Now, he felt betrayed. Play was one thing, hunting another. Sneakers were boy-clothes but they didn't make a man. Raches was a man and wore no sneakers. His ancestors had been men and worn no shoes. Shoes were accessories of manhood, but hunting was different. Hunting made a man.
"What if she's right? What if she is a man?” asked Shaman.
Raches sucked in air through his front teeth. He was a hunter and could live without knowing if he'd have to go hungry tomorrow, but, whenever possible, he enjoyed the few certainties his life offered. Up to this point, the concepts of “woman” and “man” hadn't given him any headaches. “Will she marry? How will she provide for her wife?” he asked.
"If she can hunt, she can provide,” Shaman said.
Damn Shaman and his logic.
Raches glanced at the girl standing down by Shaman's tent, away from the group. She leaned on her hip, like a man. She carried a spear, like a man, and she held her feet together. Clearly, that wasn't the wide baby-carrying stance of a woman. From this distance, save for her burnt chest, she was just another boy.
"There's the other matter, about the tales we brought from the dome on the last trading expedition...” Raches gambled, glancing at the men around him. He'd sensed unrest near the dome and had been trying to convince Shaman to move the village further away, but the old man was stubborn. He would not be separated from the nano that carried the spirits of his precious Parisi.
"That is another matter; we can deal with it another time sitting in front of a nice warm fire with some hot soup in our bowls,” Shaman said. The men laughed.
Raches considered this. He didn't want an argument, not in front of the men. He respected Shaman and wanted to save the village a public power struggle. Besides, he smiled to himself, the old man commanded much respect. Raches might even lose. Shaman was offering to give Raches a fair hearing in exchange for this favor. It was more than Raches would have hoped for.
"One hunt only,” Raches said.
A collective groan rose from the group of hunters.
"Only one hunt,” Raches repeated. “We'll give the Parisi a chance to prove their mistake. If they don't take it up, she stays a girl!"
The next day, they set out before dawn. Shaman watched them go, hoping he hadn't set Shai-Shai up to fail.
* * * *
They couldn't sing aloud while tracking, but each man (and girl) sang the hunting song inside their heads so that their steps kept beat. It was easier to run when all the steps fell at the same time. It was said that the Land had the hots for Chere men and liked them particularly well when they ran in unison. Coy woman that she was, she'd give them a foot up, but not if they trampled around like a herd of clumsy Tre.
Raches had chosen a light trot; something he knew would put a strain on the girl, who had a day of running ahead of her. No more or less help than any boy got, he told himself. He'd promised Shaman as much. Except that a boy was given more than one chanceand nobody expected a boy to succeed the first time. Raches tried not to pity the girl.
As the sun lifted off, the dome shone lighter until it disappeared. The dome was brightest at sunset and sunrise, when the sun's rays hit it horizontally. Sometimes the moon made it gleam with slivers of silver that waxed and waned in the distance. The dome was pretty to watch, but Raches didn't have much use for it. He went trading close to it a couple of times a year. Once, as a young man, he'd even walked some distance inside. He remembered the sun being dimmer and seeing the rim of the dome from the inside. There was only dust and trash on the strip of land that lay inside the dome but outside the city. The sun was more forgiving but the pollution was worse. Raches had been told it was still verymany miles to the city and that he wouldn't be allowed inside even if he made it that far. Raches didn't care. There was nothing he wanted from the city and nothing the city wanted from him. The songs were clear on that.
The people on the fringe scraped a sorry existence off the trash, shot each other with guns and died young. But when asked why they didn't step outside, where the grass grew tall and the poisons were confined inside plants designed to use them, they pointed at their brown skins and at the sun and spoke of chunks of meat that kept growing and killed a person. Raches had wondered if it was a parasite they had and was careful not to touch them.
He thought quicker and felt the men and girl adapting to the faster beat of the hunting song. Without stopping, he took one of the soda cans strung on a cord over his back and pulled the plug of mud and grass out of the opening. He drank all the water and threw the can away. Cans were easy to come by.
The hunting song told the story of the Chere. Raches’ people didn't always know how to hunt. They'd been immigrants, living on the fringes of Paris until, one day, the city got scared, put up the dome and locked them out. The Chere had originated from different groups. All they shared was a skin color that allowed them to survive outside the dome. Their elders had told them that it was possible to live off the land, but hadn't known how to do it. And so the Chere became persistence hunters. Neither verymany hunters nor complex techniques were required. An animal could be run to the ground and all it took was a handful of trackers and a single runner.
Raches and the men used cans strung on branches to split up the herd. Raches chose an alpha male knowing that the heavy horns of the kudu would make it tire sooner. After some prodding, their prey bounded off in one direction while the herd scattered.
Raches motioned Shai-Shai and the girl took off, holding her arm in front of her to pierce the wind and make her run smooth and silent.
* * * *
Shai-Shai had trouble becoming the antelope. At first she thought it was because she'd never been this close to one before, but soon she realized that verymany hunts wouldn't have helped her understand this particular antelope anymore than knowing verymany people would help her understand Shaman. Antelope was unique, his own creature, and none of his brothers and sisters were quite like him.
At first, she was forced to stop whenever she lost sight of the animal in order to track him down. The stop and go broke her rhythm and she knew that, if things didn't change, she'd never make it. She concentrated on Antelope, how he charged or shivered when he sensed she was close. Antelope was almost like people. All he wanted was rest and shade from the noon sun. It broke Shai-Shai's heart, even as she hounded him. Soon, she could predict where he'd go next and she no longer stopped to track. The few pointers she needed, she gathered on the run.
Antelope's pelt didn't dispel heat like Shai-Shai's skin did. Unlike Shai-Shai, he didn't sweat, and he had no hands to carry water. If she kept him moving and out of the shade, he'd die of heat and exhaustion slightly faster than Shai-Shai would.
Shai-Shai had been told this, but it was hours before she believed it. The antelope didn't know it, but as the day grew old, Shai-Shai thought the antelope grew less haughty and more stubborn.
Shai-Shai ran with her mouth open, tongue out, like the antelope had taught her to do. Her arm danced in front of her, making holes in the breeze for her body to slip through. She followed the antelope, or the antelope followed her. She didn't know who was following whom anymore. The dome grew larger in front of her, but she kept her eyes on her prey.
* * * *
"Call her back,” Mesane said.
Raches thought the other man was aching for Shai-Shai to fail.
The men had climbed up on a tamarisk tree and were taking turns looking through Raches’ thing-to-see. Raches was proud of the contraption; he'd made it himself from a hollowed branch and a couple of lenses he'd traded for from the scavengers of the dome.
Raches shook his head. “It'll turn around,” he said, hoping. Dusk was only a couple of hours away and the girl was doing a good job, never giving the antelope more than a few minutes’ rest before forcing it to flee. Raches wasn't surprised. Parisi could do the strangest things when they set their minds to it.
The hunters sat in silence, sipping from their cans. The sun dipped and the dome became vis
ible again. Reds and browns trickled down the dome, lighting up the surrounding vegetation and flowing down to the ground in rivulets of color that looked like falling water, but weren't.
Down east, a flock of thrills lifted up from a bush. Raches sat up, alert.
"Danger?” Mesane asked.
Through his lenses, Raches saw a vehicle leaving the dome. There were men inside and they didn't look like any of the tribes Raches traded with. These men weren't city dwellers by a long shot, but they belonged deep inside the dome. He wondered what they were doing this far from home.
"I'll go see,” he said. In a single movement, Raches slid down the tree and slipped into a run.
* * * *
Antelope was thirsty and hot. His leg hurt from when he had run into the briar. His ears twitched from anxiety and exhaustion. His sneakers were too big for him and the grass he'd used to fill the tips chafed his toes. Antelope's vision had narrowed to a tunnel. He knew there were things outside of the tunnel, songs he wasn't hearing, a sunset he wasn't seeing. There was the dome out there, at the edge of his vision, getting closer. But none of that mattered. Antelope barely saw where he was going, but the Land was his lady-friend and she helped him along. In Antelope's mind, the land had turned into Chir-Ches. Chir-Ches was a little older than Shai-Shai but her breasts were already as full as the fruit of the mengue bush.
In play, Shai-Shai had once tried to convince Chir-Ches to be her wife.
"We can't marry,” Chir-Ches had said. “You're a girl."
"Am not."
But Chir-Ches had laughed. She always acted as if she were all grown up, when she was only a few months older than Shai-Shai.
Now, Chir-Ches was the Land, helping Antelope as he ran. And even though Antelope was an animal-person and Chir-Ches was a spirit-person, Antilope and Chir-Ches were going to marry and live in their own hut, away from Shai-Shai's mother and Chir-Ches’ father and the reproving stares of Raches.
Antelope daydreamed and ran, holding his arm in front of him, making way for his body through the air.
* * * *
The men in the truck were young and they spoke in loud voices. Their skin was lighter than a Chere's, but still brown enough that they could spend some time outside the dome at dusk. They were bigger than Raches and they carried guns.
Raches didn't like them.
The truck didn't move fast, impeded by bushes and mud. Raches had no trouble following from afar, listening to the sounds the wind brought. He could see Shai-Shai's antelope in the distance, but he was reasonably sure the men hadn't seen Shai-Shai. They looked around, nervously, but they didn't look up into the horizon, seemingly more concerned about dangers that lay closer to the truck. Raches knew that could change at any moment. There was still time before nightfall and Shai-Shai's antelope wasn't ready to die just yet. The men would get in the way of the hunt.
Raches was surprised at how much that bothered him. He hadn't realized he was rooting for Shai-Shai. But when it came down to it, the idea of Shai-Shai as a woman, gossiping, gathering, and having her man's babies, was at least as strange as the thought of Shai-Shai as a man. He hadn't liked the idea of her hunting when they'd started, but the day had changed him. Raches thought it fitting: no man should live a day unchanged.
With sudden insight, Raches understood that the Parisi needed him to act. He slinked ahead of the truck, stood in the middle of the path, and waited.
* * * *
Antelope was hungry. He knew which branches were good to eat and which would tear his soft gums with thorns, poisons, and radiation. He wished he could stop, but he was hunting himself and he couldn't let himself get away. His hand waved out and brought a couple of berries to his mouth. Antelope hadn't seen the berries. He was happy he had such a clever hand.
* * * *
"Paul, what's that guy doing there?"
The men got off the truck and sauntered up to Raches. Raches stood still, letting them walk around in circles, inspecting his spear and his trench coat. They babbled and laughed. Raches waited.
"Is he alive?” one of them joked. “Does he move?"
"Look, he blinked!"
"We know you're alive, you old fool. Silly old dust monkey."
"Greetings,” said Raches, once he'd been addressed. He tried not to smile at their surprise. They hadn't expected him to speak their language but Raches had traveled far inside the dome.
"Greetings. We come from there,” the man pointed. “From the Paris dome."
Raches nodded and lifted a hand in acknowledgement. If the man didn't realize that what he'd said was obvious, it wasn't Raches’ place to let him know. He wondered if they were retarded; but who would give weapons to retarded men? They made so much noise that Raches wondered how they managed to hunt.
"Shit, look at his hand, Paul. He's one of them!"
The men noised about. They were all young, but the one called Paul seemed to be the leader.
"Your people, they have hands like you?” said Paul.
"My people have hands, yes.” Raches said. Clearly retarded, he was sure. Possibly unstable, too.
The man reached out and touched Raches without permission. Raches tensed up but didn't recoil. The man took Raches’ hand and pointed at his palm.
"Black palms, see? Not like mine.” He placed his own hand next to Raches'. Like all dome people, his palms were white and burnt, with growths of flesh, bumps and craters. Raches withdrew his hand.
"Come on, Paul, this man's useless."
"Shut up, Amce! You don't recognize Lady Luck even when she shows you her warm titty. His people must live outside the dome, somewhere around here, and they live to be as old as this guy. Look at him; he's decrepit. With workers like these, it'd be worth clearing a patch of land outside the dome. God knows, the runts we have don't last long enough to make it worthwhile."
Amce walked up to Raches and peered at his hands. “This had to be genetically re-profiled at one time or another...."
"Bet it was those missionaries: they're everywhere."
"Where's your village?” Paul asked. “You stay outside all day, right? Look at the wrinkles on this guy. Have you guys ever seen anyone so old?"
Raches didn't understand. He wasn't old, not like Shaman. He was still a hunter.
"Hey, monkey!” Amce shouted. “Where's your incest-loving, lice-infested village?"
"Shut up,” Paul said. “Excuse my friend, no respect at all.” He glared at Amce and turned his attention back to Raches. “Where's your village? I'll give you these if you tell me.” He held up a handful of fluorescent chits, remaindered currency from a failed economy many years forgotten. Raches knew they were worthless.
He would have liked to speak, but the men hadn't said anything intelligent. There was no conversation here, nothing he could build on, just barks and questions. Raches stood still, waiting for them to sort out their thoughts. They seemed to need it.
"It's no use, Paul. He's soft in the head."
"Let me try again. Come on,” Paul cooed. “I'll give you whiskey and girls. You like jig-jig, no?"
"Guy's too old for girls. Come on, we're wasting our time. Don't wanna be caught out here when the sun goes down. Nights outside the dome would put ice even in your momma's sizzling crotch."
"Speak of your own mother, asshole."
"No, I'm speaking of yours. Only time your momma's pussy cools is when Ferdinand here pulls out. He leaves her wide open, you see...” The man ducked a punch and Raches took the chance to slip off the road.
"We'll find them sooner or later, Paul. Those dust monkeys can't hide forever."
The truck started up, turned around and headed towards the dome.
* * * *
The last ray of sunset came as a flash of green that shone off the dome for a heartbeat and disappeared. Antelope saw the flare from the corner of his eye. It disturbed the natural flow of things, broke his rhythm and tripped him as if it were a real something and not just air and light. He fell hard, rolled on his back
and stared up, the red sky swirling in his vision as the dome flashed bloody in the distance.
Antelope opened his lips to speak but his mouth was parched. He mouthed like a fish. Stopping felt so good. The ground was cold under his back, firm. It would hold him; it wouldn't let him sink under. His sight blurred. Yes, sleep.
But his eyelids no longer knew the way down. His hand materialized in front of his eyes. Such a small hand, five fingers. They flexed. The utter humanity of them struck him.
Shai-Shai gasped, unsure of who she was. Maybe Shai-Shai was a girl hunting an Antelope. Maybe Shai-Shai was a boy hunting to become a man. Maybe there was a girl chasing Shai-Shai and no matter what Shai-Shai did or how hard he tried he could never shake her. Either way, Shai-Shai had to run.
He/She/Antelope stood up, allowed the shoes to sort themselves out, and ran.
* * * *
The sun set and the air cooled fast. Raches watched the men go, temporarily relieved. He must find Shai-Shai. Whatever the outcome, the hunt was over for today. Other concerns had taken priority.
The lengthening shades sharpened the contrasts of the wasteland. Wherever Raches looked, bits of metal trapped the last sunrays. Embedded in and over the trash grew the poisoned plants, their fluorescent fruit shining brighter as night settled in. Thrills sang in the distance and a night rat scuttled away. The last rainfall was long gone and kikiyu grass worked its magic on the cracks in the ground, prying them open with green fingers. The weed needed little and grew everywhere. The example of survival spoke to Raches, helping him reach a decision.
In the morning, the village would move. The songs were clear: the Chere didn't need the city and the city didn't need them. The dome was brewing with bad things. The retarded boys had been right about one thing: the Chere might benefit from being close to the dome, but they didn't depend upon it for survival. Until now, Shaman had dismissed the rumors, but now Raches had something more than hearsay to support his argument. If Shaman wouldn't listen, Raches would speak to the men directly.
Asimov's SF, July 2009 Page 12
