1/2986

by Annelie Wendeberg

  When the Great Pandemic hit, it was the water that killed almost ten billion people; the water in rivers, in the ground, in lakes. It was everywhere. The few handfuls of people who survived moved away from the poisoned lowlands, high up in the mountains, if they didn’t already live there.

  Sequencers have been around since…well, since long before I was born. They are safeguarding the remnants of humanity. When a Sequencer visits your village, you treat him or her with the greatest respect. And never, under no circumstances, do you hit a Sequencer over the head.

  My stomach rolls at the thought of the crack I felt when the wrench made contact with his skull. There’s even a little blood on the tools’ linen wrapper; I saw it when I dropped the bundle in the corridor.

  I slide down the cold wet wall, grab two handfuls of hair, and pull hard. I want to turn back time so badly, so very badly.

  Understanding snaps me upright. If he’s dead, I’ll be lynched. Problem is, the village might turn against my parents when they realise I’m not available for lynching tomorrow morning. The soap jumps from my hands when Father enters the bathroom. There are no locks and no privacy in this house.

  ‘Shame on you!’ A bellow that penetrates the window and travels along the streets into every neighbours’ home. ‘You! You!’ He pokes an angry index finger at me. Silently, I turn around, showing him my bare back, daring him to finish what he began. He doesn’t speak another word. The door slams shut. I know what he wanted to shout at me. I wish you were dead and your brother alive. As if I didn’t know that already.

  I scrub my skin until it burns. Then I scrub some more, making sure it’ll feel raw for hours. I rinse the bloody wad of wool and squeeze out the water. Where does Mother keep a supply of dry ones? She never talks about “women’s issues.” Maybe I’ll just pinch my legs together for now; I’ll make a bloody mess soon anyway. But leaking from my privates is so gross, I decide to rip my worn-out shirt in four, fold one of the quarters, and stuff it into my panties.

  It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. The day is almost over; my life will be over with soon. Yet, I gaze at the bathroom door, unable to step out into the corridor. My knees are clacking against each other. My control is slipping. I dig my nails into my thighs until the pain stops the rising panic. What have you done, Micka? My only comforting thought is that of my knife on my skin.

  By now, Father will be up at the reservoir, seeing to the Sequencer. Soon, I’ll know if the man’s dead or only injured.

  Shivering, I pull a nightshirt over my head and leave for my room. A stranger’s voice brings me to a stop; it mingles with my mother’s anxious voice and my father’s usual grumbling.

  It’s not the worst, it’s not the worst, my mind cries when I step into the kitchen.

  His shoulder-length black hair contrasts with the white bandage Mother is wrapping around his forehead. A hint of blood shines through the gauze. Underneath is a pair of black eyes, farther down, a compressed mouth. His skin is different from anyone’s I’ve ever seen. Darker; almost like barley roasted halfway, or the coffee we make of it mixed with lots of cream from Lampit’s goats.

  He sets his eyes on me and his look of annoyance changes to…I don’t know what. A dangerous flicker, some getting-ready-for-a-fight kind of expression, maybe.

  ‘I’d like to talk to your daughter in private.’

  My legs already have the consistency of jelly, but his request makes them all watery-wobbly and I need to sit or I’ll fall over. I walk to the kitchen table and plop down, unbidden. My face feels hot. My hands are quivering fists, each crowned by a row of white knuckles.

  Mother asks if she can do anything else for him, but he shakes his head. His eyebrows are drawn together. He’s blinking often, slightly turning his face away from the kitchen lamp. He must be in pain and his eyes overly sensitive to light. I take Mother’s yellow summer shawl from the chair and drape it over the lamp.

  My parents leave the room and the air acquires a flavour of quiet terror — taut and astringent.

  When the door falls into its frame, my heart hollers for help.

  ‘Excellent reflexes. You did well.’

  At first, my brain doesn’t register this information. I repeat the words in my mind. Roll them over, sort them back to front and front to back. It must be a joke; although the man’s stern expression doesn’t change.

  ‘Does your head hurt?’ I whisper, because nothing else would voluntarily form in my brain.

  He ignores my question. ‘This was a test.’

  My mind clicks and begins to race. The blocked turbine, the carefully placed footprint. My mother asking for the Sequencer when I arrived, my father having a mysterious fever — they’ve known about this. A test, once complete, almost always has a result and a conclusion. Although I can guess what it is, I feel like I ought to ask for the sake of politeness. ‘What’s the outcome?’

  ‘You decide that. I hear you want to go into composting. A useful occupation.’

  I stare at him, wondering why he drags it out, why he doesn’t give me the verdict at once. Something like, “You are a disgrace to our species; dig yourself a hole and rot.” Maybe he likes to play with his prey before he eats it.

  Unmoved by my silence, he continues. ‘Would you consider an apprenticeship as a Sequencer?’

  Is it possible to get a puke-reflex from too massive a bewilderment? Because that’s precisely how I feel right now. My hand claps over my mouth. Who knows what could slip out?

  A muffled squeal sounds from behind the kitchen door. I’m mortified, but he doesn’t even look in that direction.

  ‘You are of age. It’s your decision, not your parents’.’

  Impossible. Impossible! ‘I have a lot of questions,’ I croak, while my useless brain echoes nothing but impossible.

  ‘Good. I do, too.’

  This man is a liar. I know it. No one in his right mind would offer me an apprenticeship in anything. ‘Did you send the physician and the nurse?’

  ‘I asked them to come, yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Dr. Volkov is a friend and I trust her judgement.’

  ‘What judgement?’

  ‘That you are healthy enough to go on extended hikes.’

  I nod, mostly to stretch my tense neck muscles and to give myself time to think. So he wants me to go with him to some place far away. My parents trust him. Or do they?

  He lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘And you cut yourself, and have a sense of humour even when humiliated in front of others.’

  I feel warm blood leaking on my makeshift shirt-pad. ‘You asked her to humiliate me,’ I manage to say.

  ‘Yes.’

  His honesty is unexpected. I open my mouth and snap it shut.

  ‘I wished to know how you’d react. You remained calm. You seem to be used to humiliation.’

  I feel trapped, manipulated, and ready to run away. I want to slap his face, or better, hit him over his head again, this time, with more force. But I all I do is hold on to my hands, place them in my lap, and stare at the wall.

  ‘There will be more tests,’ he continues. ‘Not like the ones at school, more like the one I did today. But no more humiliations.’

  When my gaze slips up to his bandage, he says, ‘There might be more of that, though.’

  ‘What did she say?’ I ask, not sure if I should be surprised that no one questioned the doctor’s identity. Zula might have said something, but still, he allowed her to do the final physical exams. Why?

  ‘Dr. Volkov?’

  ‘Yes. I want to know every word she said about me.’ My molars are grinding against each other, and I give the man the coldest stare I have in my repertoire. Having my secret exposed to a stranger is tough enough. But two strangers in the same day — one of which I might meet again — is too much for me to stomach.

  ‘What I said already. Why is it important?’ He seems irritated.

  ‘It is important to me. What precisely did she say?’

 
‘She said, “Micka is a quiet girl, she’s very healthy, she has a number of scars of which several are evidently self-inflicted, and she’s a late developer.”’

  ‘Why is it important that I’m a late developer?’

  ‘It’s not important.’

  ‘Why did she say it then?’

  ‘It might be relevant later. If you pass and become an apprentice, you’ll need a contraceptive implant. You want to avoid pregnancy, because you cannot be a Sequencer and a mother.’

  Like I ever want to have sex with anyone. ‘Is that all she said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have one?’

  ‘An implant? Of course I do. Why is that important?’

  I wave his question away, lean back, and feel the heat drain from my face. She didn’t tell him what she saw on my back. ‘What happens if I say yes?’ I drag you into the forest and have you for breakfast.

  ‘You’ll live with your parents for another six months. During that time, we’ll meet regularly. Once in a while, we’ll travel. This will be your probation period, and whatever I teach you during this time mustn’t be shared with anyone.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘Should you or I decide — at any point during your probation — that this is not a future for you, then that’s what it is. You can work at the local composting facility if you choose to do so. However, should I approve of a full apprenticeship, you’ll leave home and you’ll never return. Any contact with your parents and your friends will be strictly forbidden.’

  Okay, so the man knows I’m desperate, wherever he got that information from. But people tend to provide everything and anything if you tell them you’re a Sequencer. My parents will practically throw me into his arms without asking a single question. ‘Where will I go?’

  ‘I’ll only ever talk about what happens after the probation, when you’ve met my expectations and those of others.’

  Of course. How stupid of me to ask. ‘Why me? Have you seen my final grades? Or any of my grades?’ Have you seen how bony I am? Aren’t the other girls prettier?

  ‘No, I have not seen them. Grades are irrelevant.’

  I can’t bite back the snort. It comes spurting out together with an avalanche of acidic words. ‘I don’t believe you! You can be anyone. Some guy who steals girls from her parents and does things to them. I’ve never seen anyone with a skin that colour. Where do you come from? What’s the name of our Sequencer? The one who usually visits?’

  ‘Cacho,’ he says without hesitation. ‘He suggested you.’

  ‘Impossible.’ He must have found Cacho, pressed information from him, and killed him. There’s no other explanation.

  The man leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. ‘Well, we can’t ask him now, can we? I suggest you make up your mind in the next ten seconds, because I need to sleep off my headache.’

  I tap my fingers against the tabletop. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. ‘I have nothing to lose,’ I say. ‘You seem to know this. So I guess you win.’

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘Sure.’ Yeah, sure. Whatever. You have no idea what my plans are for tonight, idiot.

  He flicks an eyebrow up; it goes hiding under the bandage. ‘You believe I abduct girls because my skin is darker than what you think is normal. Funny. I doubt you’ve ever seen anyone with skin as pale and as dotted as yours. Not to speak of your hair — orange, of all colours. Do you abduct boys?’ He pushes from the table and says loud enough for my parents to hear, ‘I assume you heard what your daughter said.’

  ‘How is it called? The colour of your skin,’ I ask, pointing at his face.

  ‘Olive.’

  I knew it! Flavours of coffee and cream spread between my sinuses and my palate.

  The kitchen door opens. Mother and Father look shocked and puzzled. They probably can’t explain why a Sequencer picked me over a whole village of non-idiots. Yet, they seem to believe this is really happening.

  ‘Tomorrow morning, six o’clock, at the upper turbine,’ he says when he walks through the corridor.

  Weird. I’d expected he’d take me away at once.

  ‘Should we accompany her?’ my father asks, his voice unnaturally high.

  ‘She comes alone.’ He steps out, looks up at the night sky, and says, ‘It smells like rain.’ Then he turns away and the darkness swallows him whole.

  Of course I’m to come alone. The door closes and I turn to my parents. ‘Did he show you proof of his identity?’

  ‘You didn’t show the man any respect!’ barks my father. ‘If you screw this up…’ He brings his face close to mine. ‘…you’ll be disinherited.’

  There’s nothing I want from my father. I turn away from him and see Mother opening her mouth. I’m not in the mood for her good advice. Before she can say a peep, I mutter, ‘Need to sleep. Have to get up early.’

  Or never.

  Desperate for solitude, I push past the two, knees weak, arms shivering.

  I roll up in my blanket, cocooning myself in, compressing myself as much as possible, trying to squeeze out the confusion and leave only clarity behind. It doesn’t work, of course. Hope sneaks in uninvited.

  I sit on my windowsill, my nightgown wrapped around my knees, gaze unfocussed. Outside it looks as if the black bowl of the night is tipping aside, slowly making space for the milky morning. Might as well be a bowl and not the universe.

  Most of the night I’ve been arguing with myself about what could be real and what couldn’t. My ceiling, which I stared at throughout, didn’t respond to my questions. Neither did the walls, window, or the black bowl with its silver pinpricks. For lack of answers, I chewed my cheeks until the blood made me gag. Around midnight, I noticed that I’d forgotten both knife and suicide. For about an hour or two, I sat with the blade tapping against my wrists, because there it was again — this painful, useless fizz of hope that forbade me to put an end to everything. Now, I feel so stupid and naïve, I’m too ashamed to get up. But waiting doesn’t get me anywhere. My mouth hurts and tastes of metal.

  Bleary-eyed, I make it to the bathroom just in time. How do women get used to this bloody menstruation business? So far, it feels like some form of massacre-related incontinence. Clamping my legs together doesn’t seem to help in the least.

  In the kitchen, I drink a cup of water, slip my small knife into my back pocket, and the remaining two quarters of my shirt into the pockets of my rain jacket. I wonder if I should take a woollen pullover with me, but decide against it. It’s summer. The little rain that falls is warm enough. Besides, I might be thrown into a hastily dug hole before I can grow too cold. Ha! The play of words. I chew them and swallow the wash of contradicting aromas.

  Rustling behind me and a ‘Mickaela,’ spoken softly. My mother, who looks like she didn’t sleep either, reaches out to me— a rare gesture. I take a step back.

  ‘We are proud of you,’ she whispers and engulfs me in her arms. I don’t know what to say. My throat clenches. Everyone enjoys hugging, but I don’t. All I feel is being trapped in a cage of rigid arms, with Mother’s need for a moment of harmony suffocating me like a wet blanket. I’ve been held previously, three or four times maybe, and I always wanted to bolt. A simple handshake would be enough if it wouldn’t feel so ridiculous. Why can’t people just look into each other’s eyes? Doesn’t that speak loud enough?

  ‘I need…wool,’ I stutter.

  ‘I keep it in the bedroom. I’ll get it for you.’ She lets go of me, and I get the feeling she’s relieved to have a task other than saying goodbye to me. But I don’t have a particularly good sense for Mother’s feelings if they’re not related to anger or disappointment. She has a way of breathing hard that tells me I’ve screwed up before she lashes out. She has a way of walking that tells me to stay out of her way — it looks and sounds as if her knees are locked and her heels are made of expensive china.

  She returns with the wads and holds them out to me and then gets busy cl
eaning the kitchen, although she just polished it last night.

  ‘See you later,’ I lie and slip out the door.

  Father stands in his workshop — his expression close enough to friendly — and waves through the open window. My chest does a funny contraction thing when so many of my childhood memories seem like a bad fantasy. My mind envisions two scenarios. One: The apprenticeship is real, and some of the respect paid to the Sequencer miraculously rubs off on me. Everyone will say “We always liked her.” I might even hear my parents say it after they forget how my brother died. Two: Everyone is in on the man’s plan. Everyone is eager to get rid of me.

  But neither of these two theories makes much sense.

  I shake my head and lift my arm, waving back at my father, before I pass through the garden gate and make my way uphill.

  My brain feels oddly empty and full at the same time. Stuff races through my head, banging against my skull bones. Nothing is in order, nothing is clear. My feet are heavy, knowing full well that once I’m up there, reality will show one of its ugly faces.

  The man is waiting atop the turbine housing. His stance is casual. Dark clouds are gathering behind his back. ‘We cannot stay long,’ I call. ‘A storm is brewing.’ He probably didn’t hear me, because he doesn’t even turn his head to see who’s stomping up the hill.

  ‘Hi,’ I say once I reach him. The bandage around his head is gone. A massive welt shows above his right eyebrow. Beneath, his irises are of such a dark brown, they are very close to black. I consider apologising for the assault, but decide against it. I’m not sorry.

  ‘I came because of the storm,’ he says. ‘How’s the wrench, Micka?’

  I open my mouth and shut it, my eyes searching for something to say, something to change the topic. They find a silvery box in his hand. I read the label on the top right corner. MIT FireScope GenomeID. It’s the same the old Sequencer had.