*
Semilion sat in the shadowed library, running his hands across his head in frustration. The books of his ancestors lay scattered across the table like a child’s fallen bricks.
One volume, nothing more than a spiral-bound notebook, titled Autumn Codec, was apparently the codes that they should use between September and November. Beneath it was a reporter’s notepad upon which was penned Butterfly Code, the codes they should use in times of satellite scrutiny.
He thumbed several pages of The High Tide Symbols; jot a note in its margins, then rubbed his eyes.
He was dumbfounded. He had never known about any of these. His father had never taught him any of it. He had only been interested in showing him the old-world news reels and broadsheets, and telling him how terrifying the governments of the outside world had become.
His grandfather had been concerned with teaching him how the world was nothing but a wasteland of corpses and plague, and yet his father thought it important he should know how the governments of the world were struggling to reclaim it. He wondered if it had anything to do with Red Sawbone. Had his father been trying to keep Semilion afraid of venturing out into the world and bringing Red down upon him?
He saw a note scrawled on one of the pages and he recognised the script as belonging to his father. He thought of him lying on the floor, blood on his lips, as Red held a length of wood over him. Since that day his father had been frightened to do anything that might bring Red back to Mortehoe. Soon after that he had shown Semilion the first of the newsreels.
‘This is the world, boy,’ he would say as he fastened the reel to the projector. He would douse the lights and a bright whirring image would appear across the cracked wall.
‘It’s all like that out there,’ he would murmur throughout the most gruesome broadcasts.
He recalled the first reel showing a street in New York. The reporter wore a thick bodysuit of some shiny material and a gasmask from which protruded black breathing apparatus, and at the bottom of the picture flashed rapid subtitles.
‘This scene is the same the world over. Dogs, stray or otherwise, have been scouring the streets for several weeks now with a seemingly insatiable lust for prey, seemingly anything that moves. And, uh, don't worry, I’m protected by New York’s finest, here. They reassure me that their military grade carriers can withstand more than a little puppy power. James Eastern, NYNN.’ He stood behind a police carrier, and suddenly the policeman standing beside him braced himself and picked up his battered Perspex shield. The camera fell sideways and rattled across the street as the cameraman, dressed in the same thick material as the reporter, fell into view – a Doberman scrabbling and gnawing at the unprotected area at the neck of his gasmask. The policeman raised his shield as several wild mutts scrambled over the bonnet and roof of the truck, sliding and sprawling in their frenzied charge. The policeman beat with his electrified baton while another, sitting in the driver’s seat, shot a handgun from his awkward position. A dog's head exploded, though the baton was having no affect other than inflaming the dogs ferocity.
When Semilion had wanted to look away his father had forced him to watch. The reporter had been confident he would be saved by the thick protective layer, and stood motionless whilst three dogs mauled at his arms and legs. The policeman protecting him was dragged down, his throat ripped out and the hand in which he held his baton savaged until his fingers hung in bloody tatters from broken bones.
The reporter tried to retreat back to the safety of the police carrier, his screams manic, but the driver inside drove away in a whirl of screeching fumes and crashed forcibly into a bollard. Dogs piled into the truck as the driver fell out the door and tried to run. They were on him in seconds, pulling, ripping, clawing, their bloody teeth sinking into a cadaver that no longer looked human.
The reel ended, yet there was more for Semilion’s young eyes to see, and all the while his father would remind him that this was what the world was like. ‘There’s nothing out there but this, boy.’ He said until Semilion could watch it no more. ‘You’re grandfather wanted you to believe that there was nothing but death out there, but look. See? It’s much worse than that.’
Semilion had believed him. He had never wanted to leave the comforts of Mortehoe if the world outside was nothing but roads of bones and carrion birds.
More footage, Semilion had shrank back from the projection on the wall, and although his father put his arm around him in comfort the grasp was too strong and forced him to look forward. It showed an alleyway from the vantage of a helicopter, it was full of dogs feasting on corpses in some ceramic-coloured Mediterranean town. They pulled at flesh and bone, filling their mouths and stomachs without hunger and vomiting when they could take no more. Military troops filed towards them, crouched and hesitant, before firing canisters from from squat guns, plumes of smoke arching lazily toward the grotesque feast. The canisters burst open in the alleyway, instantly consuming it in a cloudy yellow avalanche. Dark shapes could be seen writhing within the haze, and though this reel was silent Semilion could hear their desperate howls. The military advanced, filling the alley with grenades and rounds of shells.
His mother would find them and switch the projector off before screaming at his father that the reels were giving Semilion nightmares.
‘He has to know, for God’s sake.’ His father would always retaliate. ‘Your pa always told him the world was dead. But dead is safe. The world isn’t safe!’
‘These are seventy years old! This is news footage from the past. You’ve both lied to him.’
He returned to the present with a jolt as a book slid from the pile and slapped squarely on the tiled floor. He picked it up and looked morosely across the table of books. The Copper Cipher, The Robinson Codes, Astronomical Morse, The High Tide Symbols, there were scores of codes for every scenario Semilion could ever think to imagine, and the thought of wading through all of them made his morbid recollections seem almost attractive.
The Cloud Guide, for example, listed the entire range of clouds – from the low lying stratus to soring altus, each labelled with their own significance from ‘all clear’ to ‘imminent danger’. Then came assemblages, altostratus, stratocumulus, cirrostratus, and scores more, also containing their own individual meaning. Next were clouds that form only during certain times of day, in certain weather conditions, in certain localities etc. Each of these was allocated their own value, until it was possible to say almost anything by mentioning only cloud forms.
Beneath the books was the small piece of paper upon which he had scribbled Dr. Camberwell’s last message. It seemed insignificant beneath the strewn books, though Semilion kept referring to it before flicking through pages and jotting down notes.
How did Camberwell know about all these? He wondered. Did he know them off by heart? It seemed impossible, and yet he was slowly re-writing the original transmission with the aid of these books he had never heard of.
He had been reviewing the books for several hours. At first he had only been interested in the codes relating to Britain, though he soon discovered that the entire broadcast had been an encrypted message. In five hours he had managed to transcribe the following.
“Dublin compromised. Broadcast compromised. Stranger intercepted.”
He looked at the word stranger and flipped through several pages of The Copper Cipher, before scribbling it out and replacing it with enemy. Again he ran his fingers across his head and sighed. He didn’t have time to translate the entire text himself, and yet he didn’t want this news spreading throughout the community.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ Priya said, and Semilion turned around angrily.
‘What are you doing down here?’ He stood and meant to bar her from coming any closer into the council chamber.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said as she descended the final step, ‘Ted was telling me about this room and, well, I’m just curious.’
He could smell the wine on her, though she managed to hold her
self with sobriety. Her eyes betrayed her, however.
‘Curiosity isn’t the most humoured of qualities here.’ He said gruffly, as a grandfather admonishing a child.
‘I know,’ she smiled, stepping slowly closer. She wore a white linen dress and a leather belt at her waist. She was hypnotic, he thought, and wondered whether she knew it. ‘What are these books?’
‘Just… Just books left by our ancestors.’
She picked one up. He didn’t know why he was letting her do it, but he watched her leaf through pages before laying it back down. She was uninterested in the content, though seemingly ravenous to fulfil her inquisitiveness.
‘They had a lot to say,’ she said, taking in the crammed bookcase.
‘More than I’ll ever know. I only found out about these books recently.’ He said, one hand on his hip, the other on his neck.
Priya turned to the books again. ‘You look like you’re studying for an exam.’
‘Well, I’m studying alright. There’s no doubt about that. You know, you really shouldn’t be down here.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ She said again, though made no attempt to leave. He didn’t try to force her either.
‘So this is where you make all the big decisions?’
‘When the council convenes.’
‘Is this where mine and Selina’s fate was discussed? When we arrived?’
‘I actually made the decision myself, and the council convened afterwards.’
‘So tell me,’ she looked up from a file she had been examining the cover of, ‘what is the point of the council if you make decisions without them?’
‘My decisions can be nullified if the council wishes it. This isn’t a dictatorship.’
‘What happened to that Borderly child sounds a lot like a dictatorship, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘I’ll not take blame for the actions of my grandfather.’ He said sternly, wondering who had told her that piece of information.
‘Of course,’ she placed the folder back on the shelf. ‘But I’m surprised that the role of governor passes from father to son. Where’s the democracy in that?’
‘That’s the way it is. Since the beginning. The father knew what was best for the community and passed it down to the son. There’s nothing unseemly about it. I don’t retain any privileges for the role.’
Priya laughed. ‘Except making decisions without the council, you mean? Who else in the community has that licence?’
He hesitated and sat back down. ‘I think you should leave.’
He had expected her to challenge him, though she smiled sweetly and apologised for offending him before taking her leave.
He almost called her back. If the situation had been one involving Sarah she would have hollered at him and forced him to accept her view. Priya, however, had left without question and it left him wanting. He nearly stood and followed her upstairs to apologise, but he heard the door close and the trance broke.
He had seen how men watched her, with longing in their eyes, though he had thought himself invulnerable to such transient things as beauty.
It wasn’t beauty, he told himself, though of course she radiated it, but instead her strength that intrigued him.
He sighed and turned back to the books strewn across the table.
‘You won’t beat me, you bastard.’ He said, drawing the chair beneath him and pulling The High Tide Symbols back into the light.
Chapter Sixteen.
InterRail.
Elysium Part Two. In A Landscape Page 7
