Some other time, she thought.
She looked up and saw Makrigga staring at her. She could tell that he was weighing the risks between the hunt and the main derrick. As she stood there, mouth agape, she was afraid that he might refuse to go out with her.
“I will meet you at the boat,” Makrigga finally said.
Sage shook off the stupor. Then she smiled. “I also have to tell Feret and maybe Hani. I have to fill up the boat. Don’t take too long. Nice seeing you, Melia.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” Melia said as Sage raced through the shack’s saloon doors.
On the surface, Sage indulged in the moment to breathe in the cool air. A fresh spray cascaded through the air and washed over her cheeks. She exhaled and assessed the surroundings.
Then she was struck in the head. “Ackh!”
An object ricocheted off her scalp and smacked into the ground. Part of the object’s peel split open.
“What is this?” She picked up the object and stared at it. Light green and a stocky crescent moon. It was a plantain. She had seen them in books and movies. But plantains did not grow on the Alpine. Plantains needed trees. Trees needed dirt. The Alpine, however, had neither plantains, nor trees, nor dirt—at least not enough dirt to support a banana tree. It had plants and vines, but no trees. This was entirely alien to the platform.
Sage held the fruit, looked around to see if anyone else noticed, if anyone else was walloped by a flying fruit, or if someone chucked this at her head. Suddenly weary of the possibility that she might get struck by a further barrage of projectile fruit, she shut her eyes and waved her hands above her to deflect anything that might come her way. The hand flapping caught the attention of a few other people. One whispered into the ear of another. But they didn’t pay much more attention to the games of a twenty year old girl that wasn’t part of their group, and went about their business. She tried to pass the moment off as though she knew what she was doing.
Where did this thing come from? Sage pondered its origins. The wind from the storm must have carried the fruit from elsewhere, perhaps from another platform, or a carrier, or some other vessel with enough of a surface to support some trees. Then it occurred to her that she was, indeed, holding a piece of fruit. A fruit!
Eat it fast before someone else sees it.
She smelled the skin, clumsily dug her fingernails into the fleshy peel, its fibers catching underneath her fingernails, and took a bite. She never had fruit before. Vegetables, seaweed and fish, but never fruit, not even from a can. This was something to remember. The outer fibers were tough and inedible. She nearly gagged as she pulled them out of her mouth. The texture from the fruit inside was different. It was soft, but still firm, the contents simultaneously sweet and starchy. Sage was profoundly pleased with the odd gift from the storm. She went out of her way to lock the experience in her memory. If there was one, then others must follow.
Plantains, she thought. Musa Paradisiaca. Very odd.
CHAPTER FIVE
NAAMAH TURPENTINE
Naamah could see Walter hum quietly to himself inside their pod. A crowd gathered to hear her speak. It was a tight fit in the narrow corridors, but she and Walter made it work.
So this is how we cope, she thought. Walter still didn't have any more food. She’d hoped that he would find at least one of the Whalers on his way back from the surface. Sycamore was bound to send them out to the open ocean to hunt, but apparently, Walter hadn’t seen any of them. No luck there. Now he was hungry and stuck in this chair with people pressed shoulder to shoulder behind him.
Naamah knew full well how agitated he must be. His whining would never end.
Most of the crowd was modestly dressed, a mix of people who lived in the pods, a few Roughnecks.
The Roughnecks were easily identifiable. Their clothing was thick and soaked, patched with seaweed. The materials faded and tore quickly and easily, but were replaceable. And they smelled like the ocean. It was the salt. It oozed out of their pores. It was a happy accident that most people just sat around waiting for something to happen. Their clothes didn't need to be very durable, so they always lasted longer than expected.
There were also more than a few Stragglers. They were despondent, people that gave up on the world around them. They didn’t have any function assigned to them from Sycamore Johnston. They didn’t have a pod to call their own. They occupied the corridors. Useless. Lying around in filth. And that was all they did, except when The Braided Woman distributed the algae rations, when they were more than happy to wait in line with the rest of the platform’s population.
Every time Naamah held these gatherings, she hoped to inspire at least one person to strive for more, to convince just one person that they could do better despite everything around them. Maybe one of them would become a Roughneck. Maybe one of them asked to delve deeper into her teachings.
When is Sycamore going to get that industrial washing machine in working order? Naamah wondered.
She was wrapped in a thin prayer shawl. The fabric itself was old. These services were not its intended use. Originally, it was an old bed sheet or a curtain carried from the continent. Naamah replenished the colors with dyes—greens, blues, and oranges—from whatever was available. The red came from lobster shells.
She maintained a steady pace to the service. She didn't need to rush since no one had anywhere to go. This service was actually the place most of these people went. That meant Walter had to sit in front for awhile, however much he didn’t want to be in front. Nonetheless, he reliably appeared front and center, not out of some obligation to her, but so that no one noticed when he shut his eyes for a few minutes. No one, that is, except Naamah herself. But she wouldn't harangue him about the occasional nap mid-service, so Walter had no reason to stop himself. As long as he didn’t pass out so hard that he fell over in the middle, Naamah didn’t mind. And she knew that he never would because he would never hear the end of it.
Naamah employed today’s sermon on many occasions. Walter would find it familiar. Even repetitive. Jonah and the Whale. How many times had she told that story to Walter? Over forty, she estimated. At least once a year. He’d once told her that it was ironic because of the whale, and now his best chance for a decent meal was a good outing from the whaling vessel.
It was the infamous Jonah who discovered that there are far better ways to die than in the belly of a whale. For example, the dark innards of this oil platform. Compared to this place, the belly of a whale seemed exotic.
Naamah recited: “Jonah wasn't willing to hold the lives of other shipmates in his stubborn hands, or to remain subservient to the belly of a whale. Jonah’s test of faith was inevitable, despite attempts at avoiding or escaping the realities and trials that stem from faith. Jonah, submerged in the belly of a whale, brought to depths never-before experienced by humankind, discovered that the avoidance, the cowardice, was not a real option, and that he would confront the outer world as needed. At the onset of his journey, Jonah needed courage. He also needed faith. But he lacked both. The combined effect of a biblical storm and the belly of a whale revealed to Jonah that the hand of God had no limits. And this gave him strength.
“Jonah experienced a transformation within his mind. Despite his better judgment and his need for self-preservation, he found the strength to do what was right, and do what was difficult, even if it was not the most obvious answer.”
Naamah's view on the story hadn't changed. “Giving up is never the solution. That failure denies the individual the opportunity to better themselves and the people around him. Jonah’s transformation demanded provocation as a fundamental prerequisite to change. This wasn't the first time that biblical intervention forced us to become better than what we once were. Just look at the flood of Noah and the fires of Sodom. We need this struggle to push ourselves and find out who we really are.”
Jonah wasn't Noah, Walter thought. Why does she keep making that analogy?
Throughout, the congregation int
errupted with questions, seeking answers and reassurances of comfort. At this point, most of the questions were more of the same.
“Are we, I mean, is mankind, worthy of life?”
“Why did all of Earth’s people suffer the Second Plagues, when we are supposed to be chosen?”
“What was the provocation?”
Naamah’s answers echoed the same grim realities with the same comforting tone that her people were accustomed to.
Some were especially inept. Those usually pulled Walter out of his stupor long enough to connect the voice with the face it came from. Hadn't these people been here this whole time? At least, that’s what he claimed.
“When will the fires recede?”
“Why is the equatorial sky red?”
“When will the fires recede?” When will the fires recede? How would Naamah know when the continental fires would stop? “What we are doing here isn't prophecy. And we simply don't have the data needed to predict such a thing, never mind hope that any estimate is even remotely accurate.”
They must know that we don't have access to satellites that can track surface temperatures. We also can't take samples from the continents because, well, they're on fire. That's why we are here in the first place.
Naamah could see the look on Walter’s face. He knew their limitations all too well.
Even if we pulled the data from some long ago satellite, we probably don't have anyone on the platform that could manipulate and analyze that information.
Buckminster might have a chance, but he probably knew just enough to identify where he would come up short. Sycamore had a girl who was supposed to be pretty good with numbers, but how often would she have to deal with something like geological data?
The High Fires, Naamah lamented. How much have they lost since the High Fires? And when would they die down? It was somewhere between a long time from now and a point where they wouldn’t benefit from it.
“If provocation comes first, then the survivors of the High Fires rose to the occasion, so why do we suffer still?”
Because our ancestors injected the Earth with terrible toxins, Naamah answered in her own head. They were going to keep on suffering until the Earth filtered all of that out. If Walter’s reading on geology was accurate, and she imagined that it was, they had a few hundred million years before the existing continents plunged into the Earth's mantle and the surface reshaped itself. That, at least, was an outside figure. But that wasn't what Naamah said aloud.
“But to believe so quick a fix is to ignore the test of faith, and it is a test that is not limited to the chosen people. Indeed, during the time of the Pharaohs, even the chosen people were called upon to set themselves apart with a marking of blood to evade the hand that took the first born. But there was no test of faith during the Second Plagues that brought the High Fires upon us. No one was set apart to be worthy of protection. We survive, truly, yes, we survive. So far, that is all that I or anyone can say. But we are a distant memory of what we once were. Remember the tashlich and to cast all sins into the depths of the sea, a task of forgiveness, and a battle with the fundamental forces in this world. Nature does not discriminate, and does not limit its will to any chosen peoples.”
“So we are still awaiting a transformation?”
“As Jonah discovered, transformation is not picky, and a test of faith can appear from the most unlikely circumstances. The moral of the story was straightforward: beware the Pinocchio in the belly of the monstrous whale. A kindling fire will unleash the whale’s biblical wrath.”
“At which point, the best thing to do is flee?”
“What do we do if we fall again? When there is nowhere left to go.”
“The test of faith is a journey, confront it or escape it, it is inevitable. Jonah fled the land by ship, a ship populated by doubting yet stout, God-fearing men of the ocean. He fled the ship by sea with sacrifice, and he escaped the whale with faith. If you lack the character to confront it when the time calls, then the inevitable will appear at a later time, increasing its potency.”
“Until we are swallowed by a thousand whales…”
A thousand whales! If only there were that many left on the planet.
“We never expected to relive the Second Plagues. No one could predict the coming of what is little more than ancient mythology. In hindsight, we know that we adjusted to even the most fantastic and preposterous circumstances. A thousand whales? Do not fear the possibility.” Naamah chuckled. “Within our own lifetimes, this planet lashed out with events of such ludicrous insanity as to mock reason and besmirch faith. Masters of the Universe, indeed. Do not doubt the impossible. Given enough time, there is no such thing.”
“So, why were these nightmares faced in our time?”
“It is the historical sin of acedia, which our ancestors most passionately violated, that I call to your attention this morning, and for which we are most guilty. Acedia was a sin that predates the migrations, predates the High Fires, before industrialization. Acedia is the general disregard for the state of our planet, taking and existing for its own sake, without love or stewardship. The Christian scholar Thomas Aquinas described it as the sorrow of the world. It was a place where despair and apathy percolated.”
“I don’t…what?”
Right over their heads.
“It is as a pot filled with fresh water and led to a slow boil, with harmless contained bubbles, hot to the touch but helpful in its own ways. Even a boiling pot can yield delicious pasta. We tolerated it, even when the pot overflowed. And when the pot lid fell off to the side, we did not return it to its proper place. The hot water caught the flames underneath, sent flares up and around its sides, and even then, we did not turn down the heat. The contents splattered, and even then we did not stop. Our ancestors watched the pot boil and boil and boil, until all of the contents boiled away and evaporated into the air, and even then, we left the pot on the stove and did not bother to remove it, or shut off the stove. What harm could possibly befall us now? No water. No flames. And we left it there until the pot blackened and crusted over, at best, adding more pots, as though the result would be different. And long after we could not gain any further benefit from the pot, its contents boiled away, the metal rendered useless for any future cooking. We left the pot and watched, until the blackened underside turned leprous and shattered and splintered.”
Several people in front of her nodded in tacit agreement, hinging on every word she said. Naamah risked a quick glance at Walter, who had a wide eyed look of fear and confusion. I bet he thinks that I destroyed one of the pots, Naamah thought. He’s probably wondering how I’m going to make his dinner.
“Such is the sin of mankind, complacency and disregard, apathy, in our responsibilities to the planet, in regard to our actions that spoiled the land. And even in our actions after the High Fires, we are not immune, as we laze about the relative safety of this steel environment that hangs in the deep ocean, and acedia still has its stranglehold on the human race. We endure and we are strong, we survive despite the absence of the world to which we were accustomed, but we are lazy.”
“But what can we do when we are so few?”
“Mankind was bent on discovering new deadly sins!”
“That is why we suffer!”
“As though seven were not enough…”
“I hate this place!”
“I want to go to Bermuda!”
Walter looked over his shoulder to see who was asking these questions.
“Before anything else, you must hold some personal accountability for your actions, to a higher standard, for how you interact and treat the other occupants,” Naamah continued. “Stop yourself when you laze about in the darkness in the lower levels. Can you act like a shining beacon, an example for others to follow? Perhaps, if that strength is with you, but remember the lesson from Jonah, who, only in the end, after all of the trials he endured, did he realize and accept the truth and find the strength to do what fell to him. Do it not b
ecause you are told, but because it is right. Not because you want to, but because you should. Not because they are easy, but because they are hard. We must forgive ourselves for what we did to our planet. We cannot undo the past, undo the Second Plagues, or promise ourselves better lives. But we can try and prove to ourselves that we are worthy of this gift. Should we not strive to prove it?”
“Will mankind ever reclaim the land?”
“If you seek blind admonitions or promises, without regard to historical or physical reality, then go to Father Guild’s pod on the tenth level.” The joke met polite and self-aware giggles. “Of course that’s not why you’re here.”
CHAPTER SIX
SAGE
Sage paused to watch the congregation on her way to the whaling boat. Melia wasn’t going to let Makrigga leave that quickly. They had other things to take care of before Makrigga left. So she knew she had a minute to spare.
She tried to find Hani in his pod, but he wasn’t there. She wasn’t concerned. Hani should have enough sense to get to the docks after a storm even without an order from Sycamore Johnston.
Sage marveled at Naamah's clothes. For her part, she never liked clothes very much. The high collars, pricks and pins, and coarse buttons always made her scratch her skin. And they always smelled gross, like garbage water. Some lean, insulating material to serve as a wetsuit gave her no cause to complain.
The Platform Page 5
