks cards with our names printed on them. “Just let me activate them,” the woman says. “Oh, you’re from Terra Nova! ‘How lovely.” The cards have some kind of display built into them. They’ve begun to show images from around Kildevil behind our glowing names. I stare at mine, fascinated.

  “You’re supposed to pin it on, dear,” the woman says after a moment, not unkindly. Then I notice the line of people waiting for name cards that formed behind me while I stood gawking at the technology. I retreat to Erica, blushing.

  “Well, they are amazing,” Erica says. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

  Not exactly a good start. Inside the ballroom, I immediately notice that the other women look nothing like us. The garments the weavers have made us are colourful and textured. These women wear sleek, microfibre dresses in dark, subdued tones. Some have dyed patterns on their arms and necks that blend seamlessly with their clothes. “Erica,” I whisper, “we look like we just stepped out of a time capsule.”

  A young man with a tray of glasses goes by and Erica helps herself to two, giving one to me. She’s not fazed. “We look like ourselves, Blake. That’s exactly what we are. I think those people over there are members of the Transitional Council. I should introduce myself. Do you want to come?”

  The thought of speaking to such important strangers scares me into complete silence. I shake my head.

  Erica notices my alarm. “Do you mind if I go?” she asks. She sounds concerned.

  “No, of course not,” I manage to say. “I’ll be fine.”

  I was hoping she’d understand I don’t really mean it, but she smiles. “I’m sure you will. Try to make some friends.”

  She might as well tell me to try to fly. When she walks away I stand alone in the middle of the room, probably only for minutes, but it seems like hours. I’m seriously wondering if I could hide in a washroom when someone speaks close behind me.

  “That dress is beautiful. It must have cost a fortune.”

  The voice is soft, with a hint of laughter in it.

  I swing around to find a girl about my age who is dressed like a butterfly herself, or at least how butterflies would dress if they wore clothing. She’s wearing a long, coat-like garment, mostly dark blue, covered in bright flowers, with a big pink sash around her waist. The sleeves are huge and drape gracefully toward the floor on either side of her. Her black hair is swept up neatly, and her brown eyes twinkle. She seems to expect an answer from me.

  “I didn’t buy it,” T tell her. “The weavers made it for me.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh, you’re the girl from Terra Nova. Blane?”

  “Blake.”

  “Right. Blake Raintree. This is fabulous. I’ve never met anyone who actually knows weavers. I just love the cloth they make. My name is Kayko Miyazaki. I’m an aide, just like you, to my uncle Ken. He’s over there.” She waves vaguely in the direction Erica went. Her sleeve flutters like a banner.

  “Where do you come from?” I ask.

  “Here. Toronto. Uncle Kenji is from Winnipeg. I know everyone working for the Justice Council is supposed to be from somewhere else, but I begged and begged to be allowed to work for him. Finally, they got tired of listening to me and gave in.”

  “But you seem so . . . exotic.” I’m afraid I’ve insulted her, but she just laughs.

  “Oh, the kimono? It’s Japanese. My family has lived here for hundreds of years, but I still think it’s one of the prettiest ways of dressing, and I can get away with it, so why not? People have actually tried to speak Japanese to me a couple of times. Too bad I don’t understand them.” She laughs again.

  I’m trying to take all this in. Kayko is like a storm of butterflies, but she seems friendly.

  “Have you had anything to eat yet? There’s great stuff over here.” She leads the way. Several people turn to smile at us when we pass. I no longer feel hopelessly out of place. With Kayko, I’m suddenly special.

  “Look,” she says, “samosas, my favourite.”

  “I don’t recognize any of this food,” I tell her.

  “Well, these are pot stickers from China, and chicken satay from Thailand.” Then she points to tray of little rolls, beautifully arranged to make a flower pattern. “And this is sushi, from Japan.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, but I don’t really like most sushi. It’s the seaweed.” She shudders. “I can’t believe nobody else is eating,” she says, without pausing for breath. “I guess they’re too sophisticated to be hungry. I’m starved. Help yourself.”

  Kayko heaps a small plate with a mountain of food. I take less, afraid of taking more than my share.

  She finds a place to sit and attacks her plate with delight. “What’s your town called?” she asks between bites. “It looks so pretty on your name tag.”

  “Kildevil,” I tell her. “It’s beautiful. All ocean and trees and mountains with the tops cut flat by glaciers thousands of years ago. It was a national park once, before the Dark Times.”

  “And you lived with weavers? Now that’s exotic.” The idea that someone dressed like Kayko might find the weavers exotic makes me smile.

  “They’re
just sensible, hard-working women, really. I tried to apprentice as a weaver, just before the Uprising.”

  “Really? You know to make cloth like this?” Kayko reaches over and lovingly ‘strokes the sleeve of my dress. It’s such a friendly gesture, I’m suddenly happy I came here tonight.

  It would be nice to tell her stories about weaving, but I can’t lie to her. “Kayko, I was awful at it. Everything I did was wrong. I was just lucky we discovered I have a talent for working with ideas. Then, they let me leave my apprenticeship and go to St. Pearl to study.”

  “That must have been a change. What did you study?”

  I hesitate. Even though the technocaust has been over for years, people were taught to hate the victims. There’s still a permanent distaste for science and technology in the hearts of many, all tangled up with guilt now and very difficult to overcome. But it’s an important part of what I am. She’ll find out sometime. It might as well be now.

  “Science.” I throw the word out bald, to see her reaction. “Geology, cybernetics, nanotech, biotech. I’m going to be a scientist.”

  Kayko doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, good for you. Uncle Kenji is a potter. He makes brilliant stuff. He was protected during the technocaust because pottery was classified as an ancient craft, but he’s a scientist too. Everything he does with clay and glazes, with firing the pieces, it’s all pure science. There’s no guesswork, he understands the chemistry and such. He’s always trying to interest me, but I’m such a bubblehead.” Kayko laughs at herself. “And my parents use science too. They run a huge bakery company. Half the bread sold in Toronto comes from their factories. And nobody wanted to go without bread, of course, so they were protected too. The directive that protected us said bakeries have existed since ancient times, but our bakery used all the latest technology.”

  I smile when she says this, but I feel a pang of envy. Her family was so lucky, to have such knowledge and come through the technocaust unharmed. And they must be wealthy, too. We’re very different.

  Kayko is busy with her plate of treats and doesn’t notice my sudden silence. “So what did you do for fun in Kildevil?” she asks.

  “Fun?” The note of disbelief in my voice is unintentional.

  She took me by surprise.

  She raises an eyebrow. “You’re familiar with the concept? People doing things that don’t serve any particular purpose, just for enjoyment?” But her sarcasm is tempered with humour.

  How do you explain a whole way of life to someone? I’m so overwhelmed by the challenge that I fall silent.

  “I was joking,” Kayko says, a note of apology in her voice.

  She thinks I’m offended.

  “I know. I’m just trying to think where fun fits into Kildevil. The kids play, of course, like any other kids.” As I say this, I realize this isn’t exactly true. I never played when I was a kid; everything I did was aimed at survival. Just for a flash, I wonder what Kayko will think when I tell her about my past. Not yet, I tell myself, don’t push your luck, and I force my thoughts back to Kildevil. “But the adults work really hard to make a living off the land, and the weavers’ work is very formalized. Then, of course, there was so much to do after the Uprising, organizing new forms of government and everything.”

  Kayko nods. “People are really impressed, you know, by how smoothly and quickly that happened in Terra Nova.”

  “Well, the weavers had been waiting for democracy to return, and it’s easier in a place where everyone is connected,” I say, but I glow with pleasure anyway. We have done well, and it’s nice to know that’s recognized.

  “But that sort of life doesn’t leave much time for fun.”

  “Well, this sort of life does. What have you done since you got here?”

  “Not much yet. Last night, I met a man named Prospero in High Park. That was fun.”

  “You mean you saw Prospero,” Kayko says.

  I can’t imagine why she’d contradict me. “We saw him at the ghost library on Saturday, but I met him last night. He showed me around and told me I could come back anytime.”

  “That’s amazing. Prospero’s very difficult. We’ve been giving him money for years to help those kids and he still won’t even talk to my father. It must be because you were a street kid yourself.”

  My head jerks back as if I’ve been slapped. “How did you know that?”

  Kayko doesn’t seem to notice my reaction. She smiles, pleased with herself. “When I finally got this job, I set out to learn as much about the other people on the Justice Council as I possibly could. I want to be a journalist. I’ve always dreamed about it, but now there’s a free press again, it’s like a dream come true. I already have my own holo-zine.”

  “You do?” My voice is filled with disbelief. Her family can’t possibly be that rich.

  She laughs. “Well, not a real one. It’s not on a holo-display network. You have to download it from the net.” Her face puckers as if she’s just bitten something sour. “In fact, I’ve had to shut it down because of confidentiality. I can’t write about anything I learn while I’m working with the Justice Council, and I can’t imagine writing about anything else. In the meantime, though, I’m going to learn a lot that will help me cover stories in the future.” Her eyes shine. “I thought I was going to be so bored tonight. I’m glad you’re willing to talk to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kayko lowers her eyes. “A lot of people resent my family because we came through the technocaust unharmed. Nobody was even arrested.” She lifts her chin. “It wasn’t as if my family collaborated with Queen’s Park like some people did, betraying friends and neighbours. The Miyazakis never did that. We were just lucky. Some people hate us anyway. I know a little bit about what happened to you. J thought you might hate me too.”

  “Kayko, when I came here tonight, I was afraid someone like you would look down on me because I’ve lived on the streets. “

  We both laugh.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” she says. “We were just babies when the technocaust happened, but it just goes on and on. Maybe it’s time everyone left all this stuff behind.”

  “Maybe,” I reply cautiously. In fact, I can’t imagine ever feeling that generous. But tonight, for the first time, I wish I could.

  6

  The newly formed Justice Council meets officially for the first time today. Rumours of serious conflict among the councillors already swirl through the corridors of Queen’s Park.

  —Editorial comment, The Solar Flare, September 3, 2370

  This morning I wake up feeling happy for the first time since we arrived here. At first, I can’t even think why. Then I remember Kayko. The Justice Council is having its first formal meeting today. I’ll have to face a lot of strangers, but I’m eager to get to work anyway. I couldn’t have imagined feeling like this yesterday.

  At work, just before we reach our offices, someone calls my name through an open doorway.

  “Blake, in here.” It’s Kayko. Inside, I find her wielding a dustcloth on the end of a long pole. The ceilings are high, and her cleaning method looks a little dangerous. She talks without looking down. “Expecting us to do our own cleaning is ridiculous,” she grumbles as the pole wobbles back and forth. She makes a swipe, loses her grip, and almost drops the pole. “I guess I’d better stop,” she says, to my relief. Then she notices Erica. “Excuse me, I thought Blake was alone.” She pulls off her work gloves to shake hands while I introduce her.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Kayko,” Erica says. “I met your uncle last night.”

  “This isn’t the work I imagined when I begged him for this job,” Kayko says. “I could bring staff from home and they’d do everything for everyone in a day, but the Transitional Council says it’s too much of a security risk. Honestly.”

  “Kayko-chan, it will do you good to clean up after yourself for once in your life.” The voice belongs to a man standing in the doorway of one of the inner offices. He is tall and slender, his h
air slightly grey. The angular features of his face are touched with an affectionate smile.

  “After myself?” Kayko says. “Uncle Kenji, this dust has probably been here since the Dark Times.” He laughs. I can see how comfortable they are together.

  After Kayko introduces me, Erica says, “I’ll go check my mail, Blake. Why don’t you stay and visit for a few minutes?” She seems to understand how much Kayko’s friendship means to me.

  “You’d better not use that dusting pole while Blake is here,” Kenji says when Erica leaves. “I’ll feel responsible if you injure her.”

  “Very funny. Why didn’t they retrofit these walls with biotech? Dust is so—so retro,” Kayko says as she tackles the storage units with a duster.

  “This is a historic site. They don’t want to lose the architectural detail.”

  “Oh, look, a spider,” Kayko says happily. She coaxes it onto her duster. Then she says,

  Don’t worry, spider,

  I keep house

  casually.

  Her uncle laughs. “Very good, Kayko. Issa is my favourite haiku master.” He’s delighted.

  “I’ll find a window for it.” Kayko disappears into an inner office.

  “Was that a poem?” I ask.

  “Yes, a haiku. It’s a Japanese form, a short poem usually about nature. That one was written over five hundred years ago.”

  Kayko returns without the spider. “I try to write haiku, but all my poems turn into senryu.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with senryu,” Kenji says. “Yours are quite good. You could write haiku if you’d just learn to leave yourself out of the poem.”

  “But that’s harder than it sounds,” Kayko says. She turns to me. “Do you like poetry?”

  “I love it. It never occurred to me that there might be literature in other languages.”