by Paul Beatty
‘Wow, that looks like trouble. The Head of the Council doesn’t talk to an Apprentice without a good reason,’ said Susan.
Francesca watched. They had sat down. Peter was speaking to Anya seriously, moving his hands for emphasis. Occasionally, Anya nodded in response. When the conversation was over, Peter laid his hand on her shoulder and then he left. Anya came back to the group.
‘Well?’ said Jeremy, impatient that Anya had not immediately told them what had been said. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said he’d been told what had happened by one of Gatekeepers. He’d found out that Jonathan couldn’t swim. He told me off for being so foolish and said that I should make amends,’ she sighed. ‘Since I’m such a good swimmer he thinks I should teach Jonathan to swim as a way of saying sorry. He said it would be a service to the community as well, since we could not afford to have any of the Apprentices unable to swim if the river flooded.’
‘And what did you say?’ said Christine.
‘What do you think I said? Yes, of course. After all, you don’t refuse a direct request from the Head of the Council, do you?’
‘Shame, though,’ said Caleb. ‘That will eat up any spare time you have after work. You’d better hope he’s a quick learner.’
Chapter 2
I watched the prow of the boat nose its way up the river on the late afternoon breeze. The sail was reefed to about a third of its capacity and despite the slow speed there was still enough way through the water to make her responsive to small movements of the tiller. The quiet was broken only by the warning cries of occasional water birds who flew off, disturbed by the boat’s bow-wave. A few metres away a cormorant took to the wing and skimmed the surface of the river with its powerful stabbing wingbeat. Then it landed on a nearby quay.
Once, a long time ago, the buildings, wharfs and jetties all along the bank would have constituted an extensive complex of docks. Thousands of people would have unloaded the goods brought by the boats that would have tied up here. Now the jetties were derelict and breaking up, the wharfs more rubble than safe anchorage and the buildings eyeless and empty shells. All that was left of the boats were occasional half-submerged ribs of metal or wood clawing clear of the mud. No serviceable craft were evident, nor were there any people to be seen.
Ahead, the channel opened out into a rectangular basin, sealed at the far end by a set of leaking lock gates. These were spanned by a rusting, semi-circular metal bridge. But the dock walls were in better condition than many I had already passed coming upstream. The water in the basin was black and still, giving every indication of being deep and largely clear of obstructions. To the right of the lock gates a set of servicable stone steps came down into the water. I eased the boat forward and swung the tiller at the last moment so that she came parallel with them. As forward motion was lost, the tiller went light and I let it go to swing impotently. I dropped the rear anchor over the side and ran down to the prow to drop the second one. As I passed the mast I unhooked the rig draw-rope so that the sail collapsed in an orderly fashion. With no way of catching the wind, and anchors secured at each end, she was going nowhere.
The next step was to put out some bait. Taking my time I pushed the gangplank out onto the steps and transferred some of my wares from the hold to the bank: bolts of coloured cloth, tinned food, woollen goods and salted meat. Then I collected wood from the nearest ruined warehouse and lit a fire. When it was going well I put on a kettle to boil and while it was heating erected a spit. Then I sat and waited. Any people there might be would eye me up from the cover of the buildings.
Gradually it fell dark and the fire turned to a bed of hot, burning embers; time to put the spit to work. I brought a haunch of fresh venison up from the boat and mounted it over the fire. In a few minutes the skin of the meat began to brown and fat dripped sending up occasional flares of oily flames and jets of smoke. The meat smelled wonderfully appetising.
Time was running out for the Scavenger Gangs. The last three I had found were starving and I suspected at least one of having gone cannibal. If there was still a group in this city, God knew when they could have last smelled fresh meat cooking.
Just in case they got the impression that I might be easy to kill and rob, I brought my weapons from the boat and sat in the firelight to ensure that any watchers would be able see them. I oiled the crossbow and fettled some new bolts, casting some new heads from my supplies of lead and feathering half a dozen prepared shafts. Most symbolic of all, I cleaned my long spear, making sure the metal tip reflected the firelight.
No one really knew how or when it had happened, probably soon after supplies of firearms had run out, but in practically every Scavenger Gang, the spear had become the symbol of power and authority.
The moon rose. It was near midnight and I was beginning to believe I was on my own, when a single mother with a child in her arms came out from the shadows of a building on the other side of the dock and slowly made her way across the bridge. When she got to the firelight I could see that she was thin and the bones on her neck pushed painfully against stretched, pallid skin. Both she and the child had the listless, vacant expression of the starving. Wordlessly she held out her hand. I cut a slice of meat from the haunch and gave it to her. She shredded it with her teeth and the child grabbed at what it could get with flailing, bony hands
Then they were all around me. They all had the same thin skin and empty eyes. I fed them all, and when the haunch was consumed, gave them salted meat, hardbread and dried fruit. Finally, the guards arrived. They were well fed, though that did not stop them taking my food. When that was gone, they dispersed the crowd and issued the invitation I had been waiting for.
‘Follow us Ostlander. Boss want see yen.’
‘What about my boat?’
‘We set sentry.’
‘Can I bring my bow?’
‘No weapons.’
I locked the cabin and hold, putting inside most of the goods left on the bank. Then I followed them towards the city, taking only a few samples of my wares.
The road from the basin soon joined a broader thoroughfare. Some of the buildings that lined this route had collapsed and we had to climb over or go round the wreckage. Some were still standing but their windows were empty, and in places metal bars stuck out of crumbling concrete pillars. In some places all that was left were piles of charred brick and half-burnt timbers, the result of fires left to run their course.
After about a kilometre our path began to climb gently. Then we reached a high masonry wall dominated by the bulk of a large, elaborate structure. The sun was rising and I could catch reflections which suggested that at least some of its high windows still had glass. The path crossed the wall and climbed up to a courtyard in front of impressive main doors. There was a small latch-gate with a guard who stepped aside as we approached.
The interior was gloomy, lit only by the occasional torch burning in a wall-mounted metal bracket. Despite this, as soon as my eyes adjusted, it was surprising how much detail I could make out. My impression from the outside had been correct. There was still glass in the upper parts of the windows, some of it coloured in intricate designs. Some had figures and scenes painted on it. In the lower parts of the windows, some attempts had been made to replace broken panes, once someone had had time for something more than crude, basic survival.
My ‘guard of honour’ led me across the hall between twin lines of stone pillars that supported the roof. Set into the main wall opposite was an impressive doorway and stone steps that went up into a large, well-lit, circular room. This room had a tree-like central pillar whose branches became its roof-beams. The room had been designed as a meeting place and this chief, whoever he was, had the sense to use it as such.
‘Bide here,’ said one of the guards. ‘He know yen coming.’
I sat in one of the stone seats arranged around the edge of the room. Each had a niche behind it so that a person could sit back and get some shelter from any draught. I wrapped myself
in my cloak and waited.
I could remember what it had been like when I was a boy in a Scavenger Gang. How many desperate days had I spent picking through the rubble of a city not so different to this? I had been good at scavenging and seemed to have an instinct for finding food where others could not. But what I found was not confined to food. I turned up metal and plastic objects. When I broke them open some had mazes of metal lines inside, with small black and silver objects stuck to them. Others had cogs and things that appeared once to have revolved. In the end it was one of those things that changed everything for me.
One day I came across a white plastic box with a silver rod in its top. I had pulled this rod out, shaken the box and then poked at the small plates set into its front. When I pressed a bright orange plate, a small red light had appeared and a hissing sound came from the box. It didn’t last long, fading away slowly and finally disappearing. In frustration I smashed it against a stone and went on scavenging.
But try as I might I couldn’t get the picture of that box out of my head. I knew it had been made by the City builders but what was it? I began questioning the older scavengers to see if they knew anything about such things but what they told me sounded like fairy stories and made no sense. Then one day I found several sheets of paper held together with small metal clips so that you could turn the sheets over and go from one to the next.
Paper was commonplace in the ruins, we prized it for starting fires. Some of the paper we found had faded markings on it but these sheets were different. There were coloured pictures of men and women on them. I tucked the papers away in my coat before anyone could notice and take them from me.
When I got back to the camp I went to see the oldest scavenger. The look in his eyes when I showed him the paper is engraved in my memory.
‘What it?’
‘Writin’, Tobias, writin’. If you could read these marks they’d tell you about the people in the pictures.’
‘Can you read?’
‘No. Me only know letter-sounds. Yem small marks am letters. There an ay, there a bee, and there an eff,’ he traced them with his finger. ‘Each one has its own sound.’
‘Why yen in groups?’
‘Yem words. Speak letter-sounds in group, yen hear the word speak.’
‘You teach me letter-sounds?’ He looked dubious. ‘I’ll share my scavengin wi yen.’ The old man had not needed any more inducement.
‘Raise yen feet Ostlander!’ shouted a harsh voice. I opened my eyes. It was a guard with a spear pointed at my throat. ‘On yem feet,’ he repeated. ‘Nonuther chance.’
I got up unsteadily. ‘Sorry, I nodded off,’ I said.
‘Make it no habit,’ said a much softer, more calculating, voice.
On the other side of the room a group of four people had appeared. The speaker was a tall young man dressed in a leather jacket and boots. Around his neck there was a clean white scarf. He wore a blue shirt. Both caught the light from the torches. I’d never seen it before but knew they must be silk. A Scavenger Gang leader with a taste in silk was a novelty, a Scavenger Gang chief who recognised silk even more so.
To the right of the man was a tall woman dressed similarly in good quality leathers. Her face was sharp, proud and beautiful, hair long and golden against the black of her jacket. Memory connects directly with the circulation and the nerves. The heart leaps and the guts churn before the mind has focused on why.
Behind her were two guards. At first I dismissed them. No surprises there, I thought. They were of the same demeanour as the sullen lot that had brought me up from the boat. Even their clothes were of the identical rough fabric. But I was wrong. What they carried made them fascinating. Both had rifles on their shoulders and wore bullet-belts outside their coats. I had never come across serviceable firearms but these looked well-oiled and in good repair. The question was, were they for show or, impossibly, could they work?
The young man spoke. ‘Me Robert. Me men tell me yen have a ship at the quay. Yen trader?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’ The arcane title had always flattered these chiefs in the past so I stuck to the well-tried formula, remembering to move my accent into scavenger mode as I spoke.
‘What trade-yen?’
‘Meat, grain, tins, cloth. Anything me find or hunt.’
‘Yen hunt the meat you cook on the quay?’
‘Plenty more where it come from.’
‘Why not me just kill yen and rob yen ship?’
‘Then me never come back with more. Me happy to make bargain if you give me yat me want.’
I saw Robert hesitate. He knows they can’t last much longer, I thought.
‘Yen eye state me people. What yen think we have that me possibly have to trade?’
‘Perhaps more than you think. Me don’t just trade food and cloth. Me interested in City builder stuff.’
‘How be that?’ On the surface the voice was mocking but behind it there was a keen interest.
‘Yen heard a books?’ As I said this I noticed that the woman, who had not paid much attention until now, raised her head slightly and started to concentrate on what was being said. ‘Yat a book?’ Immediately she touched his arm, leaned over and spoke in his ear. ‘Me woman say she know.’
I tested her. ‘Yen what yey, me Lady?’
‘They are the stories of the City builders, collections of writings, like this.’ From inside her jacket she took out a small green volume. It was battered but the leather of its cover and the spine were embossed with a complex pattern to which gold leaf still clung. There was also gold on the edges of the pages. She handed it to me.
I looked at the spine, Bloomfield’s Poetical Works. Then opening the book I thumbed through the early pages, stopped at the first poem and read aloud the first stanza.
Though Winter’s frowns had damped the beaming eye,
Though twelve successive Summers heav’d the sigh,
The unaccomplished wish was still the same;
Till May in new and sudden glories came!
I closed the book and handed it back to her. As I did so I touched her fingers and from the deep, irrational side of my brain came the thought that I was touching fingers I had once loved. ‘A fine volume, my Lady.’
‘Yat you seek as trade?’ said an incredulous Robert.
‘Yes and other rare City builder stuff. In this once great city, me sure you have much to trade wi me.’
The Lady had a small collection of books, two more volumes of poetry, though none as finely bound as the Bloomfield, and three novels of which only one was complete. She said she had found them when scavenging as a girl, and took me to the spot. It was the ruin of a big stone and brick building near to the city centre. All that was left of the building was one external wall, but from this and some clues in the rest of the rubble, I was able to work out what I thought was its general ground plan. Vitally, there was no evidence that the building had been burned, rather it seemed to have collapsed from neglect and natural damage.
‘If there’s anything left it will be underground,’ I told her.
‘What are you hoping to find?’
‘I think the building was where there was a store of books, what the Builders called a library. All the books above ground were destroyed years before you found your poetry book but I think libraries had storerooms below ground. If there’s one here then there may be dozens of books preserved in it.’ I saw her green eyes flash and her pale cheeks flush at the thought of the books.
‘Have you ever found a library before?’
‘Two or three times.’
‘What was it like? How many books did you find?’
‘About a hundred in total.’ I was getting used to the confusion between the real woman and the woman of my memory but it could still catch me out. Objectively she was the most beautiful woman I had seen in years, full of life and vitality. Better still she could read. But that was not the real fascination of her. I imagined tracing the tip of my finger down her breast to a perfectly
formed nipple, all the time reading Shakespeare to her. Would the body beneath the clothes resemble the memory as accurately as the face and the gestures? If I was to fall in love, would it be with the present or the past? Then I pulled my mind away, experience had shown that desire was dangerous where I was concerned. In the past I had got into trouble too easily. Too often forays had developed into frantic pursuits by cuckolded husbands or outraged mobs. Scavenger Gangs, though sexually promiscuous between themselves, could be very puritan when it came to seduction by Ostlander.
‘How did you learn to read?’ I asked.
‘My mother taught me. She was the old chief’s mistress, as I am Robert’s.’
‘What happened to your father and mother?’
‘Robert killed them when he took over,’ she said calmly. ‘He was the chief of a small gang on the outskirts of the city. They were not doing well, then Robert made his discovery. In desperation, they’d started scavenging out into the countryside and they came across a house with a securely locked cellar. It raised Robert’s curiosity. After a bit they managed to open the door. Inside they found a case full of working hunting rifles and ammunition to match.’
‘So those weapons his bodyguard have aren’t just for show?’
She shook her head. ‘They work well enough. He used the rifles to attack us, killed my father’s entire guard in an afternoon, captured my father and mother, made him watch as he raped her. Then he beheaded them both. He took me as his prize.’
I knew such things happened. Changes of authority in the Gangs were usually violent but this was a particularly brutal story. ‘And he made you watch?’
She nodded her head. ‘Don’t fret for me Tobias. As a trader you know how it works among Scavengers. At least this way I don’t starve. How do we find the books?’
