by Naomi Foyle
To top it all off, when Astra had complained to Hokma, Hokma had nearly frigging exploded: ‘You can’t afford to lose your temper!’ she’d yelled, so loud she’d practically blown a hole in the roof of Wise House. ‘Do you want Nimma to find out you’re not Sec Gen? You’ve nearly finished Foundation School now, Astra. You have to grow up!’
Yeah, well, that was easy for a grown-up to say. Grown-ups got to lose their frigging tempers whenever they frigging well wanted to. And besides, Astra didn’t frigging want to grow up, thank you very much. Not if it meant behaving like Nimma, with her pettifogging rules, or Hokma with her grunts and silences and complete lack of interest in the world beyond Wise House. The problem with her Shared Shelter mothers, she had realised lately, was that apart from the Owleons and language lessons, Hokma didn’t care a dried fig about Astra’s life, and Nimma cared way too much.
‘The Circle is ready to roll!’ Klor hollered over to Ahn. Astra glowered over the Fountain to the real reason she’d bagged a place in the front. Sitting alone on a bench behind Stream and Torrent, his face hidden by his battered straw trilby, oblivious as always to the micro-dramas playing out at his feet, Ahn tapped at the notebook Tablette resting on his knees. Craning her neck, Astra peered through the fine Fountain spray, straining to catch a glimpse of the Kezcams lined up on the bench.
The Kezcams, three small helium-filled biotech balls with thin shells of black steel and retractable kestrel-Coded wings, were the nicest bit of IMBOD kit to arrive in Or since bendable Tablette screens – but, extremely unfairly, no one except Ahn was allowed to touch them. Astra was barely allowed to look at them. As if to torment her, Ahn walked around Or with the Kezcams bunched in a string bag on his hydrobelt, each hidden in a heavy enamelled case that protected the delicately jointed wings and weighed the sphere down. She had finally spied him practising his operating technique out on the lawn yesterday, but as she’d stood mesmerised, watching the Kezcams dart and hover like hummingbird moths over the gladioli, Nimma had come and chased her away, saying she mustn’t spoil his concentration. And at rehearsal today, Klor had told them all that if a Kezcam hovered in front of them, they were to ignore it. Later Ahn would edit the footage into a film that would be shown weekly at the Boundary Congregation Site on the way to Sippur. Is-Landers and visitors from all over the world would see the film so it was important to give him lots of good shots to choose from. Anyone behaving in a frivolous manner – here Klor had directed his eyebrows at Stream and Torrent – would have to run extra Kinbat laps for weeks.
‘Don’t worry, folks, you won’t even notice them.’ Ahn made an adjustment to a Kezcam and set it back down in its case – annoyingly out of sight. ‘Nearly ready now.’
‘Ready, Congruence?’ Klor asked.
‘I am.’ The girl nodded, her dark eyes shining. The Parents’ Committee had given Congruence the role of Asker partly, everyone knew, to make up for the misery Torrent and Stream’s inexplicably exclusive relationship was causing her. But Astra had to agree that she had the dignity required of the role. Congruence was sitting in full lotus, her hands in chin mudra on her knees, her long black hair falling straight to her waist, her skin gleaming like polished oak. Her calm, melodic voice betrayed no sense of pride and no hint of bitterness towards the couple she could surely see in her peripheral vision. She was well defended though: to her right, her friend Ariel sat up straighter, on her left Holaa peeled a stray blade of grass from Congruence’s arm and further along a whole squadron of adults was regarding her with pride – not only Luna, Gloria and Arjun, her Shelter parents, but a doting flank of Parents’ Committee members, and Sorrel and Mr Ripenson too.
Astra shrank back a little behind Hokma so Mr Ripenson – or Vishnu, as he’d told her to call him outside school – couldn’t see her if he looked this way again. The teacher had joined the school staff last year when Mr Banzan left, and had met Sorrel on one of her urbag deliveries. Before anyone even knew they had bonded she was pregnant and soon after that, with the approval of the Parents’ Committee, Mr Ripenson had moved to Or. He’d been on the school bus that fateful day when everything had started going wrong for Congruence, and had played a special role in counselling all the teens, Nimma had said. She and all the other Or adults admired him now. Astra didn’t dislike Mr Ripenson – Vishnu sounded wrong – he was always friendly to everyone and good at cricket; she just didn’t like having a teacher living in Or, an adult with more chances to observe her behaviour than practically anyone. Hopefully he – and everyone – would keep staring at Congruence tonight.
‘Ahn?’ Klor raised a knuckley forefinger in the air – the signal for filming to begin.
Astra couldn’t help it. Moving her eyes only, she watched Ahn release the three Kezcams from their cases. One by one, they drifted up into the air, unfolding their transparent wings. Brushing his Tablette screen with his fingers, Ahn directed their ascent. They were barely visible as they entered the Fountain light, their wings grey blurs, their shiny surfaces reflecting the changing colours of the spray. The Kezcams soared to a height of three metres, then as Ahn expertly choreographed their movements, one began a slow circle overhead and the others descended into the Fountain pit to take up their starting positions: one facing Nimma, Klor and the Ancestors’ Place and one suspended in front of Congruence.
Swipe. Swoop. Swap. Controlling the Kezcams, especially three at once, was an art, a dance involving your whole body; Astra could see that. But it wasn’t like flying an Owleon. It wasn’t like knowing that one of Gaia’s fiercest creatures would come arcing back to you through the air at your call and clutch your wrist as if it owned you. Silver should be here, listening to the story, hooting softly to Elpis after all the sad parts.
‘Welcome all, to the first Or Story Night of Summer 82 RE.’ Klor’s voice tugged Astra back into the Circle. The Kezcam in front of her Shelter father was barely visible in the Fountain glare, but its lens could rotate 360 degrees and Ahn would see if Astra was trying to spot it. She did her very best to stare resolutely past it. ‘Our Teller tonight is Nimma,’ Klor continued. ‘What story shall we ask her to tell?’
‘I want to hear Kali’s story,’ Congruence said, her voice as soft and clear as a bamboo wind chime. ‘I want Nimma, Birth-Code daughter of Elpis, to tell it.’ Beside her, Ariel and Holaa solemnly nodded.
‘Nimma?’ Klor turned to the Teller. ‘Do you hear the Asker?’
All heads turned to Nimma. As Astra stared, not at her Shelter mother but the Ancestors’ Place, just for a moment she found herself touched by the spell of the Asking. This was Kali’s story and Elpis’ story, and telling it would bring Elpis back into the Circle.
‘Thank you, Asker,’ Nimma replied in the time-honoured manner – except that her voice had a hairline crack in it. She paused and swallowed before continuing, her voice fuller now, ‘With Gaia’s help – and another flame in the Fountain – I’ll tell the tale.’
Klor took the remote control from his hydrobelt and pointed it at the Fountain. Tulsi, Sprig and the other younger Sec Gens gasped as a stream of fiery sparks flew up through the mist. The story was starting now and there was nothing Astra could do except listen and hope Nimma wouldn’t make too big a hash of it. She stared into the heart of the lightshow. Tall orange flames were flowing in the spray like the silky sleeves of summer dresses, and the churning surface of the Fountain pool glowed like jagged jewels.
‘This is a story from the Dark Time,’ Nimma began. Her voice was stronger now, and Astra had to admit that it carried well across the Fountain. ‘Many stories from that time have been lost, for even golden eagles may not survive a cyclone, but this one is still with us because its first Teller, Kali, survived that terrible period. It was a painful story for Kali to tell, but because so many people wanted to hear it, she mastered her fear and grief and became a powerful Teller. Kali’s Telling helped create Is-Land: that is how powerful it was. But before she was a Teller, Kali suffered – not as a child, no: she had a very happy c
hildhood because her parents were Gaians and she grew up in a beautiful community called Beltane in the mountains of Yr Widdfa, which, despite a fierce independent spirit, was governed by the kingdom of Yukay. She and the other Gaian visionaries of Beltane lived in yurts and tipis and Earthships. The people in yurts and tipis burned wood for heat, and everyone used wind turbines and photovoltaic cells to power their Tablettes and washing machines. It was cold in Yr Widdfa, so in the winter Kali wore clothes outside, but inside the Earthships and on the hot days of summer she and her family lived sky-clad and free, just like us. But though they were naked, they were not vulnerable. As the Great Collapse accelerated, Beltane constructed an Earthcastle with a moat and ramparts. For Beltane Gaians were Pioneers. They were among the first Gaian communities to realise that if we truly want to defend our Mother, we have to defend ourselves.’
Nimma’s voice rang out deep as a bronze bell as she stated this central truth, and the adults around the Fountain chimed their agreement: Hear Her. Hear Her. Gaia forever. Everyone was eager for the story now, Astra could tell. No one was acting for the Kezcams. She risked another glance at Ahn.
Hokma elbowed her in the shoulder. Look at Nimma, the sharp nudge said.
‘Gaians are not selfish, no,’ Nimma declaimed to another murmur of agreement. ‘During the Great Collapse, Beltane, like all Gaian communities, offered to share their knowledge and skills – their clean-energy technology, their collective decision-making processes – with the rest of the world, but this offer was rejected. Instead, the Yukay government refused Beltane permission to build more self-sufficient dwellings, and the local media mocked them as backward simpletons. At best, people saw Gaians as cranks, living in a precious little world of our own, sewing our own clothes, home-schooling our children, milking goats. Most people didn’t understand the urgent necessity of our way of life. Most people were racing headlong into the Dark Time, their vision of life on earth smeared blind by oil.’
Oil. Actually, oil was interesting – Astra had to write an essay on fossil fuels this month for school. And after that poor start, Nimma was Telling better now. Astra rearranged herself into a cross-legged position and, elbows on knees, chin on hands, leaned forward.
‘We know now,’ Nimma said sternly, ‘that oil was a powerful drug, more dangerous than heroin, more addictive than nicotine. Governments and corporations were the drug-pushers, and everywhere, all over the world, ordinary people were the addicts. Oil junkies might come to a Gaian community for a festival but they would drive home in their gas-guzzlers and urban tractors. No one could imagine more than a day without oil. Oh’ – she waved dismissively – ‘oil made life fun, there’s no denying that. If people were bored of living in cold, dirty cities, they just hopped on an arrowpain and flew halfway around the world to flop about on a beach of white sand. But this addiction to fun’ – Nimma spat the word out as if it were a cockroach in a mouthful of lentil stew – ‘this commitment to convenience, to leisure, to the mindless gratification of the senses, this pandemic lust for black gold – as the greediest of those humans called oil – was having a devastating effect on Gaia. Not only were the oil junkies draining our Mother of Her natural lubricants, they were pumping Her atmosphere full of greenhouse gases, heating Her surface to levels that threatened to render Her waterless and ferociously hot, turning Her into a barren, volcanic crone planet, like Her sister Venus.’
The story of oil was really awful. Beside Astra, Sprig gulped and stuck her fingers in her mouth. Astra put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. It was the first time the little ones would have heard about the Great Collapse. It was so awful to think about the near-death of Gaia that the Dark Time was introduced only gradually into their school studies. But it was part of Kali’s story. Shelter parents had been warned the youngest children might need extra care after hearing it.
‘Gaians, of course,’ Nimma went on, ‘didn’t need a turbine to know which way the wind was blowing. As well as building the Earthcastle, Beltane bought guns. And sure enough, when Kali was fifteen and the Great Collapse had accelerated beyond anyone’s ability to stop it, terrified and apologetic oil junkies started to arrive in Beltane. At first this was just a trickle of locals, carrying gifts and begging for shelter. The guns remained hidden and help was given willingly. It doesn’t take long to put up a yurt or even to build an Earthship if everyone helps. For three years Beltane grew stronger, attracting people who had awakened to the dangers Gaia faced and wanted to help defend Her. During this time Kali chose a partner, a young man called Peredur. They lived together in a yurt, planning to eventually build an Earthship with a group of other couples. For now, Beltane was safe.
‘But this safety depended on laws that Gaians had no hand in writing. Around the world floods and droughts and hurricanes intensified, and soon a food shortage gripped the kingdom of Yukay. This was the beginning of the Dark Time. In exchange for tithing one-eighth of their crops to the Yukay Ministry of Agriculture, Beltane Gaians were allowed to stay on their land. In other countries, though, the oil junkies panicked. Instead of respecting the Gaians’ cosy off-grid homes, our fields bursting with fruit, grains and vegetables, instead of asking to learn from us, they decided to invade us. Whole communities were slaughtered and their crops were eaten and never replanted. Yes, the people who could teach them how to live sustainably were killed for one season of food. This was the oil junkie mentality of the late Common Era in action.’
Those younger children who weren’t burying their faces in their Shelter parents’ laps gazed at Nimma with dumbstruck eyes. Adults were shaking their heads; a tear slid down Congruence’s cheek. Even Torrent was tense and alert; Stream huddled beneath his arm as if he could save her from imminent annihilation. Astra ground her teeth. Worse almost than picturing Gaians being massacred was the thought of people eating grains and vegetables and not replanting the seeds. Who could savagely waste Gaia’s fruits like that? No wonder She had taken such a terrible revenge.
In the front row, Mr Ripenson clapped the earth with his palm. ‘We. Remember. The Dark Time Martyrs,’ he chanted.
‘WE. REMEMBER. THE DARK TIME MARTYRS.’ Nimma and Klor threw their voices and arms to the sky. But all attention was on the teacher now; he was small and energetic, and good at taking assembly. His body rocking, he scanned the Circle. Around him first Sorrel, then Modem, and then a long row of Or-adults joined the chant:
‘WE. REMEMBER. THE DARK TIME MARTYRS.’
Everyone was chanting now, and the whole Circle was drumming the earth, harder and harder, louder and louder, until the vibrations were travelling right up Astra’s spine. Sorrel, too heavily pregnant to bend, clapped her thighs. Torrent and Stream drummed with one hand each, their other hands interlocked in Torrent’s lap. Congruence and her friends stretched forward and with both palms beat the earth around the Fountain pit. Hokma, Astra and Sprig did the same, and with another sly glance before she dropped her head, Astra saw Ahn gaze upwards, his head rolling clockwise as he directed an aerial shot of the Circle united in a thundering wave of defiance.
The chanters peaked and stopped. With their thunder in her voice, Nimma resumed the story. ‘Then came the Neuropean floods. In a matter of days, the coastal cities of Yukay were under six feet of water and the kingdom’s low-lying regions had disappeared into the sea. The power grid was locked and many people had no electricity. The government declared a state of emergency and ordered the army to control the roads. Beltane, of course, still had power, and Kali and Peredur kept a constant check on Tablette news, meeting with the community every evening to discuss the worsening situation, for every day, the chaos in Yukay drew closer to Beltane.
‘Before, refugees in Yukay had always been from other countries. Now millions of the nation’s own citizens had been displaced and for a time, even with every soldier in the country deployed, the government lost control of the roads. Oil junkies fled from cities and towns, and though many became stuck in massive gridlocks, some escaped, burning the last o
f their petrol in their cars as they scorched up motorways and headed for the country lanes. Many of these refugees were peaceful people, now homeless and helpless, but others were armed marauders: street gangs with knives and guns, or rich men in four-wheel drives, toting weapons they’d bought from criminals and didn’t really know how to use. The government established tent cities in the midlands and moors, where the peaceful refugees gathered, sleeping in their cars if there weren’t enough tents. But the armed men – for it was mostly men with the guns – didn’t want to be herded into camps. And although in the cities all these different gangs had fought each other, now, in the dark and lonely countryside, the night lit only by their headlamps, they realised that they were stronger together.
‘Soon the gangs formed super-gangs, convoys of dozens of vehicles. When one car ran out of petrol they would dump it by the side of the road and set fire to it, then they would all pile into another. The more crowded the cars, the more violent the gangs became. They terrorised villages, ransacking houses and petrol stations, violating and killing anyone who tried to stop them. They never stayed anywhere long. They only wanted more petrol and then they’d move on – but the more violence they committed, the more they developed a taste for it. The worst atrocity occurred in the Black Mountains south of Yr Widdfa. A roaming super-gang entered a Gaian community called Dawntreader, and though the Dawntreadian Gaians had staves and knives, the gang had automatic rifles and they slaughtered everyone there, down to the last infant.’
