Afterland

by Lauren Beukes

  It’s easy to hide in plain sight when you are an embarrassing annoyance, a freak show that gets real-old, real-quick. Worse than Jehovah’s Witnesses or Hare Krishnas. No one wants to meet your eyes, let alone peer under the veil, when you are trying to press forgiveness on them: “Have you heard the word, Sister? It’s a very simple one, the most important one. Take my hand, let’s say it together.”

  But there’s a difference between proselytizing and playing tourist, Cole thinks as the Sisters walk through the parking lot to the Manitou Cliff Dwellings carved into the rock.

  “If I wanted to see a dead civilization, I could look out the window,” Mila complains.

  “Respect for all people, daughter Mila.” Generosity pokes her shoulder, overfamiliar, Cole thinks. But the reality of the Anasazi dwellings carved into the rock is reprimand enough. Mila squeaks in appreciation, despite herself and squeezes through the narrow gap, bolting up a ladder, nearly tripping on the folds of her Apologia.

  “Mom, it’s awesome!” she pokes her head out an upstairs window.

  Cole slips into the hearth room, or so the sign on the wall informs her, and puts her hand against the cool rock with its blond and rust striations.

  She’s done some urban exploring–lite; sneaking into a desolate public swimming pool in Woodstock, the graffitied lion’s den of the old zoo next to the University of Cape Town, walking the abandoned decks and admiring the mosaics of Park Station under central Johannesburg. But this is different, ancient. The dark comfort of mortality, she thinks, the reminder that other people before them dreamed and suffered, created strange architecture, and disappeared for reasons incomprehensible to those coming after. Ruins are haunted by history, but so are people.

  You think fear eats up your capacity for wonder, but the awe cuts through her dulled and dimmed mind. Almost a religious experience.

  Don’t let the Sisters hear you say that.

  They wander through the museum, examining shards of pottery and weaponry, the Sisters clumping together and flowing apart, drawing bewildered looks from the other tourists.

  Mila is oblivious. High on exploring. “Why did they leave?”

  “Some kind of disaster,” Generosity says. “I read about it. Maybe drought, maybe war. They might have built up into the cliffs to avoid their enemies. Maybe cannibalism. I read they found human remains in fossilized fecal matter. People with their faces cut off.”

  “Whoa!”

  “C’mon, Generosity,” Cole interrupts. “You’re going to give her nightmares.”

  “Your girl ain’t frightened,” Faith chips in.

  “Yeah, butt out, Mom! Tell me everything!”

  “Mila! That’s not how you speak to your mother,” Hope berates her. “We love and obey our mothers.”

  “It’s all right, Hope. I can parent.” It comes out more forcefully than she’d intended. Of course she can parent. Look at what an excellent job she’s done so far.

  “You know this place ain’t the real thing, right?” Faith says. “It’s a replica.”

  “A preserve,” Generosity corrects, reading from the flyer they got at the entrance along with their tickets and the dubious looks Cole has already grown accustomed to. “These are the real buildings, but they relocated them to prevent them being looted or covered in graffiti.”

  “So it’s a theme park?” Mila sounds betrayed.

  “Needs more roller coasters,” Cole says.

  They wind their way through the gift shop waiting for the next tour through the Cave of the Winds, which Mila insists they have to go on, and Hope grumbles, but concedes that it might be educational. There are dream catchers, art books, keyrings, and a faux raccoon-skin hat.

  “Like in Lumberjanes,” Cole mugs, setting it atop her head. “What was that raccoon’s name in the comic?”

  But Mila is distracted, holding a tiny carved statuette with feathers and a painted face.

  “What you got there?” Cole comes over, the hat itching at her forehead.

  “Chipmunk spirit,” she says, reading the label on the bottom. “Can I get it, Mom?”

  “Such things are pagan idolatry.” Sister Hope takes it out of her hand and sets it back on the shelf. “If you want to go on the lantern tour, it’s happening now.”

  It’s almost like being on holiday. You could mistake this for a real life. Most of the Sisters demur, choosing to have lunch in the coffee shop, so it’s just her, Generosity, and Mila joining the tour with civilians: a family of four with mom, gran, a little girl in a frilly dress and Mary Janes, not remotely appropriate for spelunking, and her teenage sister dressed aggressively androgynous, with razor-cut hair she keeps swiping her hand over; and a pair of identical twin retirees in elasticated jeans and t-shirts, who are, they inform everyone, on a road trip to see all the sights before the world ends for good this time.

  “That’s what you people believe, isn’t it?” one of the twins asks, but Generosity dodges neatly.

  “We’re not New Revelationists. We believe in redemption, and that God will restore the world, but I don’t think anyone wants to hear about that now.”

  “Damn right.” The teenager eye-rolls as they walk through the main cave, lit up to show off the eerie formations, the stalactites and stalagmites. In the boxiness of their Apologia, their little trio look a little like rock formations themselves.

  They cluster around a narrow entrance to the greater cave system and the waiting dark. Their guide, a spelunker type with authentic cave dirt on her pants and a blazing smile, lights their tin lamps one at a time and ushers them through.

  “Like joining the Church,” Cole observes. “Following blindly into the dark.”

  “Your faith will light your way,” Generosity says. “Even if it flickers.”

  “Except Faith stayed with the bus,” Cole says.

  “I wish I had more Patience for your jokes, Mom.”

  He gets that from me, you know. King of puns.

  The guide launches into a history spiel, about the man who dug into the main cave and turned it into a tourist attraction. “But old George was a trickster. Loved to scare the pants off people. He bought a Ute mummy that had been unearthed in a local rock quarry for five dollars and placed it on a rock shelf behind a curtain. So when people would enter this very cave, he’d say, ‘Behold! My cave mummy’ and yank the cord to reveal the remains. Usually, there would be gasps and shrieks—some people even fainted. But one day, no reaction. Exasperated by these rubes who couldn’t make out a rare mummy even when it was right in front of their eyes, George stepped forward to shine his torch on the desiccated corpse and…it wasn’t there.”

  “Where was it?” Mila and the teen girl say at the same time.

  “Ah! That’s exactly what he thought. ‘Where’s my mummy!’ he yelled. Shall I show you where he found it?”

  They follow her deeper into the caverns, the cool dark like a living thing pressing up against them.

  “This is what George called the tunnel of love. It’s where he and his lovely wife lived for several years, because it was the only way he could keep an eye on his investment and prevent interlopers trying to lay claim to the caves. But he’d been away on business and his lady wife had got fed up with having a mummified corpse on what was essentially her front porch. So she moved the body way back here, where she didn’t have to see it.”

  “That’s much worse,” Mila says. “I’d rather be able to see it, so I’d know where it was.”

  “Do you notice anything about this cave?”

  “It’s warmer?”

  “That’s right. It’s warmer, and damper. And in those few weeks while George was away, do you know what happened to the mummy? It started growing a thin film of mold, and that mold started spreading across the cave floor, and over here, you’ll see that mold is still growing a hundred fifty years later. We’ve had fungal experts in here and they say they haven’t seen anything like that. We like to think it’s the mummy’s curse, and even though the mummy has lo
ng ago been returned to the Ute people as a sign of respect, some part of it still lingers here. Now’s the time I’d like everyone to blow out the lanterns, please, and let’s see if we can pick up any sign of the mold.”

  They raise their lamps and with a ripple of huffing breath, they’re plunged into darkness so absolute you could drown in it. Cole hunches automatically, reaches for Mila’s hand, but she’s not there.

  “Booga-booga!” someone shouts, and Mila swears, her voice breaking.

  “Fuck!”

  “Hey, let’s leave the tomfoolery and silly pranks to George, please!” The guide clicks a lighter, a pale flicker against the dark. Is it the air down here that makes Cole feel so lightheaded, or the weight of all that rock pressing down on them? She’s overwhelmed with the tenuousness of circumstance, how fragile they are in their vessels of blood and flesh and bone standing in this hollow under the rock.

  “I have to go. We have to go. Mila, now.”

  “It’s all right. There’s nothing to worry about. We’re all fine. Let me light your lantern.”

  “I want to go. Now. Please.”

  “It was me, Sister Patience,” Generosity confesses. “I wanted to give Mila a fright. It was immature, I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t care about that. It doesn’t matter. Please. I need to go.” She’s breathing too fast. Little rabbit-punch breaths. Her chest feels tight, pins and needles in her hands.

  “We were just about done with the tour anyway. Let’s get you back aboveground.”

  In the coffee shop, a woman with a first-aid kit is waiting for them. “Dizziness? Shortness of breath? Everyone thinks heart attacks mean you get this chest pressure, but they present differently in women. Has anyone in your family…”

  Cole interrupts her. “It’s not a heart attack. It’s a panic attack. I probably know more about first aid than you do, so unless you’re going to give me a Xanax, kindly fuck off.”

  The woman takes this in her stride. “Have you had one before?”

  “No,” she snaps, but that’s a lie. Panic is a constant; it’s only the severity that ebbs and flows. Not an “attack,” but a war of attrition. She’s still feeling the edginess of it back on the bus when Generosity leans between the seats and presses a paper bag into Mila’s hands.

  “Here, kid, got you this. To make up for trying to scare you in the dark.”

  She knows what it is even before Mila unwraps it. The damn chipmunk.

  “Awesome, thanks!”

  “I could tell you liked it,” Generosity beams. “Don’t let Hope see. False prophets and all that.”

  You’re overreacting, ghostguy tells her. It’s sweet. Someone’s being nice to Mila. You’re just not used to kindness.

  But Cole doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like it at all.

  34.

  Miles: Hell is Pink

  Cities are sometimes color-coded, he’s noticed. It’s the kind of thing you have to pay attention to if you want to be a filmmaker. He’s decided recently this is going to be his calling, more than video game designer, because he’d rather play them; or being a YouTuber, because, too much work to get hits; or a lawyer, which Mom’s friend Kel said he should be because of his way with words.

  New York is blue, with all the skyscrapers and glass and the Hudson River. Johannesburg is tawny gold and beige with the mine dumps and all the apartment blocks from the seventies. And Santa Fe is dusky pink. As in the whole town. The hacienda houses are sandstone pink beneath an inside-of-a-seashell pink sky, that in turn has shaded the hills the same rose-dust color, which intensifies as the day softens into dusk.

  “Must be the influence of the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum,” Mom says, like that’s supposed to mean something to him. They’re all tired and grouchy. The air-con rattles occasionally, threatening to resurrect itself, and then gives up with a clatter.

  “I’m kinda done with art history.” He mimes a yawn.

  “Your loss,” Mom shrugs, but he can tell he’s hurt her feelings. She leans back and closes her eyes, but can’t resist sniping back. “Anyway. Mothers are supposed to irritate their sons. Part of the job description.”

  She jerks with shock, eyes flying open. “Shit!”

  “No one heard you. Chill.” They’re at the back of the bus, like the naughty kids. They were sent there so Mom could lie down after her panic attack.

  “Fuck. Sorry. Dammit.”

  “It’s not a big deal. No one was listening.”

  “But Hope is going to be,” Mom frets at the sleeve of her Apologia. “I have to do Confidances. When we get there. I can’t fuck up like that while she’s got her digital recorder out. Christ, what I wouldn’t give for caffeine.”

  “Good job, Mom. You should probably get all the swears out now.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Fuck, balls, cocksucker.”

  Miles scrinches his face in disgust. “Okay. Okay! Enough. What do you talk about anyway?”

  “All the terrible things I’ve done in my life. It’s a long list. I don’t think seven days is going to be enough.” Throwaway light and breezy.

  “What happens on the seventh day?”

  “The kaiju attack, and we have to work together to pilot the robot mecha suits to defeat them? No wait, that’s not it. Oh right, all my sins are magically absolved, I find inner peace and redemption. But actually, I’ve been replaced by a zombie clone nun, and soon you’ll be one too.”

  “That sounds kinda nice.” He can’t look at her, concentrates on the pink buildings. That one has a blue door. “Not the dumb clone part. The rest of it. Maybe we should stick around for that.”

  He can feel her studying him, her careful attention a tractor beam, almost impossible to resist. But she doesn’t get to be worried. He’s the one who’s worried. He flicks a glance back, the tiniest hopeful smile. He can’t help it. The Sisters are calm, and he figures they could use some more calm.

  “Let’s see,” she says.

  Their rest stop for the night is an enormous villa (pink, naturally) with lavender (almost pink) growing in front. The woman waiting for them at the entrance has strawberry blond hair (almost pink) and a turquoise necklace (not pink), and is super-fan nervous about meeting them.

  “Hi, everyone. I’m Sara, no ‘h.’ Hi! I’m so excited you’re here. It’s such an honor to have you with us! We’re simply thrilled that you’re looking at setting up a Heart of the faith right here in Santa Fe.”

  Hope nods, stern acknowledgment. “Thank you, Sara. We spoke on the phone. I’m Sister Hope.”

  “Oh, I thought it was you! I mean, it’s hard to tell with the apologies.”

  “Apologia.”

  “Right, right. Absolutely. Still learning the terminology! Anyway. We’ve got your rooms all ready. This used to be an ayahuasca retreat, but of course that was several years ago, and it’s been thoroughly refurbished, and I’m sure you can say some prayers.”

  “We’re very tired, Sara. We’ve had a long day.”

  “No problem. No problem at all! Let me get you settled. Oh. I see there are fourteen of you. I had you down for twelve…”

  “We have some new disciples.”

  “No problem! I’ll sort that right out!”

  “No room at the inn, huh?” Mom leans in to Miles.

  “You’re not Jesus, Mom,” he snaps.

  She gives him that new weary look. “Hey. Neither are you.”

  It works out that they end up sharing with Sister Chastity, and he curses the God he doesn’t believe in. What happened to lead me not into temptation? The double bed is the kind that splits into two singles, which Mom says she and the nun are going to take, while the fluttery lady, Sara, lugs in a camping mattress for him. Mom trudges off with Sister Hope to do her Confidances, flashing him an anxious look. Like he doesn’t know to be careful.

  “Dibs on the shower,” calls Chastity, shutting the door to the tiny adjacent bathroom. He hears the faucet turn, the shush of the water. And then moaning. He’s about to knock on the doo
r, to call out to ask if she’s okay, when he realizes she’s fine. More than fine: it’s pleasure he’s hearing. He freezes, unable to stop listening to her. His penis is rock-hard and aching under the robes. Is she touching herself?

  Are you…jerking off yet? His aunt’s voice. Don’t think about her. Don’t think about where she is. The blood on Mom’s shirt. Shit. This really has to be screwing up his sexual development. Blood and sex and nuns.

  The water switches off. The door handle turns. He leaps back and down onto his mattress, curling over himself, pressing his dumb penis into the mattress. Which feels good. Stop it! Just stop it.

  Chastity comes out, toweling her naked body unselfconsciously, her robes draped over one arm, brown hair dripping wet. He doesn’t dare look. This is why they are here, why it is all his fault. Keep it in your pants, dummy. He racks his brain for a conversational gambit, manages to squeak out: “Do you often get people like me and Mom joining you?”

  “Oh, yes, it happens a lot. More than you think.” Her voice has got this rasp to it, like she ate a rattlesnake. “Some people think they’re putting one over us, they want to hitch a ride or whatever, but really, that’s God’s way of bringing them into the fold. God doesn’t judge, baby girl. You know that, right? He wants us to find the ladder to climb the rungs up toward redemption.” She drops the towel on a heap on the floor. He jerks his head the other way.

  She giggles. “There’s no need to be ashamed. Our bodies are natural. The problem is what we do with them. That’s what goes against God. If we don’t use them the way He intended. Like me. I thought sex was my superpower, but really it was my super-weakness. I brought so much shame on myself and my family.”

  He thinks she’s getting dressed. Please, let her be getting dressed. “You don’t need to tell me.” It comes out strangled. “Your sin life is private.” Isn’t it? But he really wants to hear. And he really, really doesn’t. Sex was my superpower.