by John Boyne
Within a few years, it became obvious that life on Earth was coming to an end and, as governments tried to build more and more space stations, lotteries began to decide who would be among the first to build a new world in the void. Fortunately for me, my parents were among those who won early places and became part of the group exiled to Spearthrower Owl, which has been orbiting the moons of Jupiter for almost fifty years now. At first, they struggled to adapt to their new lives, but when the next generation came along, my generation, we knew nothing of what life had been like before, discovering it solely through the stories we read about in the tablets. As part of that first generation to have been born in space, I have always felt a certain pride that we live differently to our forefathers.
My son, Rick, is one of the chief scientists on board, and it affords me great pride to see the team that answers to his call. Young people divide early into separate fields—scientific, exploratory, cultural—and since I was a child I have belonged to the latter group. There are many other creative beings on board whose work I admire greatly: seamstresses, stele makers, jewelers, sandal makers, dressmakers, stonemasons, wood-carvers, designers of amulets, sword makers, illustrators, crafters of mosaics, glassblowers, arrow makers, playwrights, story writers, novelists, bookbinders and poets.
While I, of course, am a songwriter.
I have a very pleasant studio on Herod Deck. The light here, while artificial, is conducive to creativity and I feel that my work has changed and improved dramatically over the years. As a younger man, my songs were simple tales of life aboard the space station, but in recent years I have been drawn to writing music inspired by the dreams I have of the home planet.
I think, at times, that some of my crewmates consider me a slightly odd fellow, but I don’t believe that I’m very different to them. They might specialize in the study of rocks, or flies, or blood, or the nutrients that expand or retract depending on air pressure. I draw songs from my mind. What is so strange about that?
There is no crime on Spearthrower Owl. We have everything we need and, if we require something that is not immediately available, we seek out another Being who can provide it. No one behaves in a violent fashion or causes vandalism. We take pride in our station and keep it clean and hygienic. We have no equivalent to what I believe was known as the “police force” on the home planet, nor do we have a military. There are no judges or legal cases, for we are almost never in dispute. On the rare occasions that two Beings find themselves in a moment of disharmony, they invite a third to hear their complaint and it is universally agreed that the decision made by the disinterested party must be the correct one. We nurture no grudges or grievances. We do not compete against each other. We avoid gossip and embrace civility. Social media platforms, as they were called on the home planet, are outlawed.
There is illness, of course, but as a group we live longer and it is unusual for a Being to die before its hundred and thirtieth birthday. Diseases of the mind have been cured, as have most maladies of the body. People tend to pass away in their sleep for no other reason than their organs have finally become exhausted. It is a peaceful way to go and we do not grieve; instead, we celebrate the end of a joyous cycle of existence.
Naturally, we have leaders, but these roles change regularly. An elder is in charge of the station for only a twelve-week period and everyone, at some point, has an opportunity to assume this role. I myself was an elder last year and with the position came the opportunity to suggest new ideas for the station. Qinyang is scheduled to be the elder in three years’ time and I am excited to see what she makes of the opportunity. She has a fine mind and I suspect she will surprise us all.
* * *
• • •
The oldest member of our community is the blind woman, Tisa, and, only this morning, I found her in my studio waiting for me when I appeared after breakfast. She has always had an ear for music and likes nothing more than to sit quietly while I work on my compositions, content to be lost in the symphonies I write. Today, however, it seemed that she had something on her mind, and I sat next to her, inquiring whether she was in good health.
“I’m fine,” she told me. “Although I won’t be if the doctors have their way. They’re insisting that I have my operation in a few days’ time.”
“Ah,” I said, for I had heard rumors that Tisa’s sight was to be restored now that the solution to blindness had been discovered. On Spearthrower Owl, we do not afford Beings the luxury of choosing whether they will be cured of their illnesses or disabilities; each one is obliged to undergo whatever treatment is deemed necessary in order to become a more productive member of the community. “And you don’t want to go through with it?”
“I’m one hundred and forty-nine years old,” she said, shaking her head. “I have very little time left to me. And I have been blind since childhood.”
She had told me before of how, when she was just an infant during a war on the home planet, her house had been destroyed by falling bombs. Her parents and siblings had been killed in the explosion but, somehow, she had survived, although her retinas had become detached and she had experienced only blackness ever since. “What need have I of seeing the world in a different way than I always have? It might shock me into death.”
I smiled.
“Will you help me?” she asked. “Will you tell the doctors to leave me in peace?”
I agreed that I would try. Tisa had come to my aid on more than one occasion in my life. It seemed that whenever I suffered moments of grief she had been there, by my side, prepared to tell me that I must continue in this world.
“I will speak to them, I promise,” I said, determined to pay her back for her many kindnesses.
“Thank you,” she replied, patting a hand on top of my own. “Now, please, play some music for me.”
* * *
• • •
It is nighttime.
My brother and my son have left my room for their own, having shared an evening meal with me. Before tidying away the detritus of the night and preparing for bed, I make my way to the window and look out toward the sky.
The home planet, on which I will never set foot, is hundreds of millions of miles from here and, as I stare into the darkness, I sense the goodwill of the universe that surrounds me. I think of those people who were left behind when the exile began, and those who will never make it out alive, and those who are now boarding transports and saying goodbye to their friends and family forever.
I have lost many loved ones in my life and rarely been given the opportunity to say farewell. Often, I wake in a state of confusion, uncertain of my identity, unsure if I belong in this time or place at all. I find myself watching as my father cleans a sword, having killed dozens of babies. I am sharing a bed with my cousin, whose twisted legs repulse me. I am buying slaves at a marketplace and being bought as a slave a moment later. I am a murderer. I carve statues into the sides of mountains and watch as an old man floats away on a block of ice. I illustrate letters on an enormous page of calf vellum. I go on a pilgrimage and am seduced by a woman before thrusting my arm into a pot of boiling lead. I climb aboard a ghost ship, watch as a specter appears on the stage of a theatre and hear cries of terror ascend from the base of a well. I listen as a prisoner speaks his final words, witness a man being shot for telling the truth and stare through a window as an army of tanks rolls into the street before me.
I am all these things and more.
I belong to the past, the present and the future.
I am Spearthrower Owl, the greatest ajaw of them all, under whose eternal benevolence the world continues to thrive.
I am at peace.
It is truly good to live among the stars.
FOR MY BROTHER, PAUL
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For all their advice and suggestions on different drafts of this novel, as well as their friendship, I am
indebted to Bill-Scott Kerr, Patsy Irwin, Larry Finlay, Eloisa Clegg, Simon Trewin and Helen Adie.
Thanks, too, to my international publishers for their ongoing support.
BY JOHN BOYNE
NOVELS
The Thief of Time
The Congress of Rough Riders
Crippen
Next of Kin
Mutiny on the Bounty
The House of Special Purpose
The Absolutist
This House Is Haunted
A History of Loneliness
The Heart’s Invisible Furies
A Ladder to the Sky
A Traveler at the Gates of Wisdom
NOVELS FOR YOUNG READERS
The Boy in the Striped Pajamas
Noah Barleywater Runs Away
The Terrible Thing That Happened to Barnaby Brocket
Stay Where You Are and Then Leave
The Boy at the Top of the Mountain
My Brother’s Name Is Jessica
STORIES
Beneath the Earth
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOHN BOYNE is the author of twelve novels for adults, six for younger readers, and a collection of short stories. In his native Ireland, he has won three Irish Book Awards and been shortlisted on thirteen separate occasions. He has also won or been shortlisted for a host of international literary awards, including a Stonewall Honor Award and a Lambda Literary Award. A regular participant in international literary festivals, he has also been a member of the jury for the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and the Costa Book Award, and in 2015 he chaired the jury for the Scotiabank Giller Prize. His novels have been published in over fifty languages.
johnboyne.com
Twitter: @john_boyne
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