The Dream Archipelago

by Christopher Priest

  She looked up, took it from him.

  ‘Dik, it’s beautiful! Did you carve it yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’ As she turned it in her hand he went and leaned against the side of her desk, as he had done before. ‘It’s a special softwood. Some of the trees here are like that. I found this piece in the forest. It was easy to carve.’

  ‘A hand holding a pen,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘It was the way the wood had grown. It looked a bit like that before I started. I’m sorry it’s crude. All I did really was smooth it down.’

  ‘But it’s exactly right! May I keep it?’ When he nodded she stood up and leaned across the desk. She kissed him on the cheek before he could turn away. ‘Dik, thank you!’

  He started to mumble about the inadequacy of the gift, delighted with her reaction but also remembering his repentant motives. Moylita moved her papers aside and set the carving on the desk in front of her.

  ‘I’ll treasure your gift,’ she said. ‘Well, I was going to give it to you later. But you can have a present too.’

  ‘You’re giving me a present?’ Dik said stupidly.

  ‘I wrote something for you last night. Just for you.’

  ‘What is it?’ Dik said, but at the same moment Moylita produced some sheets of white paper, clipped together in one corner.

  ‘I came up with a story yesterday, after you had left. It all happened rather suddenly so I don’t suppose it’s much good as a story, but it came about because of what we were discussing.’

  ‘May I see?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not yet. I want you to promise me something first – that you won’t read it until I’ve left the village.’

  ‘Why not?’ Dik said. He added with a flash of insight, ‘Is it about me?’

  ‘There’s someone in it who’s a bit like you. You might recognize one or two things he says.’

  ‘I don’t mind that!’ Dik said. ‘I’ll read it now.’

  He held out his hand.

  ‘No. I want to tell you about it first, so you know the score. If anyone found you with the manuscript you could get into trouble. You see, I’ve made the central character someone who is on the other side. Beyond the wall. If the burghers found the story, or one of your officers, they’d wonder what you were doing with it and where you got it from. Are you sure you still want it?’

  ‘Of course I do! I can easily hide it – our kit is never searched.’

  ‘All right. But there’s something else. The story isn’t set here, up in the mountains. It’s not even in Faiandland. I’ve set it in the south. Do you know where I mean?’

  ‘Jethra,’ Dik said, guessing.

  ‘No, on the southern continent. On the other side of the Midway Sea.’

  ‘You mean beyond the Dream Archipelago!’ Dik said, remembering the fantastic scenes she had written in the novel, the endless island-hopping of the restless characters, the sultry heat, the exotic colours, the displaced main players of the story forever seeking a sense of identity. In reality few could escape to the neutral islands except in their minds.

  ‘Well, yes. I have to warn you because although to you and me it’s simply a story, not everyone understands how fiction works. If some of the burghers saw this they might assume you were a spy.’

  Dik said, not understanding what she meant, in spite of his pretence that he did, ‘Moylita, how can—?’

  ‘Listen, Dik. Before I came to the village there were rumours in Jethra. I’ve got several friends who … well, they don’t completely agree with the government. They’ve maintained contacts with like-minded people in other countries, including in the Federation. They believe there are secret negotiations going on with our side. It’s complicated. I don’t know how much of it to believe, or where to begin telling you. But there’s an economic dimension to the war. There always is, but in this case everything is being concealed by a cloud of ideology. Some people in industry are making fortunes out of it. Not only here, but in the Federation too. It’s a real war, and those air-raids did a lot of damage and killed hundreds of people. I don’t think that was expected. What they’ve been negotiating since is in effect an attempt to find ways of keeping the war going without actually destroying each other’s country. My friends think the war will be relocated, down to the south, so it can be fought out where there are no cities.’

  ‘But the Dream Archipelago is neutral.’

  ‘They want to go to the land beyond. The southern polar continent.’

  ‘There have been a lot of stories set there,’ Dik said.

  ‘Yes, but not about the war, about this war. My story’s about someone like you but I can’t say as much, can’t spell it out literally.’

  Moylita fell silent and peered intently at Dik’s face, seeming to study it for his reaction.

  ‘Would you still like to have the story?’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, because although he hadn’t fully understood what she had told him, it was enough that she had written it for him.

  ‘Very well. Look after it, and don’t read it for another couple of days. Is that a promise?’

  He nodded emphatically, so after another thoughtful look Moylita placed the thin sheaf of papers on the desk and smoothed them with her hand. The words were typed or printed, Dik noticed with some surprise. From what he had seen yesterday he had assumed that she did her writing by hand. She scrawled her signature on the top sheet, then folded them all in half and passed them over.

  Dik took the story. As if the paper was the skin taken from a living animal it seemed that every fibre was alive and throbbing with organic chemistry. He could feel the words indented on the paper and he ran his fingertips across the reverse side of the bottom sheet, like a blind man feeling for meaning.

  ‘Moylita … will you tell me about the symbolism in the story?’

  She did not answer straight away. Then, ‘Why do you ask?’

  He was thinking about the way she had interpreted the novel the day before. She had made him understand it when before he had only loved it. He wanted her to explain the story, fearing he might never see her again.

  ‘Because I might not understand it unless you do,’ he said.

  ‘It’s simple. I didn’t have time to mess around with it and complicate it. It’s about a soldier who reads a novel and he later becomes a poet. Nothing symbolic at all.’

  ‘What I meant—’

  ’Because yesterday we were talking about how symbolic walls could be?’

  ‘Yes. The wall in this story. Is it the one on the frontier?’

  ‘It’s a wall,’ Moylita said. ‘It’s built of bricks and concrete and it’s just a wall.’

  ‘And the soldier, this … poet, he climbs it?’

  ‘Dik, I think you should wait until you’ve read the story. I don’t want you to think it has meanings that aren’t there.’

  ‘But he does climb the wall, doesn’t he?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because—’

  The door opened without warning, and Clerk Tradayn came quickly into the room. He slammed the door behind him.

  Because of what you said, Dik thought, his intuition fading away.

  The burgher said, ‘Mrs Kaine, would you—?’ He saw Dik, who had moved back against the wall and turned at once towards him. ‘What are you doing here, Constable?’

  ‘I told you, sir … I have a pass.’

  Dik reached into his pocket, groping for it.

  ‘I’ve seen the pass. What are you doing here, in this room?’

  Moylita said, ‘He has every right to be here, Seignior Tradayn. While I’m writer in residence, the troops—’

  ’The Border Police are under the command of the Council, Mrs Kaine. Passes issued by non-commissioned officers have to be approved by me.’

  ‘Then you can approve it now. Have you got it there, Dik?’

  While they spoke Dik had found the slip of paper, and he held it out towards the burgh
er. He had never heard anyone ever speak back to a burgher and it was awe-inspiring to see the confidence with which Moylita did it.

  Clerk Tradayn took no notice of him or his pass but went to Moylita’s desk and leaned across it, resting his plump, liver-spotted hands on the edge.

  ‘I want to see what you’ve been writing,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve seen the play. I haven’t written any more of it since yesterday.’

  ‘Your computer printer was heard being used late into the night.’

  ‘So what? I’m a writer. I was revising what I’ve done.’

  ‘Let me see it.’

  ‘Why are you spying on me, Seignior?’

  ‘Mrs Kaine, so long as you are at the frontier you are subject to military law. Let me see what you have been writing.’

  She scooped up all the loose papers on her desk and thrust them at him. Meanwhile, Dik, still standing with his back pressed against the wall, could feel her typescript hanging conspicuously in his hand. He moved his arm slowly, trying to get the papers under his greatcoat.

  ‘Not that, Mrs Kaine. I want to see what you were printing. What are you holding, Constable?’

  ‘The pass, sir.’ Dik held out his other hand.

  ‘Give it to me.’

  Dik glanced helplessly at Moylita but she was staring impassively at the burgher. Reluctantly, Dik held out the pass, but Clerk Tradayn reached behind him and snatched the typescript from his other hand. He moved to the window, and with a shake of his hand unfolded it.

  ‘The Negation,’ he said. ‘Is that your title, Mrs Kaine?’

  Moylita’s gaze did not waver.

  ‘Why did you call it that, Mrs Kaine? It seems like a strange title for a story, if I may say so.’

  ‘You may say what you like, since you clearly have no sympathy with literature. It’s a counterpoint to a novel I wrote and published before the war. The novel was called The Aff—’

  ’Yes, we know all about your novel, thank you very much. I am more concerned with this.’

  He scanned the first page then began to read aloud from the top, adopting a scornful, mocking voice.

  ‘“It no longer mattered which side had first breached the treaty that prohibited the use of sense gases. They had been illegally available and in use for so long that they were no longer questioned. Nor did it matter who it was who manufactured and sold the gases. To the ordinary soldier, nothing mattered. Nothing he saw, felt, heard could be trusted. His sense of vision, touch and sound had been permanently” …’

  The burgher stopped reading, then leafed quickly through the remainder of the pages, scanning the words.

  ‘Have you been reading this, Constable?’

  ‘No, sir—’

  ’The boy knows nothing about it. I was lending it to him. I wrote it several years ago.’

  ‘Or several hours ago.’ Seignior Tradayn squinted again at the first page, his small, deep-set eyes moving quickly from side to side. He held out the typescript for Moylita to see. ‘Is this your signature?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ Tradayn stuffed the typescript into an inner pocket.

  ‘Constable, return to your quarters at once.’

  ‘Sir, I—’

  ’Quarters, Constable!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Dik shuffled hesitantly towards the door, looking back at Moylita. He knew that if there was any hope of retrieving the situation it must lie with her. In spite of the burgher’s imperious manner he was obviously somewhat overawed by her. But Moylita said and did nothing, returning Dik’s desperate gaze with eyes that were steady and calm. He wondered if it was some kind of message for him but if it was it was so subtle that it was lost on him.

  When he reached the cold air outside he started to walk down the warmway, but halted when he had gone only a few paces. He listened, but could hear nothing coming from inside the sawmill. He hesitated a few seconds longer then left the slippery warmway and ran across the snowfield towards the nearest trees. Here the snow had drifted deeply and he jumped down and hid behind the broad trunk of a fir. He had only a few minutes to wait. Moylita and the burgher soon appeared, walking together down the warmway towards the village. Moylita was in front of the man, walking with her head bowed, but other than that there was nothing submissive in her manner. She could as easily have been watching where she stepped on the smooth metal surface of the warmway. She was carrying under her arm the carving Dik had given her.

  *

  Dik hid in his barracks room for the remainder of the day, waiting for what he assumed would be the inevitable summons to Clerk Tradayn’s office in the Civic Hall. It seemed nothing in life was inevitable, though, for the summons never arrived. By nightfall, Dik was more in terror of the uncertainty than he would have been of punishment. At least punishment would signal an end of some kind.

  The story he had not been able to read – his story, the one she had written for him – seemed, for reasons he still did not fully comprehend, as potentially explosive as one of the enemy’s flat-cake mines. Moylita had warned him herself, and the burgher’s reaction to it had confirmed it. She would be charged with spying and treason, and later imprisoned or exiled or shot.

  The fact that something of the same might also happen to him was of less importance.

  The constant nagging fears and worries sent him into the village streets as soon as evening mess was complete. He had eaten virtually nothing, sitting in morbid silence as the other lads had shouted and laughed.

  The night was clear but a strong wind was up, whipping the powdery snow from the roofs and sills and sending it stinging into his face. Dik walked the length of the main street, hoping for a glimpse of Moylita or even some clue as to where she might be, but the street was empty and dark and the only lights showing came from windows high under the ornate carved gables. He returned slowly, halting when he came to the entrance to the Civic Hall. Here the tall windows showed light, gleaming in horizontal slits through the slats of the wooden louvred shutters. Hardly thinking what the consequences might be Dik went up to the main doors and walked inside. There was a long hallway, brightly lit by three gigantic chandeliers. The broad passage was wavering with heat from large hot-water radiators on all sides. At the far end of the hall, opposite him, were two more doors, made of wood and thick glass, ground or engraved with ornate curlicues and leaf designs. A ginger-haired Border Patrol caporal he had never seen before was standing before them.

  ‘What’s your business, Constable?’

  ‘I’m looking for Moylita Kaine, Caporal,’ Dik said, with simple truth.

  ‘Who’s that, then? What troop are you in?’

  ‘K Squad, Cap.’

  ‘Never seen you before. There’s no one in here you’re allowed to see. Just the burghers. Back to the barracks, or I’ll put you on a charge.’

  ‘Then I’ll see the burghers,’ Dik said. ‘Clerk Tradayn summoned me.’

  ‘The burghers are in Council session. They summoned no one. What’s your name and number, Constable?’

  Dik stared back silently, fearing the caporal’s petty authority over him: in normal patrol circumstances there would be practically none, but the caporal was wearing the ribbon with the diplomatic flash, giving him unknown exercise of power. Even so, Dik was still compelled by his anxieties about Moylita and he backed away, not wanting to be detained or diverted by this man who probably knew nothing of what had been going on.

  He returned to the breathtaking icy blast of the street, closing his ears and mind to the caporal’s commands, shouted behind him. Dik expected he would be followed, but once the main doors had swung closed behind him he could hear the shouts no more. He ran away, sliding on the frozen ground as he reached the corner of the building.

  Dik came into the tiny square which lay beyond. This was where the local farmers could come down from the hills to petition the burghers during the daytime, and where, before the war started, there had been weekly livestock and produce markets. T
he square was divided up into a number of pens where the tithe livestock would be kept while the petitions were heard. Dik vaulted over two of the metal fences, then paused to listen. There was no sound of pursuit.

  He looked up at the shuttered windows of the Civic Hall, behind which he knew was the council chamber. Dik climbed on one of the metal barriers forming the pens and shuffled forward until his hands were resting on the ice-crusted brick of the building. He raised himself as high as possible and tried to peer through the shutter into the chamber. Although the outer shutters were made of flat planks of wood, with several carved apertures through which he could see, the inner shutters were again louvred and all Dik could see was a small part of the ceiling, richly ornamented with plaster mouldings, and delicate, pastel-coloured renderings of religious tableaux.

  He could hear the indistinct sound of voices from within. After several unsuccessful attempts to see what was going on Dik discovered he could swing the outer shutter to one side. He pressed his ear against the cold glass.

  At once he heard the sound of a woman’s voice, Moylita’s voice. She was speaking loudly and rapidly, and her voice was pitched high with anger, or fear. A man said something Dik could not catch, then Moylita shouted, ‘You know the sense gases are in use! Why don’t you admit it?’ Several voices were raised against her and she was shouting again. A man said, ‘… we’ve found out who your friends are!’ Then Dik heard Moylita shout back, ‘The young men out there have a right to know!’ And, ‘… drive most of them mad! It’s illegal, and you know it! Most of them are boys! Hardly out of school!’ The chamber was in uproar. Dik heard a series of loud thuds and the hollow sound of wood falling heavily against wood. Moylita started to scream.

  Then Dik was found by the caporal.

  He was dragged down from his precarious place against the sill of the window and he fell kicking and struggling into the drift of windswept snow at the bottom of the wall. The caporal cuffed him about the head until he quit struggling, then hauled him away. He was taken to an unheated guardroom by the entrance to the Civic Hall, where he was given another beating by the caporal. This one, out of the sight of anyone who might have passed the building, was efficient and painful. Two platoon serjeants later arrived, and they too gave him a thorough kicking.