MaddAddam 03 - MaddAddam

by Margaret Atwood

  She waits. The buzzing increases. Then several of the scout bees fly down and land on her face. They explore her skin, her nostrils, the corners of her eyes; it’s as if a dozen tiny fingers are stroking her. If they sting, the answer is no. If they don’t sting, the answer is yes. She breathes in, willing herself to be calm. They don’t like fear.

  The scout bees lift away from her, spiral back towards the swarm, blend into the moving golden pelt. Toby breathes out.

  “You can look now,” she says to Zeb.

  There’s a crackling, a thrashing: something’s coming towards them through the undergrowth. Toby feels the blood leave her hands. Oh shit, she thinks. Pig, wolvog? We don’t have a spraygun. And my rifle’s back there in the garden. She scans around for a stone to throw. Zeb has picked up a stick.

  Saint Dian, Saint Francis, Saint Fateh Singh Rathore: lend me your strength and wisdom. Speak to the animals now. May they turn away from us, and seek their meat from God.

  But no, it’s not an animal. There’s a voice: it’s people. There’s no Gardener prayer against people. Painballers – they don’t know we’re here. What should we do? Run? No, they’re too close now. Get out of the line of fire. If possible.

  Zeb has stepped in front of her, pushed her back with one hand. He freezes. Then he laughs.

  Bone Cave

  Out of the bushes comes Swift Fox, straightening her pink and blue floral bedsheet. Right behind her is Crozier, similarly straightening, though his bedsheet is an understated black-and-grey stripe.

  “Hi, Toby. Hi, Zeb,” he says, overly casual.

  “Taking a stroll?” says Swift Fox.

  “Bee hunting,” says Zeb. He doesn’t seem upset. So maybe I’ve been wrong, thinks Toby: he’s not feeling territorial about her, he doesn’t care that she’s been flailing among the weeds with Crozier.

  As for Crozier, isn’t he supposed to be pursuing Ren? Or has Toby been wrong about that as well?

  “Bee hunting? Really? Hey, whatever works,” says Swift Fox, laughing. “Us, we were foraging. For mushrooms. We foraged and foraged. We got down on our hands and knees, we looked everywhere. But we didn’t find a single mushroom, did we, Croze?”

  Crozier shakes his head, looking down at the ground. It’s as if he’s been caught with his pants down, but he’s not wearing pants, only the striped bedsheet.

  “See you,” says Swift Fox. “Happy bee hunting.” She heads back towards the cobb house, with Crozier following as if pulled on a string.

  “C’mon, Bee Queen,” Zeb says to Toby. “Let’s get your supplies. I’ll walk you home.”

  In a perfect world Toby would already have a Langstroth hive box, complete with supers and moveable frames. She should have prepared one ahead of time, on the off chance of finding a swarm; but, lacking foresight, she did not do this. Barring a proper hive box, what can she use that will appeal to the bees? Any cavity that’s protected, with an entrance where they can go in and out; dry enough, cool enough, warm enough.

  Rebecca offers a scavenged Styrofoam cooler; Zeb makes an entrance hole in the side, near the top, and several other ventilation holes. Toby and Zeb set it up in a corner of the garden, surround it with rocks for stability and extra shelter, then add a couple of vertical slabs of plywood, raising them above the bottom of the cooler with small stones. It’s only a rough approximation of a hive, but it will have to do for now, and perhaps for a long time. The danger is that if the bees get established here they’ll be very annoyed if she moves them later.

  Toby improvises a catching bag out of a pillowcase, and they trek back into the woods to collect the bees. She uses a long stick, scrapes quickly. The core of the swarm tumbles gently into the bag. The densest part holds the magnet of the queen: like the heart in the body, she’s invisible.

  They carry the pillowcase to the garden, buzzing loudly; a cloud of loose bees trails behind them. Toby eases the bee ball into the cooler, waits until all strays have found their way out of the pillowcase, then waits some more while the bees explore their new home.

  There’s always an adrenalin rush for Toby when she’s handling bees. It could go badly: she might smell wrong one day and find herself the centre of an angry, stinging horde. Sometimes she feels she could wash herself all over in bees, like a bubble bath; but that’s the euphoria of bee handling, like an altitude high or the rapture of the deep. It would be stupid to actually try it.

  When the swarm has settled down she closes the lid of the cooler and places a couple of stones on top. Soon the bees are winging in and out of the entrance hole and rummaging for pollen among the garden flowers.

  “Thank you,” she says to Zeb; and he says, “Any time,” as if he’s a crossing guard rather than a lover. But it’s daytime, she reminds herself: he’s always a little brisk in daytime. He lopes off, around the corner of the cobb house, out of sight; mission accomplished.

  She covers her head. “May you be happy here, Oh Bees,” she says to the Styrofoam cooler. “As your new Eve Six, I promise to visit you every day, if I can, and to tell you the news.”

  “Oh Toby, can we do the writing again? With the marks, on the paper?” It’s her shadow, little Blackbeard. He’s climbed up the garden fence on the outside and is hanging over it, resting his chin on his arms. How long has he been watching her?

  “Yes,” she says. “Maybe tomorrow, if you come early.”

  “What is that box? What are the stones? What are you doing, Oh Toby?”

  “I’m helping the bees find a home,” says Toby.

  “Will they live in the box? Why do you want them to live there?”

  Because I want to steal their honey, thinks Toby. “Because they will be safe there,” she says.

  “Were you talking to the bees, Oh Toby? I heard you talking. Or were you talking to Crake, as Snowman-the-Jimmy does?”

  “I was talking to the bees,” says Toby. Blackbeard’s face lights up with a smile.

  “I did not know you could do that,” he says. “You talk with the Children of Oryx? As we do? But you can’t sing!”

  “You sing to the animals?” says Toby. “They like music?”

  This question seems merely to puzzle him. “Music?” he says. “What is music?” The next minute he’s dropped down behind the fence and has run off to join the other children.

  Smelling of bees when you’re not actually with them can attract unwanted insect company: already there are some green flies trying to settle on her, and some interested wasps. Toby goes over to wash her hands at the pump. As she’s scrubbing, Ren and Lotis Blue come in search of her.

  “We need to talk to you,” says Ren. “It’s about Amanda. We’re really worried.”

  “Try to keep her busy,” says Toby. “I’m sure she’ll be back to normal in a while. She’s had a shock, these things take time. Remember how you were at first, when you were recovering from your own Painballers attack? I’ll give her some mushroom elixir, to build up her strength.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” says Ren. “She’s pregnant.”

  Toby dries her hands on the towel hanging beside the pump. She does it slowly, giving herself time to think. “Are you sure?” she says.

  “She peed on the stick,” says Lotis Blue. “It was positive. The fucking thing showed a happy face.”

  “A pink happy face! That stick is so mean! It’s horrible!” says Ren. She starts to cry. “She can’t have that baby, not after what they did to her! Not a baby with a Painballer dad!”

  “She’s walking around like a zombie,” says Lotis Blue. “She’s so depressed. She’s just really, really down.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” says Toby.

  Poor Amanda. Who could expect her to give birth to a murderer’s child? To the child of her rapists, her torturers? Though there’s another possibility, as far as the father goes. Toby recalls the flowers, the singing, the enthusiastic tangle of Craker limbs in the light from the campfire on that chaotic Saint Julian’s evening. What if Amanda is harbouring a ba
by Craker? Is that even possible? Yes, unless they’re a different species altogether. But if so, won’t it be dangerous? The Craker children are on a different developmental clock, they grow much faster. What if the baby gets too big, too fast, and can’t make its way out?

  It’s not as if there are any hospitals. Or even any doctors. As far as facilities go it will be like giving birth in a cave.

  “She’s over at the swing set,” says Lotis Blue.

  Amanda is sitting on one of the children’s swings, moving gently back and forth. She doesn’t quite fit the swing; it’s close to the ground, and her knees are sticking up awkwardly. Slow tears are rolling down her cheeks.

  Standing around her are three of the Craker women, touching her forehead, her hair, her shoulders. They’re all purring. Ivory, ebony, gold.

  “Amanda,” says Toby. “It’s all right. Everyone will help you.”

  “I wish I was dead,” says Amanda. Ren bursts into tears and kneels down, throwing her arms around Amanda’s waist.

  “Don’t say that!” she says. “We got this far! You can’t give up now!”

  “I want this thing out of me,” says Amanda. “Can’t I drink some kind of poison? Some of your mushroom stuff?” At least she’s showing some energy, thinks Toby. And it’s true, there are plants that were once used. She remembers Pilar mentioning various seeds and roots: Queen Anne’s lace, evening primrose. But she’s not sure of the quantities: it would be too risky to try such a thing. And if it’s a Craker baby, none of that may work on it anyway. They have a different biochemistry, according to the MaddAddamites.

  The ivory Craker woman stops purring. “This woman is not blue any more,” she says. “Her bone cave is no longer empty. That is good.”

  “Why is she sad, Oh Toby?” says the gold woman. “We are always happy when our bone cave is full.”

  Bone cave. That’s what they call it; beautiful in a way, and accurate, but right now all Toby herself can visualize is a cave full of gnawed bones. Which is how it must feel to Amanda: death in life. What can Toby do to make this story better? Not much. Remove all knives and ropes, arrange constant companions.

  “Toby,” says Ren. “Can’t you …”

  “Please try,” says Amanda.

  “No,” says Toby. “I don’t have that knowledge.” It was Marushka Midwife who did the ob/gyn, at the Gardeners. Toby herself stuck to illnesses and wounds, but maggots and poultices and leeches are no use for this. “It might not be as bad as you think,” she continues. “The father might not be a Painballer. Remember that night, around the campfire, on Saint Julian’s, when they jumped on … where there was a cultural misunderstanding? It might be a Craker baby.”

  “Terrific,” says Ren. “Great choices! An ultracriminal or some kind of gene-spliced weirdo monster. She wasn’t the only one, anyway, with the cultural misunderstanding or whatever you want to call it. For all I know, I’ve got one of those Frankenbabies inside me too. I’m just scared of peeing on the stick.”

  Toby tries to think of something to say – something upbeat and soothing. Genes aren’t a total destiny? Nature versus nurture, good can come of evil? There are the epigenetic switches to be considered, and maybe the Painballers just had very, very bad nurturing? Or how about: the Crakers may be more human than we think? But none of it sounds very convincing, even to her.

  “Oh Toby, do not be sad,” says a child’s voice: Blackbeard, nudging up beside her. He takes her hand, pats it. “Oryx will help, and the baby will come out of the bone cave, and then Amanda will be happy. Everyone is very happy when there is a baby that has just come out.”

  Farrow

  “Lift up, you’re lying on my arm,” says Zeb. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m worried about Amanda,” says Toby, which is accurate, though not the whole story. “It seems that she’s pregnant. She’s not overjoyed.”

  “Three cheers,” says Zeb. “First little pioneer born into our brave new world.”

  “Anyone ever mention you can be callous at times?”

  “Never,” says Zeb. “I’m all quivering heart. The dad’s most likely a Painballer though, judging from what went on, which would triple suck. Then we’d have to drown it like a kitten.”

  “Fat chance,” says Toby. “Those Craker women just love babies. They’d go berserk if you did cruel and hurtful things to it.”

  “Women are strange,” says Zeb. “Not that I couldn’t have used a mom like that: protective, cuddly, and so forth.”

  “It could be a hybrid. Half a Craker,” says Toby. “In view of the mob action during the Saint Julian’s festivities. But if it is, the baby might kill her. Their fetal growth rates are different, their heads are bigger when they’re born, judging from the kids some of those women are toting around, so it could get stuck. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to do a C-section. And even before that, what if there’s a blood incompatibility?”

  “Ivory Bill and those others know anything about that? The genetic blood stuff?”

  “I haven’t asked them,” says Toby.

  “Okay, let’s put it on the crisis list. One pregnancy. Call a group meeting. But if the MaddAddams don’t know what’s likely to happen, I guess it’s wait and see?”

  “It’s wait and see anyway,” says Toby. “It can’t be aborted; no one here has that skill, and it would be way too risky to try it. There’s some herbs, but if you don’t know what you’re doing they can be toxic. Nothing else to be done, unless someone at the group meeting has a brilliant suggestion. But before that, I need to do some consulting.”

  “With who? None of our brainiacs are doctors.”

  “Don’t laugh at me for what I’m about to say.”

  “Tongue bitten, mouth stapled. Fire away.”

  “Okay, this is going to sound demented: with Pilar. Who, as you know, is dead.”

  A pause. “How you planning to do that?”

  “I thought I could pay a visit to her, you know, where we …”

  “To her shrine? Like a saint?”

  “Something like that. Do an Enhanced Meditation. Remember where we buried her, in the park? On the day of her composting? We dressed up as park keepers, we dug a hole in the …”

  “Yeah, I know the place. You wore those green parkie overalls I stole for you. We planted an elderberry bush on top of her.”

  “Yes. That’s where I’d like to go. I know it’s a bit crazy, as the Exfernal World would have said.”

  “First you talk to bees, now you want to talk to dead people? Even the Gardeners never went that far.”

  “Some of them did. Think of it as a metaphor. I’ll be accessing my inner Pilar, as Adam One would have put it. He’d be right onside with this.”

  Another pause. “Well, you can’t do it alone.”

  “I know.” Now it’s her turn to pause.

  A sigh. “Okay, babe, whatever you want. I volunteer. I’ll get Rhino and Shackie to come. We’ll keep you covered. One spraygun, plus your rifle. How long you figure it’ll take?”

  “I’ll do the short-form Enhanced Meditation. I don’t want to hog too much time.”

  “You expect to hear voices? Just so I know.”

  “I’ve got no idea what I’ll hear,” says Toby truthfully. “Most likely nothing. But I need to do it anyway.”

  “That’s what I like about you. You’re game for anything.” Some rustling, some shifting. Another pause. “Something else eating you?”

  “No,” Toby lies. “I’m good.”

  “You’re into prevarication?” says Zeb. “Fine with me.”

  “Prevarication. That’s a lot of syllables,” says Toby.

  “Let me guess. You think I should tell you what happened out in the wilds of the shopping strip with what’s-her-name. Little Miss Fox. Whether I groped her or vice versa. Whether sexual congress took place.”

  Toby thinks about it. Does she want bad news about what she fears or good news she won’t believe? Is she turning into a clinging invertebrate with ten
tacles and suction cups? “Tell me something more interesting,” she says.

  Zeb laughs. “Good one,” he says.

  So. Stalemate. It’s for him to know and for her to try to refrain from finding out. He loves encryption. Even though she can’t see him in the dark, she can feel him smiling.

  They set out the next morning just at sunrise. The vultures that top the taller, deader trees are spreading their black wings so the dew on them will evaporate; they’re waiting for the thermals to help them lift and spiral. Crows are passing the rumours, one rough syllable at a time. The smaller birds are stirring, beginning to cheep and trill; pink cloud filaments float above the eastern horizon, brightening to gold at the lower edges. Some days the sky looks like old paintings of heaven: there should be a few angels floating around, their white robes deployed like the skirts of archaic debutantes, their pink toes daintily pointed, their wings aerodynamically impossible. Instead, there are gulls.

  They’re walking along what is still a trail, through what is still recognizable as the Heritage Park. The little gravelled paths leading off to the side have vines creeping across them, but the picnic tables and cement barbecues have not yet been obscured. If there are ghosts here, they’re the ghosts of children, laughing.

  Every one of the drum-shaped trash containers has been tipped over, the lids pried off. That wouldn’t have been people. Something has been busy. Not rakunks, though: the trash containers were made to be rakunk-proof. The earth around the picnic tables is rutted and muddy: something’s been trampling, and wallowing.

  The asphalted main pathway is wide enough for a Heritage Park vehicle, like the one Zeb and Toby used to transport Pilar to the site of her composting. Already there are weed shoots nosing up through. The force they can exert is staggering: they’ll have a building cracked like a nut in a few years, they’ll reduce it to rubble in a decade. Then the earth swallows the pieces. Everything digests, and is digested. The Gardeners found that a cause for celebration, but Toby has never been reassured by it.