‘How are your injuries?’ I ask.
‘The cholera pandemic burned itself out,’ he says, ignoring my question and staring into the distance.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Too few people left. There are local outbreaks that don’t justify the label pandemic. When cholera breaks out, it’s limited to a small number of people and they know how to contain it.’
‘But then all is good, isn’t it? Why did you say we only have ten years left?’
He shakes his head no. ‘This is a very complex topic. I have to show you data of what happened and is still happening, additional to predictive models to help you understand. For now, let us discuss your first question. You wished to know why we are here. We came to monitor the TB pandemic. A few years back, a Sequencer discovered these people…’ He points his chin towards the village. ‘…living with dogs. They regularly take puppies from wild dogs for their breeding program — mostly for good hunting, guarding, and sledding dogs. The Sequencer was surprised to see that the tuberculosis bacteria of the dog people are very different — they are bare of antibiotic resistance genes.’
I scramble through the mass of information I found in the books he gave me to read. The main problem with the Great Pandemic was that the miracle cure for bacterial infections — antibiotics — didn’t work anymore, because bacteria had learned to neutralise them, jotted that capability down in their genetic code, and then happily exchanged these genes with other bacteria, even across species that weren’t even distantly related. As if fish had sex with birds so they could learn to fly.
‘It wasn’t until we studied the dogs, that we found out why,’ he continues. ‘Wild dogs have TB, too. But somehow, the bacteria behave differently in dogs than they do in humans. During the initial phase of infection, tuberculosis bacteria grow much faster in dogs, but they also have a harder time settling in a dog’s lungs and lymph nodes. It’s as if they have to be quicker to not be killed by the immune system, and that’s how they must have lost their antibiotic resistance genes.’
‘I don’t understand. How’s this possible?’
He scratches his chin. ‘I have to shave this damned beard off. Picture a set of antibiotic resistance genes as a backpack filled with lots of useful things that give you an advantage for a long hike in the wild. Everyone else has no backpack, and soon, you’ll be the only one alive and well. But what happens when it comes to a race, for example, when a predator hunts you? Your once-useful equipment is a burden now. You have to get rid of it, or you’ll be eaten. The same is true for antibiotics resistance— it comes with a cost, because it needs to be synthesised and maintained.’
‘I didn’t know bacteria could rid themselves of genes.’
‘Oh, they can. Just as they can acquire genes from other bacteria or invent entirely new ones. They are actually quite…awesome.’ He grins like he’s in love with the little buggers.
‘So we came here because you monitor the spreading of the special TB bacteria?’
‘Yes and no. I mainly wanted us to encounter a pack, see how you are holding up, and then visit this place to analyse samples because we are in the area. The elders here know that Sequencers come each winter to analyse samples of the wild dogs people have shot during the cold season. They always keep a small piece of lung. The snow preserves it.’
I think of the dented FireScope that rattles every time I pick it up. The thing is only good for decoration. There’s no way Runner can analyse samples now.
‘I’m sorry I killed your FireScope.’
‘Don’t worry. It can be replaced.’
I cock my head. ‘But…you gave it to me to keep it safe. I thought it was extremely valuable.’
He picks up a handful of snow and forms a tight ball. ‘I gave it to you to keep you safe. The SatPad can show you where you need to go, but together with the knowledge of satellites and the FireScope in your possession, it shows that you’ve already been accepted as an apprentice. One of the other Sequencers would have taken you. …can take you.’
I watch him smoothing the surface of the snowball. My brain is rattling. ‘Why the test with the pack if you’d already decided to take me as an apprentice? You told me about satellites the night after we took the train.’
‘I already knew you’d make a good apprentice. I just wasn’t sure to whom I should transfer you.’ He throws the snowball. It hits a woodshed and explodes.
‘You never wanted me as your apprentice?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
I shuffle my feet in the snow and chew my cheeks, feeling as if I’ve failed.
He pokes his elbow to my ribs. ‘What I do is dangerous. What many of the others do isn’t. If I take an apprentice, I risk her life, or worse.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I can tell you what I’m not doing. I’m not monitoring the spreading of tuberculosis or the loss of antibiotic resistance genes.’
‘But…’
‘Change of topic, Micka. Ask about something else, if you have to ask at all.’
I stand and walk around the stump, undecided if I should go back inside and let him sit here and rot. Trying to not look as if I agree with his game, I remain standing, arms crossed over my chest. ‘Our physician, Zula, had antibiotics in a small vial. I’ve never seen him use it. So what does it help if the dogs and this one village have special tuberculosis that can be cured with antibiotics, if we only have a tiny amount of the stuff?’
He shakes his head. ‘We have thousands of tonnes of antibiotics available, but they are the old-fashioned ones. The few grams your village physician has are of a special and very rare kind — one that bacteria haven’t yet learned to neutralise. But…’ He lifts his hand to stop my next question. ‘The wild dogs help us spread this ancient, this curable form of TB. That’s one of the things the other Sequencers do: spread disease. They spread the one they can cure to outcompete the one they cannot cure. Only then can they use antibiotics to fight it. But it only sounds good. The whole process takes much longer in humans than in dogs, and the effort might be in vain.’
I’m hit by a memory. Groaning, I bury my face in my hands. ‘I kissed a dog.’
‘You did what?’
I’d rather not explain the whole business, so I say the first thing that comes to my mind. ‘The white dog licked my face on our first day here.’
‘Dammit,’ Runner grumbles. ‘I’ll test you as soon as possible.’
‘What happens if I get infected?’
‘You’ll be quarantined and receive antibiotics for six months. Success rate is over ninety percent.’
Relieved, I decide to push the infection issue aside until Runner tests me. ‘How long is an apprenticeship?’ I ask, trying a stealth approach to the question that bugs me the most.
‘Five to seven years, depending on the type of…job you’ll do. With me, it would be seven.’
‘What will we be doing, Runner?’
He squints up at me and shakes his head no. ‘I cannot give you this information, Micka. You are not my apprentice, not yet, if ever. You have to accept the possibility, or rather, likelihood, of being transferred to another Sequencer. We will talk only after you’ve written your letter to your parents and cut off all contact to your home. I can understand if you decide against an apprenticeship under these circumstances. It’s okay to say no. You’ll be taken back to your village then.’
He places a hand on the stump, pushes himself up, and walks back to the house.
I watch the glittering snow, wondering why Runner behaves as if I’m the lamb led to the butcher’s block. That man certainly has a melodramatic streak.
I’m sitting on my bed, bent over a small notebook, pen in my cramping hand, and I have no clue what I should write. “Thank you for having me” doesn’t nail it.
I touch the scars on my left forearm, then the ones on my right. I don’t blame my parents for this anymore. My own hand did it, holding my own knife. Even blaming my father for cutti
ng a word into my back would be pointless. I would never get anything in return, no apology, nothing. In my family, we never apologise. Saying “I’m sorry” means admitting a mistake.
So what is one supposed to write to parents who don’t seem to care whether one exists or not, as long as one exists quietly? I remember the surprise I felt when they wept at my brother’s funeral. I had no idea they could feel the loss as deeply as I felt it. They pulled themselves together soon enough, though. We are not a family of weaklings.
I kept telling myself that it’s love that forbids me from asking why they treated their kids the way they did. Now I’m old enough to admit it isn’t love. It’s fear of being all wrong about it, of being unable to remember correctly. I know that Mother would say I made it all up, that they never raised a hand against their children, that it was my fault Karlsson died, that Father never whipped the shit out of us, that he never beat me unconscious, and I never woke up with DIE screaming from my back. Mother would convince me they’d poured out buckets of sweet love on us. Then, I would lose my memories, my pain, myself. I’d cease to exist.
My legs tremble. My body wants to curl up protectively around my heart, make it feel like an embryo in a loving mother’s womb.
My vision floods with saltwater. I hear myself crying when I run the sharp point of the pen into my forearm. Once, twice, three times. Beads of blood mix with ink. I take a deep breath. My heartbeat grows calmer.
The paper before me is perfectly white. A very capitalised “YOU HURT ME!” wants to be there, right next to a “I think I’m stupid enough to love you, but maybe not, because I don’t even fucking know what love is!”
There’s a ton of shit I want to throw at them, but I doubt the three sheets of paper will ever be enough to take all that ink.
I decide for one word.
Farewell
Something tells me Mother will appreciate that there’s absolutely nothing between the lines.
Katvar is fidgeting in the snow, kicking at it with his fur-lined boots while the dogs dance around him. I walk up to him, hoping he isn’t going to run away like he did every time I went outside to learn more about dog handling. Once, I’d asked him if he could tame adult wild dogs. He tipped his head and frowned, shrugged and laughed his odd throaty, huffing laugh. Then he disappeared, always with that knife gripped tightly and a tiny thing he hid the moment I approached.
Today, though, it seems as if he wants to tell me something. Both his hands are dug deep in his trouser pockets. His lower lip is pushed out a little. I wonder if he’s mad at me. Last night, he put on his darkest expression when everyone was crammed into the council’s meeting room, and we thanked them for saving our lives and announced that we’d be leaving in the morning.
The dog people — men and women with long hair that seems to melt into their fur coats — already knew. Rumour spreads faster than a dog fart, the saying here goes. When suspicions were confirmed, food and drink were carried in and cooked in two large fireplaces. Snowflakes melted on shoulders and hair, and the room began to fill with wet-dog smell, only to be replaced by rich scents of fried deer, smoked sausage, melted butter, warm bread, and baked potatoes. When I finished eating and tipped the dregs of my beer into my mouth, I noticed that Katvar was gone.
Now, the morning sun shines in his face and softens his unyielding features.
‘Hey, Katvar.’
He points his chin to the west, as if he needs to go somewhere. What is it about me that makes him want to run away as soon as he sees me? I’ve been unfriendly, yes. But he ran a rifle into my face; what does he expect? ‘I just want to say goodbye, didn’t want to disturb you,’ I mutter.
He shakes his head until the bobble on his cap is wiggling. His finger points at me, then at himself, then to the west. ‘We walk?’ I ask.
Yes! he nods.
‘Okay. But Runner wants us to leave in an hour…’
Katvar looks at his boots, shrugs as if to shake off my comment, then walks ahead to find the exact same tree stump Runner and I were sitting on several days earlier to discuss disease in dogs and humans. He plops down and pats the small space next to him. This is the closest I’ve been to the man since he ran the butt of his rifle against my skull.
We sit together and say nothing because he can’t, and I hate to be the only one talking. I don’t have much to say anyway. The sun glitters in the snow, and the dogs are playing, yapping, and running circles around us. Katvar doesn’t move, so they eventually give up and lie down, eating snow to cool their bodies.
Exhaling a large white cloud, he clears his throat and extracts both hands from his pockets. One is balled up; the other rests on his leg. He holds out his fist to me.
I open my hand and something white and small drops on my palm. A leather string is attached to it. I pick it up.
A shiny and intricately carved white dog smiles up at me. ‘Beautiful,’ is all I can say as my chest clenches. I gaze at him, and he taps at his teeth.
‘It’s a tooth?’
He nods.
‘A dog? No, too large.’ I squint at Katvar. He curves both index fingers and holds them to the corners of his mouth, fingertips pointing upwards.
‘Wild boar,’ I say, and he smiles happily, then nervously before he looks away.
‘Thank you, Katvar,’ I whisper. ‘But if you think I’m angry at you because of the—’
He cuts me off with a slashing movement of his hand. He gestures at my forehead, the fading bruise, and shakes his head. Then he touches his heart. Oh shit. And he touches mine.
I gulp.
He looks away.
‘I’m leaving,’ I remind him.
He slips his hand into mine.
‘I’m leaving,’ I say again, softly.
He looks at me, tips his head in his usual slightly amused Katvar-way, and dips his finger to my lips. Then he lets go, stands, and walks away.
———
Runner doesn’t ask why I keep turning my head and looking back. The village is growing smaller. Our packs are heavy, loaded with lots of dried meat, nuts, and fruits. The dog people rarely experience food shortage. They are excellent hunters and have a lot to share, they told us when they placed two large bags of supplies next to our rucks.
I touch the small dog at my neck, remembering how cold it was when I put it there. Cold like the snow, where Katvar and his dogs play. My skin warms it now.
‘Should you decide on an apprenticeship, you’ll have to say goodbye a lot,’ Runner says without turning to me.
‘I’ve long decided.’
He stops, looks down at me, and holds out his hand. ‘The letter.’
I take it out of my inner coat pocket and he slips it into his, marching on as if nothing had happened.
‘Runner!’ I call to him. ‘What will we be doing in the next seven years?’
‘I’ll tell you once we’ve arrived in the city and I’ve dropped off your letter.’
‘Dammit, Runner! You try very hard to piss me off.’
‘Yes.’ And on he trudges, as if we’d just conversed about the weather.
———
The skyline — a jagged shape, dotted with hundreds of lights, a sharp contrast to the dark evening sky. I’ve never seen anything like it.
‘Where does all this energy come from?’ I ask.
‘There’s solar paint on all roofs and outer walls, and a large river driving several turbines to supply power for the industry.’
‘Industry?’
‘They make steel, a variety of metal alloys, magnets, and they manufacture parts and machines. Anything from the blade of your knife to parts for a train, for example.’
I walk faster. ‘Can we look at it? The industry? And…um.’ I scratch my head where the woollen cap itches my scalp. ‘Who grows food for all these people?’
‘No time for sightseeing, Micka. The food is produced mostly by farms along the south bank of the river. They make good wine there.’ He shows me a grin.
‘I had a sip of plum wine once and it tasted like vinegar,’ I say. The memory makes an acrid appearance at the back of my throat.
‘Then it was most likely just that. Wine making is an art. Very few who drink it know how to make it.’ He’s walking faster now, as if he can already taste it.
‘What about the water? We must be at sea level. Why are they not sick?’ I stop walking. ‘Or are they?’
‘No, they aren’t. The hydropower plant provides energy for the waterworks where groundwater is filtered through a multitude of membranes. Each household has ultraviolet lights installed at their taps to fry the DNA of all bacteria and viruses.’
My mind cannot comprehend the luxuries: safe drinking water, the lowlands’ fertile soil, energy to light up the night sky. Do these people even know what hunger means?
‘Why don’t we all live like this?’
‘Are you envious, Micka?’
‘Umm…maybe.’
‘I’m pretty sure that you don’t want to live like this.’ He claps my shoulder and urges me forward. ‘There’s a reason they keep that gate locked. The city is a stronghold. It even has artillery to keep the outskirts safe.’
‘They have a what?’
‘You’ll see.’
He pulls out the SatPad, logs in, and sends out our IDs long before we arrive. The city appears like a massive block. The closer we get, the more details I can make out. A black wall, about ten metres tall, looks as if it holds the many buildings inside captive. A shiny steel gate is hugged by two stone towers. I feel ant-sized.
Beams of light blind us and I stop automatically. ‘Keep walking,’ Runner warns.
‘Your names,’ someone barks from above.
‘Runner McCullough and Mickaela Capra. We sent our IDs an hour ago.’
That’s the first time I hear his family name. McCullough…it sounds oddly familiar. ‘Runner?’ I whisper.
‘Later. Walk through the gate. Don’t speak.’
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