Cloud Atlas

by David Mitchell

  Nothin’ so ruby as Pa’s ribbonin’ blood I ever seen. The chief licked Pa’s blood off the steel.

  Adam’d got the dead shock, his spunk was drained off. A painted buggah binded his heels’n’wrists an’ tossed my oldest bro over his saddle like a sack o’ taro, an’ others sivvied our camp for ironware’n’all an’ busted what they din’t take. The chief got back on his horse an’ turned’n’looked right at me … them eyes was Old Georgie’s eyes. Zachry the Cowardy, they said, you was born to be mine, see, why even fight me?

  Did I prove him wrong? Stay put an’ sink my blade into a Kona neck? Follow ’em back to their camp an’ try’n’free Adam? Nay, Zachry the Brave Niner he snaky-snuck up a leafy hideynick to snivel’n’pray to Sonmi he’d not be catched’n’slaved too. Yay, that’s all I did. Oh, if I’d been Sonmi list’nin’, I’d o’ shooked my head digustly an’ crushed me like a straw bug.

  Pa was still lyin’n’bobbin’ in the salt shallows when I sneaked back after night’d fallen; see, the river was calmin’ down now an’ the weather clearin’. Pa, who’d micked’n’biffed’n’loved me. Slipp’ry as cave fish, heavy as a cow, cold as stones, ev’ry drop o’ blood sucked off by the river. I cudn’t grief prop’ly yet nor nothin’, ev’rythin’ was jus’ too shock’n’horrorsome, see. Now Sloosha’s was six–seven up’n’down miles from Bony Shore, so I built a mound for Pa where he was. I cudn’t mem’ry the Abbess’s holy words ’cept Dear Sonmi, Who art amongst us, return this beloved soul to a valley womb, we beseech thee. So I said ’em, forded the Waipio, an’ trogged up the switchblade thru the night forest.

  An elf owl screeched at me, Well fought, Zachry the Brave! I yelled at the bird to shut up, but it screeched back, Or else? You’ll bust me like you bust them Kona? Oh, for the sake o’ my chicky-chick-chicks do have mercy! Up in the Kohala Mountains, dingos was howlin’, Cowardyyy-yy-y Zachryyy-yy-y. Lastly the moon she raised her face, but that cold lady din’t say nothin’ nay she din’t have to, I knowed what she thinked o’ me. Adam was lookin’ at that same moon, only two–three–four miles away, but for all I could help him, that could o’ been b’yonder Far Honolulu. I bust open an’ sobbed’n’sobbed’n’sobbed, yay, like a wind-knotted babbit.

  An uphill mile later I got to Abel’s Dwellin’ an’ I hollered ’em up. Abel’s eldest Isaak let me in an’ I telled ’em what’d happened at Sloosha’s Crossin’, but … did I tell the hole true? Nay, wrapped in Abel’s blankies, warmed by their fire’n’grinds, the boy Zachry lied. I din’t ‘fess how I’d leaded the Kona to Pa’s camp, see, I said I’d just gone huntin’ a lardbird into the thicket, an’ when I got back … Pa was killed, Adam taken, an’ Kona hoofs in the mud ev’rywhere. Cudn’t do nothin’, not then, not now. Ten Kona bruisers could o’ slayed Abel’s kin jus’ as easy as slayin’ Pa.

  Your faces are askin’ me. Why’d I lie?

  In my new tellin’, see, I wasn’t Zachry the Stoopit nor Zachry the Cowardy, I was jus’ Zachry the Unlucky’n’Lucky. Lies are Old Georgie’s vultures what circle on high lookin’ down for a runty’n’weedy soul to plummet’n’sink their talons in, an’ that night at Abel’s Dwellin’, that runty’n’weedy soul, yay, it was me.

  Now you people’re lookin’ at a wrinkly buggah, mukelung’s nibblin’ my breath away, an’ I won’t be seein’ many more winters out, nay, nay, I know it. I’m shoutin’ back more’n forty long years at myself, yay, at Zachry the Niner, Oy, list’n! Times are you’re weak ‘gainst the world! Times are you can’t do nothin’! That ain’t your fault, it’s this busted world’s fault is all! But no matter how loud I shout, Boy Zachry, he don’t hear me nor never will.

  Goat tongue is a gift, you got it from the day you’re borned or you ain’t got it. If you got it, goats’ll heed your say-so, if you ain’t, they’ll jus’ trample you muddy an’ stand there scornin’. Ev’ry dawnin’ I’d milk the nannies an’ most days take the hole herd up the throat o’ Elepaio Valley, thru Vert’bry Pass to pasturin’ in the Kohala Peaks. I herded Aunt Bees’s goats too, they’d got fifteen–twenty goats, so all-telled I’d got fifty–sixty to mind’n’help their birthin’ an’ watch for sick uns. I loved them dumb beasts more’n I loved myself. When rain thundered I’d get soaked pluckin’ off their leeches, when sun burnt I’d crispen’n’brown, an’ if we was high up in the Kohalas times was I’d not go back down for three–four nights runnin’, nay. You’d got to keep your eyes beetlin’. Dingos scavved in the mountains an’ they’d try to pick off a wibbly newborn if you wasn’t mindin’ with your spiker. When my pa was a boy, savages from Mookini’d wander up from Leeward an’ rustler away a goat or two, but then the Kona slaved the Mookini all southly an’ their old dwellin’s in Hawi went to moss’n’ants. We goaters we knowed the Kohala Mountains like no un else, the crannies’n’streams’n’haunted places, steel trees what the old-time scavvers’d missed, an’ one–two–three Old Un buildin’s what no un knowed but us.

  I planted my first babbit up Jayjo from Cutter Foot Dwellin’ under a lemon tree one a-sunny day. Leastways hers was the first what I knowed. Girls get so slywise ’bout who’n’when’n’all. I was twelve, Jayjo’d got a firm’n’eager body an’ laughed, twirly an’ crazy with love we both was, yay, jus’ like you two sittin’ here, so when Jayjo plummed up ripe we was talkin’ ’bout marryin’ so she’d come’n’live at Bailey’s Dwellin’. We’d got a lot o’ empty rooms, see. But then Jayjo’s waters busted moons too soon an’ Banjo fetched me to Cutter Foot, where she was laborin’. The babbit came out jus’ a few beats after I’d got there.

  This ain’t a smilesome yarnie, but you asked ’bout my life on Big Island, an’ these is the mem’ries what are minnowin’ out. The babbit’d got no mouth, nay, no nose-holes neither, so it cudn’t breathe an’ was dyin’ from when Jayjo’s ma skissored the cord, poor little buggah. Its eyes never opened, it just felt the warm of its pa’s hands on its back, turned bad colors, stopped kickin’ an’ died.

  Jayjo she was clammy’n’tallow an’ looked like dyin’ too. The women telled me to clear out an’ make space for the herb’list.

  I took the died babbit wrapped in a woolsack to the Bony Shore. So lornsome I was, wond’rin’ if Jayjo’s seed was rotted or my seed was rotted or jus’ my luck was rotted. Slack mornin’ it was under the bloodflower bushes, waves lurched up the beach like sickly cows an’ fell over. Buildin’ the babbit’s mound din’t take as long as Pa’s. Bony Shore had the air o’ kelp an’ flesh’n’rottin’, old bones was lyin’ ’mongst the pebbles, an’ you din’t hang ’bout longer’n you needed to, ’cept you was borned a fly or a raven.

  Jayjo she din’t die, nay, but she never laughed twirly like b’fore an’ we din’t marry, nay, you got to know your seeds’ll grow a purebirth or sumthin’ close, yay? Or who’ll scrape the moss off your roof an’ oil your icon ’gainst termites when you’re gone? So if I met Jayjo at a gath’rin’ or bart’rin’ she’d say, Rainy mornin’ ain’t it? an’ I’d answer, Yay, rain till nightfall it will I reck’n, an’ we’d pass by. She married a leather maker from Kane Valley three years after, but I din’t go to their marryin’ feast.

  It was a boy. Our died no-name babbit. A boy.

  Valleysmen only had one god an’ her name it was Sonmi. Savages on Big I norm’ly had more gods’n you could wave a spiker at. Down in Hilo they prayed to Sonmi if they’d the moodin’ but they’d got other gods too, shark gods, volcano gods, corn gods, sneeze gods, hairy-wart gods, oh, you name it, the Hilo’d birth a god for it. The Kona’d got a hole tribe o’ war gods an’ horse gods’n’all. But for Valleysmen savage gods weren’t worth knowin’, nay, only Sonmi was real.

  She lived ’mongst us, minderin’ the Nine Folded Valleys. Most times we cudn’t see her, times was she was seen, an old crone with a stick, tho’ I sumtimes seen her as a shimm’rin’ girl. Sonmi helped sick uns, fixed busted luck, an’ when a truesome’n’civ’lized Valleysman died she’d take his soul an’ lead it back into a womb somewhere in the Valleys. Time was we mem�
��ried our gone lifes, times was we cudn’t, times was Sonmi telled Abbess who was who in a dreamin’, times was she din’t … but we knew we’d always be reborned as Valleysmen, an’ so death weren’t so scarysome for us, nay.

  Unless Old Georgie got your soul, that is. See, if you b’haved savage-like an’ selfy an’ spurned the Civ’lize, or if Georgie tempted you into barb’rism an’ all, then your soul got heavy’n’jagged an’ weighed with stones. Sonmi cudn’t fit you into no womb then. Such crookit selfy people was called “stoned” an’ no fate was more dreadsome for a Valleysman.

  The Icon’ry was the only buildin’ on Bony Shore ’tween Kane Valley an’ Honokaa Valley. There was no say-so ’bout keepin’ out, but no un went in idlesome ’cos it’d rot your luck if you din’t have no good reason to ’sturb that roofed night. Our icons, what we carved’n’polished’n’wrote words on durin’ our lifes, was stored there after we died. Thousands of ’em there was shelfed in my time, yay, each un a Valleysman like me borned’n’lived’n’reborned since the Flotilla what bringed our ancestors got to Big I to ’scape the Fall.

  First time I went inside the Icon’ry was with Pa’n’Adam’n’Jonas when I was a sevener. Ma’d got a leakin’ malady birthin’ Catkin, an’ Pa took us to pray to Sonmi to fix her, ’cos the Icon’ry was a spesh holy place an’ Sonmi was norm’ly list’nin’ there. Watery dark it was inside. Wax’n’teak-oil’n’time was its smell. The icons lived in shelfs from floor to roof, how many there was I cudn’t tell, nay, you don’t go countin’ ’em like goats, but the gone-lifes outnumber the now-lifes like leafs outnumber trees. Pa’s voice spoke in the shadows, fam’liar it was but eerie too, askin’ Sonmi to halt Ma’s dyin’ an’ let her soul stay in that body for longer, an’ in my head I prayed the same, tho’ I knowed I been marked by Old Georgie at Sloosha’s Crossin’. An’ then we heard a sort o’ roaring underneath the silence, made o’ mil’yuns o’ whisp’rin’s like the ocean, only it wasn’t the ocean, nay, it was the icons, an’ we knew Sonmi was in there list’nin’ to us.

  Ma din’t die. Sonmi’s got mercy, see.

  My second time in the Icon’ry was Dreamin’ Night. When fourteen notches on our icons said we was a growed Valleysman, we’d sleep ’lone in the Icon’ry an’ Sonmi’d give us a spesh dreamin’. Some girls seen who they’d marry, some boys seen a way o’ livin’, other times we’d see stuff what we’d take to Abbess for an augurin’. When we left the Icon’ry in the mornin’ we’d be men an’ women.

  So gone sunset I lay under my pa’s blanky in the Icon’ry with my own uncarved icon as a pillow. Outside Bony Shore was rattlin’n’clackin’ an’ breakers was churnin’n’boilin’ an’ a whippoorwill I heard. But it weren’t no whippoorwill, nay, it was a trapdoor openin’ right by me, an’ a rope swingin’ down into the underworld sky. Climb down, Sonmi telled me, so I did, but the rope was made o’ human fingers’n’wrists weaved together. I looked up an’ seen fire comin’ down from the Icon’ry floor. Cut the rope, said a crookit man, but I was scared to ’cos I’d o’ fallen, yay?

  Next dream, I was holdin’ my freakbirth babbit boy in Jayjo’s room. He was kickin’n’wrigglyin’ like he’d done that day. Quick, Zachry, said the man, cut your babbit a mouth so he can breathe! I’d got my blade in my hand so I carved my boy a smily slit, like cuttin’ cheese it was. Words frothed out, Why’d you kill me, Pa?

  My last dream had me walkin’ ’long Waipio River. On the far side I seen Adam, fishin’ happ’ly! I waved but he din’t see me, so I ran to a bridge what ain’t there in wakin’ life, nay, a gold’n’bronze bridge. When fin’ly I got to Adam’s side tho’, I sobbed griefsome ’cos nothin’ was left but mold’rin’ bones an’ a little silver eel flippy-flappin’ in the dust.

  The eel was dawnlight crackin’ under the Icon’ry door. I mem’ried the three dreams an’ walked thru the drizzly surf to Abbess without meetin’ not a body. Abbess was feedin’ her chicklin’s b’hind the school’ry. She list’ned close to my dreamin’s, then telled me they was slywise augurin’s an’ say-soed me to wait inside the school’ry while she prayed to Sonmi for their true meanin’s.

  The school’ry room was touched with the holy myst’ry o’ the Civ’lize Days. Ev’ry book in the Valleys sat on them shelfs, saggy’n’wormy they was gettin’ but, yay, they was books an’ words o’ knowin’! A ball o’ the world there was too. If Hole World is a giant big ball, I din’t und’stand why people don’t fall off it an’ I still don’t. See, I’d not much smart in school’ry learnin’, not like Catkin, who could o’ been the next Abbess if all things happened diff’rent. School’ry windows was glass still unbusted since the Fall. The greatest of ‘mazements tho’ was the clock, yay, the only workin’ clock in the Valleys an’ in hole Big I, hole Ha-Why, far as I know. When I was a schooler I was ‘fraid of that tick-tockin’ spider watchin’n’judgin’ us. Abbess’d teached us Clock Tongue but I’d forgot it, ’cept for O’Clock an’ Half Past. I mem’ry Abbess sayin’, Civ’lize needs time, an’ if we let this clock die, time’ll die too, an’ then how can we bring back the Civ’lize Days as it was b’fore the Fall?

  I watched the clock’s tickers that mornin’ too till Abbess came back from her augurin’ an’ sat ’cross from me. She telled me Old Georgie was hungerin’ for my soul, so he’d put a cuss on my dreamin’s to fog their meanin’. But Sonmi’d spoke her what the true augurin’s was. An’ you too you got to mem’ry these augurin’s well ’cos they’ll change the path o’ this yarnin’ more’n once.

  One: Hands are burnin’, let that rope be not cut.

  Two: Enemy’s sleeping, let his throat be not slit.

  Three: Bronze is burnin’, let that bridge be not crossed.

  I ’fessed I din’t und’stand. Abbess said she din’t und’stand neither, but I’d und’stand when the true beat come, an’ she made me nail her augurin’s to my mem’ry. Then she gave me a hen’s egg for brekker, still spitty’n’warm from the bird, an’ showed me how to suck its yolk thru a straw.

  So you want to hear about the Great Ship o’ the Prescients?

  Nay, the Ship ain’t no mythy yarnin’, it was real as I am an’ you are. These here very eyes they seen it ooh, twenty times or more. The Ship’d call at Flotilla Bay twice a year, near the spring an’ autumn half’n’halfs when night’n’day got the same long. Notice it never called at no savage town, not Honokaa, not Hilo, not Leeward. An’ why? ’Cos only us Valleysmen got ’nuff Civ’lize for the Prescients, yay. They din’t want no barter with no barb’rians what thinked the Ship was a mighty white bird god! The Ship was the sky’s color so you cudn’t see it till it was jus’ offshore. It’d got no oars, nay, no sails, it din’t need wind nor currents neither, ’cos it was driven by the Smart o’ Old Uns. Long as a big islet was the Ship, high as a low hill, it carried two–three–four hundred people, a mil’yun maybe.

  How did it move? Where’d its journeyin’s take it? How’d it s’vived all the flashbangin’ an’ the Fall? Well, I never knowed many o’ the answers, an’ unlike those o’ most storymen, Zachry’s yarns ain’t made up. The tribe what lived on the Ship was called Prescients, an’ they came from an isle named Prescience I. Prescience was bigger’n Maui, smaller’n Big I, an’ far-far in the northly blue, more’n that I ain’t knowin’ or ain’t sayin’.

  So the Ship’d anchor ’bout ten throws off School’ry Head an’ a pair o’ littler hornety boats’d come out the Ship’s prow an’ fly over the surf to the beach. Each’d got six–eight men’n’women. Oh, ev’rythin’ ’bout ’em was wondersome. Shipwomen too was man-some, see, their hair was sheared, not braided like Valleyswomen, an’ they was wirier’n’strong. Their skins was healthy’n’smooth without a speck o’ the scabbin’, but brewy-brown’n’black they was all of ’em, an’ they looked more alike’n other people what you see on Big I. An’ Prescients din’t speak much, nay. Two guards stayed by the shored boats an’ if we asked ’em, What’s your name, sir? or Where you headed, miss? they’d just shake their heads, like sayi
n’, I won’t answer nothin,’ nay, so don’t ask no more. A myst’rous Smart stopped us goin’ close up. The air got thicker till you cudn’t go no nearer. A dizzyin’ pain it gave you too so you din’t donkey ’bout with it, nay.

  The barterin’ took place in the Commons. Prescients spoke in a strange way, not lazy’n’spotty like the Hilo but salted’n’coldsome. By the time they’d landed, the yibber’d been busy an’ most dwellin’s was ‘ready rushin’ baskets o’ fruits’n’veggies’n’meats’n’all to the Commons. Also the Prescients filled spesh casks with fresh water from the stream. In return, Prescients bartered ironware what was better’n any made on Big I. They bartered fair an’ never spoke knuckly like savages at Honokaa, but politesome speakin’ it draws a line b’tween you what says, I respect you well ’nuff but you an’ I ain’t kin, so don’t you step over this line, yay?

  Yay, the Prescients’d whoah strict rules ’bout barterin’ with us. They’d not barter gear Smarter’n anythin’ ’ready on Big I. For ‘zample, after Pa was killed, a gath’rin’ agreed to build a garrison by Abel’s Dwellin’ to protect the Muliwai Trail what was our main track from Sloosha’s Crossin’ into our Nine Valleys. Abbess asked the Prescients for spesh weapons to defend us from Kona. The Prescients said nay. Abbess begged ’em, more-less. They still said nay an’ that was that.

  ‘Nother rule was not to tell us nothin’ ’bout what lay b’yonder the ocean, not even Prescience Isle, ’cept for its name. Napes of Inouye Dwellin’ asked to earn passage on the Ship, an’ that was nearest I seen the Prescients all laugh. Their chief said nay an’ no un was s’prised. We never pushed these rules to bendin’ point, ’cos we reck’ned they did our Civ’lize an honor by barterin’ with us. Abbess’d always invite ’em to stay for a feastin’, but the chief’d always naysay politesome. Back to their boats they’d lug their bartered gear. An hour later the Ship’d be gone, eastly in spring, northly in fall.