by Mark Martin
I’M WITH THE BEARS
First published by Verso 2011
The collection © Verso 2011
The contributions © The contributors 2011
“The Siskiyou, July 1989,” from A Friend of the Earth by T. Coraghessan Boyle
© T. Coraghessan Boyle 2000. Used by permission of Viking Penguin, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Extract from How the Dead Dream: A Novel by Lydia Millet © Lydia Millet 2008. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.
Extract from Sixty Days and Counting by Kim Stanley Robinson © Kim Stanley
Robinson 2007. Used in the US by permission of Bantam Books, a division of Random
House, Inc. Reprinted in the UK by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
© Kim Stanley Robinson 2007.
“Diary of an Interesting Year” by Helen Simpson © Helen Simpson 2010.
Reprinted by permission of Rogers, Coleridge and White. Published in In-Flight Entertainment by Helen Simpson (Jonathan Cape 2010 [UK]; Vintage 2011 [US]).
“Time Capsule Found on the Dead Planet” reproduced with permission of Curtis Brown Group Ltd., London, on behalf of Margaret Atwood © Margaret Atwood 2009.
Translation “Arzèstula” © Romy Clark 2011
“Arzèstula” © Wu Ming 1 2009
Published by arrangement with Agenzia Letteraria Roberto Santachiara
Partial or total reproduction of this short story, in electronic form or otherwise, is consented to for non-commercial purposes, provided that the original copyright notice and this notice are included and the publisher and source are clearly acknowledged.
All rights reserved
The moral rights of the authors have been asserted
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John Muir said that if it ever came to a war between the races, he would side with the bears. That day has arrived.
—Dave Foreman,
“Strategic Monkeywrenching”
CONTENTS
Introduction by Bill McKibben
The Siskiyou, July 1989
T. C. Boyle
Zoogoing
Lydia Millet
Sacred Space
Kim Stanley Robinson
Hermie
Nathaniel Rich
Diary of an Interesting Year
Helen Simpson
Newromancer
Toby Litt
The Siphoners
David Mitchell
Arzèstula
Wu Ming1
The Tamarisk Hunter
Paolo Bacigalupi
Time Capsule Found on the Dead Planet
Margaret Atwood
Contributors
INTRODUCTION
by Bill McKibben
The problem with writing about global warming may be that the truth is larger than usually makes for good fiction. It’s pure pulp. Consider the recent past—consider a single year, 2010. It’s the warmest year on record (though not, of course, for long). Nineteen nations set new all-time temperature records—in Pakistan, in June, the all-time mark for the entire continent of Asia fell, when the mercury hit 128 degrees.
And heat like that has Technicolor effects. In the Arctic, ice melt galloped along—both the northwest and northeast passages were open for the first time in history, and there was an impromptu yacht race through terrain where even a decade before no one had ever imagined humans being able to travel. In Russia, the heat rose like some inverse of Dr. Zhivago; instead of the Ice Palace, huge walls of flame as the peat bogs around Moscow burned without cease. The temperature had never hit a hundred degrees in the capital but it topped that mark eight times in August; the drought was so deep that the Kremlin stopped all grain exports to the rest of the world, pushing the price of wheat through the roof (and contributing at least a portion to the unrest that gripped countries like Tunisia and Egypt).
And in Pakistan? Oh good God. Here’s how it works: warm air holds more water vapor than cold, so the atmosphere is about four percent moister than it was forty years ago. This loads the dice for deluge and downpour, and in late July of 2010 Pakistan threw snake eyes: in the mountains, which in a normal year average three feet of rain, twelve feet fell in a week. The Indus swelled till it covered a quarter of the nation, an area the size of Britain. It was the first of at least six mega-floods that stretched into the early months of 2011, and some were even more dramatic—in Queensland, Australia a landscape larger than France and Germany was inundated. But Pakistan—oh good God. Six months later four million people were still homeless. And of course they were people who had done literally nothing to cause this cataclysm—they hadn’t been pouring carbon into the atmosphere.
That’s our job—that’s what we do in the West. And it’s why a book like this is of such potential importance. Somehow we have to summon up the courage to act. Because here’s the math: everything that I described above, all the carnage of 2010, comes with one degree of global warming. It’s a taste of the early stages of global warming—but only the early stages. Scientists tell us with robust consensus that unless we act very soon (much sooner than is economically or politically convenient) that one degree will be four or five degrees before the century is out. If one degree melts the Arctic, put your poetic license to work. Your imagination is the limit; as one NASA research team put it in 2008, unless we reduce the amount of carbon in the atmosphere quickly, we can’t have a planet “compatible with the one on which civilization developed and to which life on earth is adapted.”
So far our efforts to do anything substantial about that truth have been thwarted, completely. The fossil fuel industry has won every single battle, usually with some version of this argument: doing anything about climate change will cause short-term economic pain. And since we can understand and imagine the anguish of short-term economic pain (think of the ink spilled, and with good reason, over the recession of the last few years) we make it a priority. Since global warming seems, almost by definition, hard to imagine (after all, it’s never happened before) it gets short shrift. Until that changes, we’ll take none of the actions that might ameliorate our plight.
And here science can take us only so far. The scientists have done their job—they’ve issued every possible warning, flashed every red light. Now it’s time for the rest of us—for the economists, the psychologists, the theologians. And the artists, whose role is to help us understand what things feel like. These stories are an impressive start in that direction, and one shouldn’t forget for a moment that they represent a real departure from most literary work. Instead of being consumed with the relationships between people, they increasingly take on the relationship between people and everything else. On a stable planet, nature provided a background against which the human drama took place; on the unstable planet we’re creating, the background becomes the highest drama. So many of these pieces conjure up that world, and a tough world it is, not the familiar one we’ve loved without even thinking of it. Those are jolts we dearly need; this is serious business we’re involved in.
But to shift, of co
urse, the human heart requires not just fear but hope. And so one task, perhaps, of our letters in this emergency is to help provide that sense of what life might be like in the world past fossil fuel. Not just a bleak sense, but a bright one; a glimpse of what a future might look like where community begins to replace consumption. It’s not impossibly farfetched—even in the desperate last decade, the number of farms in the U.S. rose for the first time in a century and a half, as people discovered the farmer’s market, and as a new generation started to learn the particular pleasures and responsibilities that most of mankind once knew on a daily basis; in that sense, we’ve had writers like Wendell Berry who have been working this ground for a long time.
Of course, in the end, the job of writers is not to push us in some particular direction; it’s to illuminate. To bear witness. With climate change we face the biggest single thing human beings have ever done, so big as to be almost invisible. By pointing it out, the world’s writers help pose the question for the final exam humanity now faces: was the big brain adaptive, or not? Clearly it can get us into considerable hot water. In the next few years we’ll find out whether that big brain, hopefully attached to a big heart, can get us out.
2011
THE SISKIYOU, JULY 1989
by T. C. Boyle
This is the way it begins, on a summer night so crammed with stars the Milky Way looks like a white plastic sack strung out across the roof of the sky. No moon, though—that wouldn’t do at all. And no sound, but for the discontinuous trickle of water, the muted patter of cheap tennis sneakers on the ghostly surface of the road and the sustained applause of the crickets. It’s a dirt road, a logging road, in fact, but Tyrone Tierwater wouldn’t want to call it a road. He’d call it a scar, a gash, an open wound in the body corporal of the forest. But for the sake of convenience, let’s identify it as a road. In daylight, trucks pound over it, big D7 Cats, loaders, wood-chippers. It’s a road. And he’s on it.
He’s moving along purposively, all but invisible in the abyss of shadow beneath the big Douglas firs. If your eyes were adjusted to the dark and you looked closely enough, you might detect his three companions, the night disarranging itself ever so casually as they pass: now you see them, now you don’t. All four are dressed identically, in cheap tennis sneakers blackened with shoe polish, two pairs of socks, black tees and sweatshirts, and, of course, the black watchcaps. Where would they be without them?
Tierwater had wanted to go further, the whole nine yards, stripes of greasepaint down the bridge of the nose, slick rays of it fanning out across their cheekbones—or better yet, blackface—but Andrea talked him out of it. She can talk him out of anything, because she’s more rational than he, more aggressive, because she has a better command of the language and eyes that bark after weakness like hounds—but then she doesn’t have half his capacity for paranoia, neurotic display, pessimism or despair. Things can go wrong. They do. They will. He tried to tell her that, but she wouldn’t listen.
They were back in the motel room at the time, on the unfledged strip of the comatose town of Grants Pass, Oregon, where they were registered under the name of Mr. and Mrs. James Watt. He was nervous—butterflies in the stomach, termites in the head—nervous and angry. Angry at the loggers, Oregon, the motel room, her. Outside, three steps from the door, Teo’s Chevy Caprice (anonymous gray, with the artfully smudged plates) sat listing in its appointed slot. He came out of the bathroom with a crayon in one hand, a glittering, shrink-wrapped package of Halloween face paint in the other. There were doughnuts on the bed in a staved-in carton, paper coffee cups subsiding into the low fiberboard table. “Forget it, Ty,” she said. “I keep telling you, this is nothing, the first jab in a whole long bout. You think I’d take Sierra along if I wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was safe? It’s going to be a stroll in the park, it is.”
A moment evaporated. He looked at his daughter, but she had nothing to say, her head cocked in a way that indicated she was listening, but only reflexively. The TV said, “—and these magnificent creatures, their range shrinking, can no longer find the mast to sustain them, let alone the carrion.” He tried to smile, but the appropriate muscles didn’t seem to be working. He had misgivings about the whole business, especially when it came to Sierra—but as he stood there listening to the insects sizzle against the bug zapper outside the window, he understood that “misgivings” wasn’t exactly the word he wanted. Misgivings? How about crashing fears, terrors, night-sweats? The inability to swallow? A heart ground up like glass?
There were people out there who weren’t going to like what the four of them were planning to do to that road he didn’t want to call a road. Bosses, under-bosses, heavy machine operators, CEOs, power-lunchers, police, accountants. Not to mention all those good, decent, hard-working and terminally misguided timber families, the men in baseball caps and red suspenders, the women like tented houses, people who spent their spare time affixing loops of yellow ribbon to every shrub, tree, doorknob, mailbox and car antenna in every town up and down the coast. They had mortgages, trailers, bass boats, plans for the future, and the dirt-blasted bumpers of their pickups sported stickers that read Save a Skunk, Roadkill an Activist and Do You Work for a Living or Are You an Environmentalist? They were angry—born angry—and they didn’t much care about physical restraint, one way or the other. Talk about misgivings—his daughter is only thirteen years old, for all her Gothic drag and nose ring and the cape of hair that drapes her shoulders like an advertisement, and she’s never participated in an act of civil disobedience in her life, not even a daylit rally with minicams whirring and a supporting cast of thousands. “Come on,” he pleaded, “just under the eyes, then. To mask the glow.”
Andrea just shook her head. She looked good in black, he had to admit it, and the watchcap, riding low over her eyebrows, was a very sexy thing. They’d been married three months now, and everything about her was a novelty and a revelation, right down to the way she stepped into her jeans in the morning or pouted over a saucepan of ratatouille, a thin strip of green pepper disappearing between her lips while the steam rose witchily in her hair. “What if the police pull us over?” she said. “Ever think of that? What’re you going to say—‘The game really ran late tonight, officer’? Or ‘Gee, it was a great old-timey minstrel show—you should have been there.’ ” She was the one with the experience here—she was the organizer, the protestor, the activist—and she wasn’t giving an inch. “The trouble with you,” she said, running a finger under the lip of her cap, “is you’ve been watching too many movies.”
Maybe so. But you couldn’t really call the proposition relevant, not now, not here. This is the wilderness, or what’s left of it. The night is deep, the road intangible, the stars the feeblest mementos of the birth of the universe. There are nine galaxies out there for each person alive today, and each of those galaxies features 100 billion suns, give or take the odd billion, and yet he can barely see where he’s going, groping like a sleepwalker, one foot stabbing after the other. This is crazy, he’s thinking, this is trouble, like stumbling around in a cave waiting for the bottom to fall out. He’s wondering if the others are having as hard a time as he is, thinking vaguely about beta carotene supplements and night-vision goggles, when an owl chimes in somewhere ahead of them, a single wavering cry that says it has something strangled in its claws.
His daughter, detectable only through the rhythmic snap of her gum, asks in a theatrical whisper if that could be a spotted owl, “I mean hopefully, by any chance?”
He can’t see her face, the night a loose-fitting jacket, his mind ten miles up the road, and he answers before he can think: “Don’t I wish.”
Right beside him, from the void on his left, another voice weighs in, the voice of Andrea, his second wife, the wife who is not Sierra’s biological mother and so free to take on the role of her advocate in all disputes, tiffs, misunderstandings, misrepresentations and adventures gone wrong: “Give the kid a break, Ty.” And then, in a whisper so soft i
t’s like a feather floating down out of the night, “Sure it is, honey, that’s a spotted owl if ever I heard one.”
Tierwater keeps walking, the damp working odor of the nighttime woods in his nostrils, the taste of it on his tongue—mold transposed to another element, mold ascendant—but he’s furious suddenly. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like it at all. He knows it’s necessary, knows the woods are being raped and the world stripped right on down to the last twig and that somebody’s got to save it, but still he doesn’t like it. His voice, cracking with the strain, leaps out ahead of him: “Keep it down, will you? We’re supposed to be stealthy here—this is illegal, what we’re doing, remember? Christ, you’d think we were on a nature walk or something, And here’s where the woodpecker lives, and here the giant forest fern.”
A chastened silence, into which the crickets pour all their Orthopteran angst, but it can’t hold. One more voice enters the mix, an itch of the larynx emanating from the vacancy to his right. This is Teo, Teo Van Sparks, a.k.a. Liverhead. Eight years ago he was standing out on Rodeo Drive, in front of Sterling’s Fur Emporium, with a slab of calf’s liver sutured to his shaved head. He’d let the liver get ripe—three or four days or so, flies like a crown of thorns, maggots beginning to trail down his nose—and then he’d tear it off his head and lay it at the feet of a silvery old crone in chinchilla or a starlet parading through the door in white fox. Next day he’d be back again, with a fresh slab of meat. Now he’s a voice on the EF! circuit (Eco-Agitator, that’s what his card says), thirty-one years old, a weightlifter with the biceps, triceps, lats and abs to prove it, and there isn’t anything about the natural world he doesn’t know. At least not that he’ll admit. “Sorry, kids,” he says, “but by most estimates they’re down to less than five hundred breeding pairs in the whole range, from BC down to the Southern Sierra, so I doubt—”
“Fewer,” Andrea corrects, in her pedantic mode. She’s in charge here tonight, and she’s going to rein them all in, right on down to the finer points of English grammar and usage. If it was just a question of giving out instructions in a methodical, dispassionate voice, that would be one thing—but she’s so supercilious, so self-satisfied, cocky, bossy. He’s not sure he can take it. Not tonight.
