The Godling: A Novel of Masalay

by CK Collins

  Gradually, so gradually that she scarcely noticed, Tchori began during prayers to pray. Not in the base way that so many people do. She didn’t fret over her mistakes or plead for divine favours as if Ashma were a pantry of forgiveness and wish fulfilment. No, she prayed as one is meant to pray, as a means of discovery, as a path to discipline, and when she prayed well, truly well, she felt the proximity of something great and she decided that it was God.

  Brother Carodai raises his hands. The people bow. In lilting Karskan: “May we know the love of Jesus, who is in Ashma.”

  “All things from Ashma,” Tchori repeats with the others. “All things to Ashma.” She lifts her head, dizzy. Brother removes the bri and kisses the heads of those before him, and Tchori feels suddenly that she isn’t at the edge of the world but rather at its centre.

  Morning

  Patchil-Kinaat, Masalay

  Pashi fans herself. “Too much to ask that we might have a breeze?”

  “Yeah, so muggy.”

  Essio’s finishing up with the hooligans he paid to “watch the car.” New Mercedes, very shiny — we’ve had the doors open but it’s still an oven inside. A tractor trailer whooshes by and I’m glad to take the fumes for some air movement.

  Okay, time to get in. Pashi’s arranged pillows in the back seat to cushion my sores. I thank her a lot. Essio makes a phone call and I experiment with different positions. It’s best sitting lengthwise, I finally decide, feet up and my back against the door. Driver’s side door, thank god, so that I can look at Pashi and not him.

  We pull into the street while Pashi tries to find something good on the radio. (I think maybe her idea of good is different from mine.) Essio punches the air conditioner and it’s instant German-engineered gratification, the back vent pouring a pitcher of pure cold on my sweaty neck.

  The street is this crazy hornets’ nest of cars and trucks and motorcycles all trying to kill as many pedestrians as possible. Essio’s got the swankiest ride, but it doesn’t make him drive any smoother: lurch, brake, lurch, brake. And honk. Keep hitting that horn, Essio, you tell ‘em.

  We inch onto to the bridge. I sit up for a view of the river.

  I remember a little about Patchil-Kinaat from the Masalayan guidebook I got. The Rome of Masalay, heart of the empire, way back in ancient times. Modern times, not so good. When we flew in to the airport here, I asked Suapartni if there was anything worth seeing, and she pretended to stick her finger down her throat. I tried getting a look from our taxi but she kept wanting me to play this pinball game on her iPod. Anyway, I can get what she meant — the place just feels overcrowded and grimy and decayed.

  I sit back. Pashi passes me a bag of dried fruit. Tough as leather and sort of rancid tasting, like dried apples if instead of drying apples you dried a dead thing’s butt. I eat the whole bag.

  Pashi’s annoyed because Essio didn’t bring the right CDs. Funny how bickering sounds the same in every language.

  I want to ask for more food but don’t feel like I should interrupt. After the bridge, the city gets even more grungy and crowded until we reach the highway.

  We bump over railroad tracks.

  If I walked down them far enough would I get to that train station?

  Would they be sympathetic if I told them what happened? Would the takeaway be that I’m plucky and resourceful? Or that I’m a hopeless idiot?

  I might choose all of the above.

  * * *

  I watched the lights of the train get swallowed up in the night. Just stood there cursing.

  Finally I went back to the office, too sick even to be mad. Locked. All dark and closed up. Down creepy dark halls till I found the parking lot. Completely empty. I got back to the platform. Stood under the one light not crying, absolutely not crying.

  I had nothing. My passport and that goddamn form, a five-pound bill, some coins, an almost empty tin of ginger mints. Dressed like a fool — beach sandals, shorts, a P.J. Harvey shirt.

  I tried remembering where we were heading, what the name of the place was, but I couldn’t think of it. I looked all over for a train schedule, but nada. There was a phone, old-school with a rotary dial. I stood there waiting for it to ring — Suapartni on the other end laughing about what a big cock-up it was. One of her favorite words, cock-up, right next to mad and brilliant, and I wanted to hear every one of them in a sentence that ended with We’ll be right there.

  I tried thinking what Suapartni was going to do when she realized I wasn’t there. Probably laugh at how grand I am — Cal, that crazy Cal, hooked up with some sexy dude in her mad brilliant red-headed way.

  How long I stood there I don’t know. Suddenly dawned on me that I wasn’t actually alone.

  On the other side of the platform there was this guy. Old but I couldn’t make out more than that. He was at the end of the tracks, in the direction the train had gone, and he was gesturing at me. Saying something. I went closer until I figured out he was saying “Go get.”

  I didn’t want to go-get — I wanted to stay put until somebody came-got. He got tired of trying to convince me and started walking. I waited a long minute. And then I started walking.

  * * *

  “Chips then, Callie?”

  “Thanks.”

  The chips are these orange squiggles that remind me of the ones Suapartni and her brother were always eating. Different packaging here but the same idea — like anchovy-flavored Doritos. Spicy as hell, of course. I eat them with both hands.

  Pashi realizes she never really answered my question about what route we’re taking. The highway we’re on is called the Trans-Mas, and we’ll be on it for another hour until it splits. The main road goes south through the Karsk, but we’re not going that way — it’s a hassle, apparently, and dangerous. Instead we’re branching east to the Coast Road. It’s prettier and there’s less people trying to mutilate you.

  She gets a road map from the glove compartment — better labeled than the mural and easier to fold. She lets me hold onto it and points at stuff.

  There’s North Masalay (“Anartha” small and in parentheses), which area-wise looks like it’s a little less than half the country. The Niconammek River is a blue squiggle running south from Lake Ghaatasira through Patchil-Kinaat then on into Central Masalay (“The Karsk”). In there it gets thick and starts twisting. Straightens when it gets to South Masalay and high-tails it to the ocean at Sagaro.

  The Karsk looks a little bigger than North Masalay, with mountains on the eastern side, where we’re heading. Mt. Kinvolim, a wonder of the world, she comments like of course I know why, and I just say, “Yeah.” In the center of the island, not dotted with any cities, is just this dense green. “The Central Karsk,” Pashi says, making it sound threatening — then tells about all the British expeditions that got swallowed up there. She mentions some movie about one of the expeditions and says it’s a classic. Apparently, there’s even a movie about the making of the movie. I tell her that I’ve always wanted to see them both.

  I look for Liashe. It’s kind of embarrassing, but before I cracked open my little guidebook on the plane with Suapartni, I never really knew where Liashe was. If you’d asked me, I think I’d have guessed it was its own country. How being an Ashmanist is different from being a Liashist I don’t get either. Let alone how they relate to Christianity, which I’ve never understood. I hold off on asking, though, because you never know what might be a can of worms, and getting them wound up is not something I want.

  Turns out Liashe is in the Karsk too, but only sort of. There’s this shading around it: Liashe Autonomous Region is the label, and it says, “Restricted Access.” I ask about that and Pashi says that if you’re not a resident or student or connected to the Church, you need a special visa to go to Liashe. Supposed to be a single waiting list for everybody, but really it comes down to spreading cotton. I act like I know what that means and comment on how small South Masalay is and how jammed with dots.

  “We’re 55% of the population on 18% o
f the land,” she tells me, sounding proud and oppressed at the same time. “Not even counting the tourists, that. We’ve just exceeded, who was it Essio, someone, for annual visitors?”

  “Rio de Janeiro.”

  “Right, Rio. And we’ve trend to surpass Bangkok, I think it was, in some years’ time.”

  There’s a sign for Sagaro. If we don’t hit traffic, Essio says, we’ll get to Jaya before midnight.

  Pashi folds up the map and suggests I try to sleep. It’s gotten pretty chilly with the air conditioning — the girl, she’s never satisfied! — so I drag one of the extra pillows on top of me as a blanket and close my eyes.

  * * *

  I kept figuring a train would come. All ready to hop it like a hobo if it was slow enough. I didn’t care what direction — just anywhere else. But there was nothing, and it was so dark. The moon just this dull smear.

  I should do an infomercial for people who feel like they’ve got too much skin on their knees. I could sell the sandals I was wearing that night and give tips about train track-tripping and how to scrape the hell out of your shins and elbows while you’re at it. The best is when you lose sight of the old guy and it starts to rain.

  I got cold and pulled my arms inside my t-shirt. It helped with warmth but then I tripped and couldn’t protect my face. I got a bruised cheek out of that. Puked a little.

  But I did learn things about myself. Like that if I was the only person on earth, I still couldn’t bring myself to sing out loud. But I did sing in my mind. “Here Comes The Sun” until it finally came true.

  Not much to see but I felt a little less scared. This deserty landscape. Dirt hills and prickly shrubs. A few barns or houses way in the distance. It was a few hours and then I saw a town up ahead.

  More a slum, I guess, but that sounds rude. A big, big sprawl of slapped-together shacks and muddy alleys and this filthy canal, is what it was. Me wandering and getting plenty of stares — trying to find a train station, police station, any kind of station.

  No luck, but I did find a phone. In an actual phone booth — a red one, like I picture them having in London. Formerly red, I should say. The thing had seen better days. I waited my turn and tried smiling and acting like I wasn’t from Mars. I thought about asking if anybody could speak English, but it didn’t feel right.

  Finally my turn comes and the coins I try putting in don’t fit through the slot. I fish through my pockets and find one, my last one, that does fit. The one lucky thing was that I had Suapartni’s cell number on a sticky note in my passport. I’d already rehearsed how I was going to make the whole thing sound funny. But I couldn’t even get through the digits before the phone started beeping at me. And it kept the coin.

  People were waiting. I got out and it was raining like a bitch.

  I hid out under the tin roof of this one building. But it started to flood after a few minutes, cruddy water up to my ankles, so I started walking. Trying to seem like I knew what I was doing. There was this abandoned car with a ripped-out engine and the tires gone. Had to be just abandoned, I figured, and it was raining so hard. I climbed in. Some kids were looking out at me from their shacks, amused. The rain hammered on the roof. I huddled and rubbed my arms and tried to think of a plan.

  Some guys came by, four of them. Young and tough and looking like they were on something. Seeing a white chick in the car was funny. But not as funny as seeing what the white chick would do if they hit the car with a bent rod. A couple of them made faces through the windows and then sat on the hood. Batting practice on the trunk. After a minute, the guy with the bar got tired of hitting the trunk and opened the door. He said something to me in Masalayan and touched my hair. There was a shout. From somewhere behind us. The two guys slid off the hood and my friend pressed his knuckle into my cheek but then took his hand off me. One last crack of the club on the hood, and they were on their way.

  A couple seconds later I saw the man who’d shouted. He was middle-aged, hard to say how old, tall and thin, with a heavy beard and a kind of mini-turban hat. He came upside the car and gestured for me to get out. Which I did, and he led me over to a shack.

  The whole place was made out of metal, but not all the same kind. The door was not quite the right size, and it was attached to the wall with baling wire. It was dry inside, and there was a fire going. Two other men were there, about the same age, and two women and four kids.

  I didn’t know if it was right, but I made the palms-pressed bow that I’d seen from a lot of Masalayans. “Astim,” I said, hoping it was the right word for please. The women both bowed back. One of them pointed to where I should sit.

  They sat with legs folded, holding plates in their left hands and eating with fingers. They didn’t look at me, and it seemed like everybody was trying to keep quiet while they ate. When they finished, the men all set their bowls on the floor and lit this long pipe that smelled like if you laced pot with honey. The women picked up the plates then set out bowls of rice for the kids. There was a dash of something green in the rice that the kids stirred around with their fingers.

  They gave me a bowl too. It was filled with rice, the same green stuff, and slices of yellow fruit. “Ayin milai,” I said and stirred it like I’d seen the kids do. It was spicy as all hell and a little bitter, but I was famished and appreciative and I ate almost as fast as the kids.

  The men finished their pipe and left. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a couple of them had guns. The kids all scurried into the corner where the men had been. There was a lot of whispering and giggling and glances over at me. The littlest one, a boy, finally came over with a plastic container. It was filled with little beads and marbles, all very shiny. I let him know how pretty everything looked.

  I was sitting with my knees bent in front of me. One of the girls came over and started weaving paperclips around my ankle. The other kids all giggled. When she’d finished with my anklet, she looked at me to see if I liked it. I smiled back, thankful.

  I tried to help the women clean up, but they waved me off. I hadn’t seen either one of them eat anything, and the pot looked empty. I got this worry that the food I’d just eaten was their dinner.

  One of them started talking to me in Masalayan. I couldn’t think what to do. I made a steering-wheel motion and made some gestures for driving away. Took a minute but then she seemed to get it. She called over the oldest kid, a girl, maybe nine, and gave her some instructions. The girl nodded, a little impatient like she didn’t need so many cautions, and put on flip flops. They all gestured that I was going to go with her.

  I bowed and said ayin milai about a dozen times. I offered to give the kids back their paperclips, but they just giggled.

  It had stopped raining. The girl moved fast, dodging and weaving through the little alleys like she’d done it a thousand times, which I guess she had. She was great at jumping over puddles too.

  Took forever, but we got finally to a kind of downtown, with cars and stores and even a couple guys who looked like police. The place she took me to was like this open-air bus depot. And there were some actual buses too, but mostly it was big pick-up trucks of all different kinds.

  The girl pointed for me to stand in one of the three or four lines for trucks. I wanted her to wait with me, but she obviously had more exciting things to do. I fished in my pocket for the three coins I had left and held them out to her. Her eyes darted between my palm and my face a couple times to make sure I was really offering. She took the biggest one, gave the quickest bow in history, and was gone.

  Okay. So the trucks all had cardboard signs that said where they were going. I only recognized one of the names, so that’s the line I got into.

  I went up to the guy collecting the money. All I had was the one five-pound bill, and I held it out. Whether it was enough or too little who knows. He shrugged, shoved it in his pocket, and nodded for me to get on.

  I couldn’t remember too well what Suapartni and her family had said about Ghaatasira. But I figured I should go to
the place I’d heard of. And anyway, I’ve always had a thing for lakes.

  * * *

  When humans first gained the power to think — Ashma gracing the earth — it happened at Lake Ghaatasira. That’s the tradition. And other miracles came after.

  Their myth says that the lake is bottomless. Which when the British heard that, they said it was nonsense, there’s no such thing. But try as they might, they couldn’t drop a plumb line that found bottom. It took them decades before some scientists managed it. Over a mile down, as deep as any lake in the world. How those primitive Masalayans could have known it was that deep is a good question. And a lot of them still swear the British got it wrong — that their plumb line found something but it wasn’t bottom.