Aijlan

by Andy Graham

  The slatted wooden fence around their cottage kept the world out, and their world in. His wife and child were waiting for him. Their long thatched-roof home sprouted from the land below the huge pigsty. There were clusters of balloons nestling amongst branches that bustled with leaves. One balloon bounced off an old ornate water pump, its ribbon wrapped tightly around the green enamel handle. Crisp, virginal laundry fluttered in the wind. There’d be a treasure hunt for him to do with a list of tasks — hop on one leg seven times, count down from twenty with his eyes closed, and others, including Rose’s favourite, play patter cake with the dog, to complete. They’d taken the connecting gate down between their cottage and Lenka’s family’s home so the kids and dogs had the run of the place. A bundle of mud-encrusted skin and fur that yelped and cried as animals and naked children ran gleefully from end to end of the two properties. They hid in trees, and dug holes for no other reason than they could, and fought over one stick out of a forest full. It was, as his wife had described, a heart where his home had once been.

  Rick flicked the glove compartment open, and retrieved a slim metal box. He’d made it himself. His shoulder grumbled at him. He could still feel the echo of the bullet, the flesh tearing as it slammed home. That pain had dulled, but the nausea had got worse every time someone had addressed him by his new rank and saluted. He was still waiting for someone to knock on the door, hand him his old uniform, and tell him there had been a terrible mistake.

  He got out of the car and stretched his arm, flexing the numbness out of his fingers. The caw of a lost fisher gull rattled round the patch of grass that passed as the village green. Even accounting for the time of day, Tear was still. Lenka had said it had been like this since the pig slaughter. His wife hadn’t complained about that, nor the rusty smell that pervaded the air. But when Rose had trampled in red mud, Thryn had confessed to the little girl screaming in her sleep.

  Rick would have found it easier if his wife would communicate with him via computer. She refused, claiming electricity sterilised emails and messages. Words became just a collection of letters. By breaking them down and transmitting them, you let their spirit out, and they had to be taken at face value. Their true meanings and inflections got lost. People read what they wanted to see, and filtered out the rest. It was harder to do that face-to-face. She’d compromised on many things in their marriage, as had he, but she was digging her heels in on this issue more than usual.

  Rick grasped the cold gate handle. Flecks of green were visible underneath the worn black paint. Memories flooded through him.

  VIII - Nine Months Ago

  The warm, beckoning steam of freshly baked bread curled out of the kitchen, an antidote to the frost that glazed the inside of their windows. Outside, the sleet that was half hail, half snow, slapped at the glass panes. Midwinter decorations twinkled along the beams of the cottage. Candles flickered, laughing at the weather outside.

  “What about the blind, then?” Rick asked. “How do they communicate if they can’t read messages, a computer screen, or see the other person’s face?”

  “They still have ears.” Thryn sat on his lap, straddling him. She pinned his head back with one hand, and started checking his eyes, teeth, and ears, pinching his skin. The equine health check, she maintained, worked for humans too.

  “And the deaf?” he asked, trying to ignore her probing fingers around his rapidly cooling eyeball.

  She let go and pointed to a gap between a floorboard and the wall, the one the mice used, and to a hole in the ceiling, the one he had made to put a staircase in.

  “I know, I’ll get round to it,” he said, blinking like a newborn.

  She nodded. ”Proves my point. The deaf still have hands. Are all you people from Aij–Aijd — your country so addicted to your new electronic toys that you’ve forgotten how real communication works?”

  “Aijlan, it’s pronounced like ‘eye lan’, or ‘island’ without the d. I don’t know why you have a problem with that name,” Rick said, as she dug her fingers into his jaw.

  Thryn grunted and continued exploring.

  “I’ve heard that some people claim these ‘toys’ should be banned: phones, mobile computers, and such,” Rick said.

  Satisfied he was healthy, Thryn grasped his hands. She traced his fingers around the burns on her wrist that matched his. “And I will bet you a lie-in tomorrow morning that those ‘some people’ are high up in your government. They know the backlash will ensure this will never happen, and it keeps you all talking nonsense while they gut your society. It’s not in their interests for these adult toys to be banned; you’re all so much more docile when you’re stuck nose-deep in nothing.“

  “Grown-up,” Rick said.

  “What?” she replied, nose wrinkling.

  “Adult toys have a slightly different connotation than grown-up toys.”

  He explained the difference.

  Thryn shook her head. “Exactly. Proves my point. You wouldn’t have understood what I wanted if I’d messaged you asking to bring me an adult toy to relieve the boredom while you were away.”

  “I think I know you well enough to read between the lines.”

  “Oh, really. So confident are we, Corporal Franklin?” she said, toying with the top button of his shirt. “So what am I thinking now?” She nuzzled his ear with her nose.

  “You’re wondering if I’ll correctly guess what you’re thinking,” Rick said, slipping his hand under her shirt. His fingers drifted around the smooth curve of her waist.

  “Almost right.” She tilted his head up to hers, popping his top button open.

  A gust of wind rattled though the ill-fitting window panes. The candles guttered out, giving them the privacy they needed.

  Rick pulled his hand back from the gate handle, sweat dripping down his spine. The blood slowly recoloured the cold imprint in his palm as the memories faded. That had been almost nine months ago. This winter was still a few months away. It didn’t seem that long since they had put away last year’s Midwinter gift boxes, the boxes carved for each child that made it past their first birthday. Each box was unique and was to last until that person’s death, and then be burnt on the Hallowtide fires with their ashes.

  Rick flicked the black specks of paint off his hand. He turned his back on the gate, and trudged down the hill to an old cottage that had been disused for decades.

  IX - A Worm

  Rick stood in the small front garden. Rusting metal tools hid in the weed-choked grass. An old bathtub held a thin pool of stagnant brown water with insects skitting across the surface. Near the cottage door sat an upside down armchair, scorch marks licking up the faded floral pattern on one side. A worm was making its torturous journey across the stone slab separating Rick from the door. It had been writhing there for an age. He rapped on the door again, the sun warming his back.

  “Let me in. I just want to see how you’re doing,” he called.

  The worm made a few more twists, and turned back on itself, nosing at a blade of grass. Rick gave in. He flung it onto the earth flanking the stones.

  A voice filtered through the wood. “I told you already. I have nothing to say to you. Go away.”

  Rick swore under his breath, reluctant to take that first step back down the path. Behind him, an old tractor rumbled up the hill, chased by a lame dog snapping at the tyres. As they disappeared round the bend at the top of the hill, the door creaked open.

  “Stann,” Rick said, a smile creasing his face.

  The high and tight had grown out. Stann’s stubble-covered face, once angular and edgy, was now gaunt and hollow. His torso listed to one side, away from the crutch that rammed into one armpit. Black eyes stared through the thin plumes of smoke that wound their way from the roll-up dangling from his lips.

  “You smoke now?”

  “Always did, secretly. Stop pretending you know me,” Stann replied.

  “Stann—”

  Stann waved the roll-up in Rick’s face. “I said I’ve n
othing to say to you, and I meant it. I just wanted to see you one more time. So I can remember you for all you’ve done for me.”

  “Please, Stann, I’ve said sorry. It was a terrible mistake. I’m not sure what else to do. Tell me what I can do to help, and I will, I promise.”

  Stann spat on the floor. “Stop with all the touchy-feely crap. You screwed up. You let those soldiers die while you cowered behind an armchair. And now you lie about what happened. I read the report. I had to sign it before I got discharged. You lied.”

  “No, Stann, that’s not the way it is. I had to—"

  “You had to do your job. You failed.” His face split into a yellow-toothed grin with no humour in it. “I know your Thryn’s always saying life needs balance, but this deal was weighed on the Devil’s scales. Your reward for failure was a massive promotion and public praise. Mine was an amputated leg, and a quiet discharge from the army. No injury bonus. Minimal pension. Part of a ‘cost efficiency ratio re-optimisation drive’.” He wiped a thin line of spittle from the corner of his mouth, and stared down at the worm. “I hope for your sake that this unnatural promotion of yours is not them setting you up for a fall.”

  Rick’s shoulders sagged. The sound of the tractor and barking dog faded. One end of the worm was back on the stone, poking at the hard surface.

  “I thought you’d only been discharged from the hospital, not the army.”

  Stann’s laugh startled a bird from the huge wolfbark tree in the village green. “What use is an infantry man with only one leg?” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sure there’s some kind of joke in there about a one-footed foot soldier, but I’m not going to look too hard to find it.”

  “You could retrain? They’re letting Private Lee retrain as a teacher. The big dogs in the military forced it through. They want an ex-soldier in the schools to impress the kids. Not sure how long he’ll last, though. He’s twitchier than ever, near enough shits himself if anyone so much as sneezes out of turn. Still wears dark glasses indoors.”

  “Thanks, Major Franklin. I guess this is your attempt at humour to try and bond with me.”

  “You could — ”

  “Just shut up,” Stann cut in. “I told you. I’m not worth it. I was discharged because the maths doesn’t add up. It’s cheaper to train a new soldier than look after a wounded one. If I’m not in the army, they’ve got no more responsibilities to me. They said they won’t retrain me as they won’t get their investment back. But then you’d have already known this if you’d made the effort to come earlier.”

  “I couldn’t leave. I had the shoulder rehab, and these new projects. You know how the army is when it comes to orders.”

  Stann jabbed the roll-up towards Rick’s face. Flecks of glowing red ash tumbled to the ground, turning black on the stones. “And I know how obedient you used to be. Funny, isn’t it, that you’re happy to obey orders when it gets you more money, and more stripes on your arm?”

  He picked up a half brick by the base of the door, and tossed it at the worm. It landed on one end, splitting the worm in two. One end curled around itself, the corrugated pink skin contracting.

  Half-limping, half-hopping, Stann retreated into the cottage. The worm’s movements got weaker and slower. Rick followed Stann inside.

  X - Purple Paint

  Rick stepped over a metal prosthesis on the floor; some of the dents in it looked to be new. Mice scurried overhead in the rafters. A TV flickered and buzzed in front of a brick hearth.

  There was a smell in the air that he could almost see. It drifted through the room, like in the cartoons from his childhood: fried bacon. Rick’s stomach gurgled at him, reminding him how long it had been since he’d had anything so decadent, so simple as bacon, butter, and white bread. The craving was visceral, no matter that the government had recently added bacon to the endless list of carcinogens and other health hazards that generations had lived through unscathed.

  A duct-tape-wrapped chair groaned as Stann slumped into it. “I’d offer you some bacon or ham,” he said. “I’m swimming in the stuff, and I know what army hospital food is like. I’d rather leave it for the worms than give it to you, though.”

  “Stann,” Rick began, and stopped. He looked up at the new camera that had been installed above the mantelpiece. He recognised the make, knew what angles it covered, its resolution. The red light on the top should have been flashing. It was on permanently, giving the camera an odd halo.

  “It’s for my safety,” Stann said, with a contemptuous gesture at it, “just in case I fall. Generous of them, isn’t it?” He pulled a tobacco pouch from his pocket and flung it onto the rough table. It came to rest between a half-polished copper lantern and a bowl full of wax lumps and shavings. Propped up against that bowl was a picture frame holding Stann’s service record badge. The metal glinted on the green gauze. The hands of the brass triangular clock engraved into the metal showed his years of service.

  “They didn’t let me keep the uniform,” he said, jerking his head towards the table, “but said I could keep my badge.”

  “It’s purple,” said Rick, a tingle running through his body. He felt an urge to salute. “Do you know how rare they are?”

  Stann snorted softly and stroked the badge with a thumb. “Not as rare as they used to be.”

  “‘For valour in battle, wounded in the service of the nation, a sacrifice to keep your child’s dream alive.’” Rick said.

  “I remember the words, too, Franklin. I’d rather have my leg than a badge, or even a pension, but at least there’s some recognition of what I did, what I lost. Not even you can take that away from me.” He rubbed at his eyes with the grimy bandage on his wrist.

  “Give it time, things are still raw, too fresh.” Rick said, moving closer.

  Stann held a finger to his lips. There were streaks of purple along the whorls of his fingertips. “I didn’t know that they used to take the bullet or shrapnel that had caused the injury, and melt it down to make these medals. Then they decided to melt the bullets down into more bullets instead.”

  “A vicious circle of life,” Rick said.

  The camera whirred and hissed. The red light flashed once. Rick glanced at it, frowning.

  “Keep trying to be clever, Franklin, you’re still way off close. I’m not sure I’d have liked the bullet or nail that took my leg pinned next to my heart, so I guess this is better. Anyway, purple paint is cheaper and easier than recasting a medal. ‘It’s easy to be generous with someone else’s money’, they told me.”

  Stann pulled a steaming mug towards him with his shattered hand. Clasping a jar between his forearm and body, he twisted the lid off. His voice clicked up a notch, brighter, more intense. He measured out exactly half a teaspoon of sugar. “I saw something interesting on the news the other day. A flying energy platform called a sun-fan. It’s like a giant windmill, the blades covered with solar and lunar panels. Apparently, the genius behind it is also working on some kind of electricity bridge to link Substation Two to the capital. They’ve nicknamed it the elec-queduct. Amazing the ideas some people have, isn’t it?”

  The goosebumps that Rick had felt when he saw the medal, coveted by many rookies and school kids, chilled, and spread into his boots. He felt like he was drowning in his new uniform, swamped in it, like he had been when he and Stann had played dress up in Rick’s father’s uniform from the first Great Trade Conflict.

  “Stann, please, stop. I feel bad enough about this situation as it is. I tried to get you credited, trust me, I tried.”

  The cup shivered, slopping hot tea over Stann’s leg. “‘Trust me’, he says. I seem to remember you saying something similar back in that castle. Turns out Private Lee’s ghosts were more vindictive than any of us thought. And it must be terrible that ‘you feel bad’ about what happened. Especially when you hit Chester’s new gyms in the morning.”

  “Why are you here, Stann?” Rick asked. “Why not go to Old Town, back to Edyth, to your son? Your Donarth needs his
dad.”

  Stann pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes tight. “Edyth deserves better than this, than me,” he whispered. “She married a ‘cocky, tanned squaddie’ who literally swept her off her feet, and took her to dance under the Arch Trees.” He licked his lips, his voice cracking as he spoke. “I was the regimental boxing champion, scored highest in the sniper shoot-out three years running in the annual games, captained the Army bodyball team to the cup final. I practically carried you and your gear through the last promotion run we did in the Beacon Peaks after you sprained your ankle. I could have left you and aced that run, got made sergeant. But duty and loyalty to an old friend held me back. I got demoted, lost the team captaincy, and my place in the shooting team. It all went to shit after that. Now look at me. I can’t go back to Edyth now. Not like this. And as for Donarth?” He choked back the sobs. “What kind of role model would I be for him now? Boys need a proper father.”

  “Would it make that much difference if you had a daughter?” Rick asked, sitting side-saddle on the table edge.

  Stann stared up at ceiling. The red light of the camera reflected out of Stann’s eyes. “Don’t patronise me, Franklin,” he whispered. “My kid, my rules. A boy needs a father who can show him what a man is. All I can do now is show him what a man was.” He stopped, jawline quivering, and took in three deep breaths. “And there’s a loophole in the military pension law. If I’m on my own, I get the money. If I’m cohabiting, I don’t. This place doesn’t cost a lot. I don’t eat much anymore, and I’m good for pig for a few months. I send Edyth something each month via Lenka. I think she suspects, but she hasn’t come looking yet.” He wiped his eyes. “The neighbours are good to me too. It seems you people from Tear have long memories. You all still feel indebted for the help Old Town gave all those hundreds of years ago. Old Town has a harsher view on people who leave the military, for any reason.”