MaddAddam 03 - MaddAddam

by Margaret Atwood

  A long dining room table has been set up beside the cooking shack. There’s a shade sail deployed above it, gleaned from some deserted backyard. All the patios must be derelict now, the swimming pools cracked and empty or clogged with weeds, the broken kitchen windows invaded by the probing green snoutlets of vines. Inside the houses, nests in the corners made from chewed-up carpets, wriggling and squeaking with hairless baby rats. Termites mining through the rafters. Bats hawking for moths in the stairwells.

  “Once the tree roots get in,” Adam One had been fond of saying to the Gardener inner circle, “once they really take hold, no human-built structure stands a chance. They’ll tear a paved road apart in a year. They’ll block the drainage culverts, and once the pumping systems fail, the foundations will be eaten away, and no force on earth will be able to stop that kind of water, and then, when the generating stations catch fire or short out, not to mention the nuclear …”

  “Then you can kiss your morning toast goodbye,” Zeb had once added to this litany. He’d just blown in from one of his mysterious courier missions; he looked battered, and his black pleather jacket was ripped. Urban Bloodshed Limitation was one of the subjects he taught the Gardener kids, but he didn’t always practise it. “Yeah, yeah, we know, we’re doomed. Any hope of some elderberry pie around here? I’m starving.” Zeb did not always show a proper reverence towards Adam One.

  Speculations about what the world would be like after human control of it ended had been – long ago, briefly – a queasy form of popular entertainment. There had even been online TV shows about it: computer-generated landscape pictures with deer grazing in Times Square, serves-us-right finger-wagging, earnest experts lecturing about all the wrong turns taken by the human race.

  There was only so much of that people could stand, judging from the ratings, which spiked and then plummeted as viewers voted with their thumbs, switching from imminent wipeout to real-time contests about hotdog-swallowing if they liked nostalgia, or to sassy-best-girlfriends comedies if they liked stuffed animals, or to Mixed Martial Arts Felony Fights if they liked bitten-off ears, or to Nitee-Nite live-streamed suicides or HottTotts kiddy porn or Hedsoff real-time executions if they were truly jaded. All of it so much more palatable than the truth.

  “You know I’ve always sought the truth,” said Adam One that time, in the aggrieved tone he sometimes adopted with Zeb. He didn’t use this tone with anyone else.

  “Yeah, right, I do know that,” said Zeb. “Seek and ye shall find, eventually. And you found. You’re right, I don’t dispute that. Sorry. Chewing with my mind full. Stuff comes out my mouth.” And that tone said, This is the way I am. You know that. Suck it up.

  If only Zeb were here, thinks Toby. She has a quick flash of him disappearing under a cascade of glass shards and chunks of cement as another burnt-out high-rise crashes down, or howling as a chasm opens under his feet and he plummets into an underground torrent no longer controlled by pumps and sewers, or humming carelessly as from behind him appears an arm, a hand, a face, a rock, a knife …

  But it’s too early in the morning to think like that. Also it’s no use. So she tries to stop.

  Around the table is a collection of random chairs: kitchen, plastic, upholstered, swivel. On the tablecloth – a rosebud-and-bluebird motif – are plates and glasses, some already used, and cups, and cutlery. It’s like a surrealist painting from the twentieth century: every object ultra-solid, crisp, hard-edged, except that none of them should be here.

  But why not? thinks Toby. Why shouldn’t they be here? Nothing in the material world died when the people did. Once, there were too many people and not enough stuff; now it’s the other way around. But physical objects have shucked their tethers – Mine, Yours, His, Hers – and have gone wandering off on their own. It’s like the aftermath of those riots they used to show in documentaries of the early twenty-first century, when kids would join phone-swarms and then break windows and mob shops and grab stuff, and what you could have was limited only by what you could carry.

  And so it is now, she thinks. We have laid claim to these chairs, these cups and glasses, we’ve lugged them here. Now that history is over, we’re living in luxury, as far as goods and chattels go.

  The plates look antique, or at least expensive. But now she could break the whole set and it wouldn’t cause a ripple anywhere but in her own mind.

  Rebecca emerges from the kitchen cooking shack with a platter.

  “Sweetheart!” she says. “You made it back! And they told me you found Amanda too! Five stars!”

  “She’s not in the best shape,” says Toby. “Those two Painballers almost killed her, and then, last night … I’d say she’s in shock. Fallow state.” Rebecca’s old Gardener, so she’ll understand Fallow.

  “She’s tough,” says Rebecca. “She’ll mend.”

  “Maybe,” says Toby. “Let’s hope she’s disease-free, and no internal injuries. I guess you heard the Painballers got away. They took a spraygun too. I really messed up on that.”

  “Win some, lose some,” says Rebecca. “I can’t tell you how cheered up I am that you’re not dead. I thought those two scumbags would kill you for sure, and Ren too. I was worried sick. But here you are, though I have to say you look like shit.”

  “Thanks,” says Toby. “Nice china.”

  “Dig in, sweetie. Pig in three forms: bacon, ham, and chops.” It hadn’t taken them long to backslide on the Gardener Vegivows, thinks Toby. Even Jelack Rebecca is having no problems with the pork. “Burdock root. Dandelion greens. Dog ribs on the side. If I keep it up with the animal protein I’m going to get even fatter than I am.”

  “You’re not fat,” says Toby. Though Rebecca has always been solid, even back when they’d worked together slinging meat at SecretBurgers, before they turned Gardener.

  “I love you too,” says Rebecca. “Okay, I’m not fat. Those glasses are real crystal, I’m enjoying it. Cost a mint, this stuff did once. Remember at the Gardeners? Vanity kills, Adam One used to tell us, so it was earthenware or die. Though I can see the day coming when we’re not gonna be bothered with dishes anymore, we’ll just eat with our hands.”

  “There is a place in even the purest and most dedicated life for simple elegance,” says Toby. “As Adam One also used to tell us.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes that place is the trash can,” says Rebecca. “I’ve got a whole stack of lap-sized linen table napkins, and I can’t iron them because there’s no iron, and that really bugs me!” She sits down, forks a piece of meat onto her plate.

  “I’m glad you’re not dead too,” says Toby. “Any coffee?”

  “Yeah, if you can ignore the burnt twigs and roots and crap. There’s no caffeine in it, but I’m counting on the placebo effect. I see you brought a whole mob back with you last night. Those – what would you call them, anyway?”

  “They’re people,” says Toby. Or I think they’re people, she adds to herself. “They’re Crakers. That’s what the MaddAddam bunch calls them, and I guess they should know.”

  “They’re definitely not like us,” says Rebecca. “No way close. That little pisher Crake. Talk about fouling up the sandbox.”

  “They want to be near Jimmy,” says Toby. “They carried him back here.”

  “Yeah, I heard that part,” says Rebecca. “Tamaraw enlightened me. They should go back to – to wherever they live.”

  “They say they need to purr on him,” says Toby. “On Jimmy.”

  “Excuse me? Do what on him?” says Rebecca with a small snort of laughter. “Is that one of their weird sex things?”

  Toby sighs. “It’s hard to explain,” she says. “You have to see it.”

  Hammock

  After breakfast Toby goes over to take a look at Jimmy. He’s suspended between two trees in a makeshift hammock fashioned from duct tape and rope. Over his legs is a child’s comforter with a pattern of cats playing fiddles, laughing puppies, dishes with faces on them holding hands with grinning spoons, and cows with b
ells around their necks jumping over moons that are leering at their udders. Just what you need when you’re hallucinating, thinks Toby.

  Three Crakers – two women and a man – are sitting beside Jimmy’s hammock on chairs that may once have belonged with the dining table: dark wood, with retro lyre backs and yellow-and-brown-striped satiny upholstery. The Crakers look wrong on these chairs, but they also look pleased with themselves, as if they’re doing something quietly adventurous. Their bodies gleam like gold-threaded spandex; huge pink kudzu moths are fluttering around their heads in living halos.

  They’re preternaturally beautiful, thinks Toby. Unlike us. We must seem subhuman to them, with our flapping extra skins, our aging faces, our warped bodies, too thin, too fat, too hairy, too knobbly. Perfection exacts a price, but it’s the imperfect who pay it.

  Each of the Crakers has one hand on Jimmy. They’re purring; the hum gets louder as Toby walks over to them.

  “Greetings, Oh Toby,” says the taller of the two women. How do they know her name? They must have listened more carefully than she’d thought last night. And how should she reply? What are their own names, and is it polite to ask?

  “Greetings,” she says. “How is Snowman-the-Jimmy today?”

  “He is growing stronger, Oh Toby,” says the shorter woman. The others smile.

  Jimmy does look somewhat better. He’s pinker, he’s cooler, and he’s sound asleep. They’ve fixed him up: tidied his hair, cleaned his beard. On his head is a battered red baseball cap, on his wrist a round watch with a blank face. A pair of sunglasses with one eye missing is perched awkwardly on his nose.

  “Maybe he’d be more comfortable without those things on him,” says Toby, indicating the hat and the sunglasses.

  “He must have those things,” says the man. “Those are the things of Snowman-the-Jimmy.”

  “He needs them,” says the shorter woman. “Crake says he must have them. See, here is the thing for listening to Crake.” She lifts the arm with the watch on it.

  “And he sees Crake with this,” says the man, pointing to the sunglasses. “Only he.” Toby wants to ask what the hat is for, but she refrains.

  “Why have you moved him outside?” she asks.

  “He did not like it in that dark place,” says the man. “In there.” He nods towards the house.

  “Snowman-the-Jimmy can travel better out here,” says the taller woman.

  “He’s travelling?” says Toby. “While he’s asleep?” Could they be describing some dream they imagine Jimmy is dreaming?

  “Yes,” says the man. “He is travelling to here.”

  “He is running, sometimes fast and sometimes slow. Sometimes walking, because he is tired. Sometimes the Pig Ones are chasing him, because they do not understand. Sometimes he is climbing into a tree,” says the shorter woman.

  “When he gets to here, he will wake up,” says the man.

  “Where was he when he started this travelling?” says Toby cautiously. She doesn’t want to convey disbelief.

  “He was in the Egg,” says the taller woman. “Where we were, in the beginning. He was with Crake, and with Oryx. They came out of the sky to meet with him in the Egg, and to tell him more of the stories, so he can tell them to us.”

  “That is where the stories come from,” says the man. “But the Egg is too dark now. Crake and Oryx can be there, but Snowman-the-Jimmy cannot be there any more.” The three of them smile warmly at Toby, as if certain she’s understood every word they’ve said.

  “May I look at Snowman-the-Jimmy’s hurt foot?” she asks politely. They have no objection, though they keep their hands in place and continue with their purring.

  Toby checks the maggots underneath the cloth she wrapped around Jimmy’s foot the night before. They’re busily at work, cleaning up the dead flesh; the swelling and oozing are diminishing. This batch of maggots is nearing maturity: she’ll have to get hold of some rotting meat tomorrow, leave it in the sun, attract flies, create new maggots.

  “Snowman-the-Jimmy is coming closer to us,” says the short woman. “Then he will tell us the stories of Crake, as he always did when he was living in his tree. But today you must tell them to us.”

  “Me?” says Toby. “But I don’t know the stories of Crake!”

  “You will learn them,” says the man. “It will happen. Because Snowman-the-Jimmy is the helper of Crake, and you are the helper of Snowman-the-Jimmy. That is why.”

  “You must put on this red thing,” says the shorter woman. “It is called a hat.”

  “Yes, a hat,” says the tall woman. “In the evening, when it is moth time. You will put this hat of Snowman-the-Jimmy on your head, and listen to this shiny round thing that you put on your arm.”

  “Yes,” says the other woman, nodding. “And then the words of Crake will come out of your mouth. That is how Snowman-the-Jimmy would do it.”

  “See?” says the man. He points to the lettering on the hat: Red Sox. “Crake made this. He will help you. Oryx will help too, if the story has an animal in it.”

  “We will bring a fish, when it is getting dark. Snowman-the-Jimmy always eats a fish, because Crake says he must eat it. Then you will put on the hat and listen to this Crake thing, and say the stories of Crake.”

  “Yes, how Crake made us in the Egg, and cleared away the chaos of bad men. How we left the Egg and walked here with Snowman-the-Jimmy, because there were more leaves for us to eat.”

  “You will eat the fish, and then you will say the stories of Crake, as Snowman-the-Jimmy always did,” says the shorter woman. They look at her with their uncanny green eyes and smile reassuringly. They seem entirely confident of her abilities.

  What are my choices? thinks Toby. I can’t say no. They may get disappointed, and go away by themselves, back to the beach, where the Painballers can grab them. They’d be easy prey, especially the children. How can I let that happen?

  “All right,” she says. “I will come in the evening. I will put on the hat of Jimmy, I mean Snowman-the-Jimmy, and tell you the stories of Crake.”

  “And listen to the shiny thing,” says the man. “And eat the fish.” It seems to be a ritual.

  “Yes, all of that,” says Toby.

  Shit, she thinks. I hope they cook the fish.

  Story

  While gathering up the breakfast dishes, Rebecca thought she saw a grim hatchet-face looking at her from under the trees. It seems to have been a false alarm, thinks Toby: no Painballers appeared, and, even better, no spraygun holes opened in Rebecca and no Craker child was yanked screaming into the shrubbery. Still, everyone’s tense.

  Toby asks the Craker mothers to move closer to the cobb house. When they look puzzled, she tells them it’s a message from Oryx.

  The day unscrolls without incident. No travellers return: no Shackleton, no Black Rhino or Katuro. No Zeb. Toby spends the rest of the morning in the kitchen garden, digging and weeding: a mindless exercise that calms her and fills the time. There are some chickenpeas beginning to sprout, and spinach leaves thrusting up, and the feathery tops of carrots. Her rifle is propped nearby.

  Crozier and Zunzuncito herd the Mo’Hairs out of their paddock so they can graze. Both carry sprayguns: in a Painballer confrontation they’d have the advantage – two weapons against one – unless they were taken by surprise. Toby hopes they’ll remember to check above their heads if there are trees nearby: that must have been how the Painballers caught Amanda and Ren, by dropping down from above.

  Why is war so much like a practical joke? she thinks. Hiding behind bushes, leaping out, with not much difference between Boo! and Bang! except the blood. The loser falls over with a scream, followed with a foolish expression, mouth agape, eyes akimbo. Those old biblical kings, setting their feet on conquered necks, stringing up rival kings on trees, rejoicing in piles of heads – there was an element of childish glee in all of that.

  Maybe it’s what drove Crake on, thinks Toby. Maybe he wanted to end it. Cut that part out of us: the grinn
ing, elemental malice. Begin us anew.

  She eats her lunch early, in solitude, because she’s tagged for sentry with her rifle during the regular lunchtime. The food is cold pork and burdock root, with an Oreo cookie from a package gleaned from a pharmacy: a rare treat, carefully rationed. She opens her cookie and licks the white sweet filling before eating the two chocolatey halves: a guilty luxury.

  Before the afternoon thunderstorm, five of the Crakers carry Jimmy into the cobb house, along with his Hey-Diddle-Diddle quilt. Toby sits with him while it rains, checks his wound, manages to raise his head so he drinks some of the mushroom elixir, even though he’s still unconscious. Her supply is running low, but she doesn’t know where to find the right mushrooms for a fresh brew.

  A single Craker remains in the room with them, to purr: the others go away. They don’t like houses; they’d rather be wet than cooped up. Once the rain stops, four other Crakers appear to carry Jimmy outside again.

  The clouds part, the sun comes out. Crozier and Zunzuncito return with the flock of Mo’Hairs. Nothing has happened, they say; or nothing you can put your finger on. The Mo’Hairs were jumpy; it was hard to keep them together. And the crows were making a racket, but what does that tell you? Crows are always making a racket about something.

  “Jumpy, how?” says Toby. “What sort of racket?” But they can’t be more specific.

  Tamaraw, with a denim shirt over her hunched shoulders and a canvas sunhat, attempts to milk the one Mo’Hair that’s producing. The milking doesn’t go smoothly: there’s kicking and bleating, and the pail tips and spills.

  Crozier shows the Crakers how to work the hand pump: a retro decoration once but now the source of their drinking water. God knows what’s in it, thinks Toby: it’s groundwater, and every toxic spill for miles around may have leaked into it. She’ll push for rainwater, at least for drinking; though with faraway fires and maybe nuclear meltdowns sending dirty particulate into the stratosphere, God knows what’s in that as well.