The Gradual

by Christopher Priest

  52

  Once again a litany of island names: Foort, the Ferredy Atoll, Mesterline, the Coast of Helvard’s Passion, Lillen-cay, Salay, Fellenstell. They seemed to speed past, even though the ferries followed their usual circuitous routes, made their slow ports of call. I changed from ship to ship. I watched the varying chronometers on the walls of my cabins, absolute time, ship time. I met with the adepts, they adjusted my detriment. My stave became increasingly scored. I stayed in hotels, some humble, some grand, some awful. I burned on sunny decks, I sweated in unventilated cabins. I drank too much alcohol. I was lonely, emotionally drained, undecided about practical things, abandoned by music, beaten by life. I was not attending to what I saw, what I went past, what happened to me.

  I was obsessed with thoughts of my lost brother.

  How could I not be? Jacj was the last remaining member of my family. He was all I had of the past life, the growing up that had made me what I have become. When he joined the army his childhood ended, but so too did mine. Now, nearly half a century later, I was grown into a man, and Jacj – into a soldier, a boy soldier with a slight body and the voice of a teenager.

  I travelled only to put distance behind me, to use up the distance that lay ahead. Distance was time: absolute time, my time, ship time. My brother and I were separated by distance, but also by the years lost and gained in repeated detriments, the temporal tides that eroded reality, the gradual encroachment of time. It was difficult to understand rationally – it was impossible to comprehend emotionally. The gradual was a kind of endless, in explicable madness.

  For the time it took to make most of these voyages I thought of no one else but Jacj. The tragedy of a life lost to the military. The tragedy of two brothers who could not recognize each other. The tragedy of lost music, because his music had gone from his life and mine was slipping away from me. The tragedy of his great youth, my advancing years.

  I was sailing nearer to Temmil. Every ship I boarded, every timetable I consulted, had a port of call in Hakerline, the resort island adjacent to Temmil. I knew that I had only to remain on a ship, virtually any ship, and I would end up in that place with the view of the narrow strait and the dark volcano.

  I broke my journey in the Salay Group – Salay consisted of five large islands set around a central lagoon, like the petals of some immense flower. Many of the passengers I was travelling with were heading for Salay. It was a popular tourist attraction, the place islanders liked to visit to take a vacation. I noticed then that the saloons of some of the ships had large paintings or photographs of Salayean views. I could see what an attractive place it was, how at some other time, in some other mood, it might have been the sort of place I would enjoy visiting. The time was wrong, though. I simply needed a break, a period of solitude, an opportunity to rethink, reconsider.

  The ship called at all five of the Salayean islands, and I chose to disembark at the one called Salay Raba – the name meant it was the fourth of the five islands. It appeared to be the least commercially developed of the group. I rented an apartment in the main town, paying in advance for fifteen days. I settled down to rethink, reconsider, as I desperately needed to do.

  I was calm and contemplative in my thoughts and actions for the first ten days or so, coming to understand, perhaps, a little of what Jacj had endured under the military régime, but then I realized that a couple had moved into the apartment directly below mine. It was only a few days after I had arrived. I knew nothing about them, although their names suddenly appeared on a tag in the hallway: Emwarl and Sophi. The names were familiar – they were often used in Glaund. This was confirmed when I overheard them speaking to each other in the hall. They were speaking Glaundian.

  My first reaction was a friendly thought: that I should be interested to meet them and perhaps hear news from home. Almost at once, though, I was on my guard. Memories of the arrest warrant were still fresh. How much of a coincidence could it be that a couple should be placed here, on a remote island on the other side of the world from Glaund, in the apartment below mine?

  I moved out of the apartment that night, dozed on a bench in the harbour office until dawn, then crossed to Salay Tielet, third island of the five. I checked into a small pension in a backstreet, and set about finding the next ship that would be sailing to Hakerline. I had to wait in a jittery mood for two more days, but in the end I caught a small ferry to the island of Fellenstel. The voyage took three days. In Fellenstel, without delay, without seeking the help of an adept, I took the first ship I could find that would call at Hakerline.

  Absolute time, ship time, were hours apart. I had not attended to the gradual. I found it difficult to sleep on the narrow bunk in the cabin deep in the ship, and during the airless nights I would watch the twin dials of the chronometers, Mutlaq Vaqt and Kema Vaqt, as they steadily drifted further from synchronization.

  53

  Three days later, give or take whatever hours I had lost, or gained, I was standing at the rail of the ship as it closed on Hakerline Promise, the name of the main port. I saw a murmuration of brightly coloured water-birds bursting up from the lagoon in the late afternoon sunlight, and watched while the dense swarm took shape and reshape as the birds swooped across the sea away from the harbour wall. Pleasure boats speeded around my arriving ferry, some of them blowing their horns in welcome. I looked across the wide lagoon towards the forest which touched on the edge of town, the trees growing down to the edge of the water, many of them leaning precariously over the waves.

  I did not want to leave the ship – I felt safe on the ship, anonymous, unknown to those who might still be seeking me.

  I had spent so long travelling and sailing that it had become almost second nature to me. I knew, though, I was at the end of that: all that remained was a short trip across the narrows to Temmil. Afterwards I would settle.

  An adept came up behind me and I was pleased to discover it was Kan. I had not seen her since sheltering from the storm with her in Demmer Insula. Until this moment I had not been aware she was on the ship – indeed, I had not seen any of the adepts aboard, although as soon as I saw Kan again I realized she and the rest of them must have been somewhere there with me. I was convinced she was one of the youngest of the adepts: they all looked youthful, but Kan had a kind of innocent glow that I liked. I was pleased to see her, and I turned towards her with a smile of greeting.

  ‘I want sixty Hakerline talents,’ she said without preamble, moving to my side. ‘Please pay in cash before the ship docks.’

  I was startled by her abrupt manner but in truth I had become used to the adepts’ brusque way of opening the transaction.

  ‘I was hoping to see you again, after we left Demmer,’ I said.

  ‘Sixty talents. There is not much time before we dock.’

  I produced my stave. ‘Don’t you wish to read this?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘So you just want the money?’ She nodded. ‘I would need to change notes in the office,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t I pay you later, Kan? Or I have plenty of simoleons.’

  ‘I will wait for you here. I need talents. Who told you my name? You are not supposed to know!’

  ‘I knew it before – when we were in Demmer Insula. Someone must have told me – I think it was you. Maybe one of the other adepts.’

  ‘Which others? I am alone.’

  ‘The group you work with.’

  ‘I am alone,’ she said again. ‘I have not been to Demmer. No adept goes there. The gradual is neutral on Demmer.’

  She was giving me a sharp, suspicious look, then she glanced away, apparently annoyed with me.

  I did not press the point.

  So, once again, I had to spend time below decks, lining up with a few other passengers to change money in the purser’s bureau, while the bustle and noise of the ship’s arrival went on around us. I would have much preferred to be out on the deck, enjoying the sunlight and watching as the resort of Hakerline Promise came into view. Although I mostly enjoyed
the pleasures of solitude I was often lonely while a long voyage went on. I had found Kan attractive company when we together, all too briefly, that time on Demmer.

  Or perhaps we had not been. Whatever was true was whatever she told me, not what I remembered. It was sometimes a shock to remind myself of the madness of the gradual.

  I just wanted to disembark, find somewhere to stay, then in the morning take the first ferry I could to Temmil.

  By the time I completed the transaction and climbed back to the boat deck to find Kan the ship had stopped moving. I thought at first we must have docked but then I saw that the vessel had hove to some distance away from the narrow entrance to the harbour. I could see members of the crew in the bow of the ship, doing something with the winch mounted there. As I looked for Kan I noticed that while I was below-decks the ship had manoeuvred around towards the harbour entrance. The island of Temmil was in view. The tall cone of the mountain Gronner was glowing with reflected sunlight, made a deep orange by the quality of the afternoon light, or because of whatever plants might be growing on the slopes.

  I found Kan and handed her the cash, which she counted twice, pedantically, before she accepted it. She slipped it into a small leather purse, which she wore on a cord around her neck.

  ‘Now your stave.’

  ‘You didn’t want it before.’

  ‘Now.’

  I had in fact been waiting for her to ask for it, so I had it ready. She held it in one hand so that it was upright, then ran the fingertips of her other hand lightly down the wooden blade. Her eyes were half closed.

  When she looked at me again her demeanour had changed. She smiled, handed the stave towards to me with a playful pass, pretending to tug it back so that I could not reach it. She kept hold if it, fingers of both hands lightly gripping it.

  ‘Now I understand what you say about Demmer. You must have been there.’

  ‘You can tell that from the stave? Don’t you remember the storm while we were there?’

  ‘Demmer is never recorded,’ she said. ‘I do not go there. But you were in Foort, so it is likely. And you came to Hakerline before?’

  ‘Is all this on the stave?’

  I was uncertain of her mood. She had transformed in an instant from someone making a cool business deal to informal, almost teasing friendliness. It was so sudden I could not believe it was genuine.

  ‘No – not everything is shown. But the Shelterate records are here. You were touring with an orchestra—’

  ‘That was during my first visit to the islands.’

  ‘Big detriment lost. How did you manage when you were home? Was difficult? But you are a piano player and violinist. A composer too! Why did you not say? You went to many islands, big success. Then Temmil. Big success. Then here to Hakerline.’

  ‘We returned home after we left Hakerline.’

  ‘You were concerned about what you might find when you were home. I see now. Yes. You were worried about a relative. An older brother?’

  ‘Does it say what his name is?’

  ‘Jacjer Sussken. Is that right?’

  ‘What else is recorded there?’ I said, reaching out to take it from her. This time she let it go.

  I looked closely at it but the dozens of etched lines made no sense to me. Much of my life was recorded somehow there, or at least the actions and movements I had made. The loss or gain of gradual time, the entries and exits to islands. Little pieces of information I must have let slip, or deliberately imparted.

  ‘Does it tell you what I went through when I reached home?’ I said. ‘What I found, what I had to discover?’

  ‘There is nothing. You have heavy detriment now.’

  ‘How much?’

  She held out her arm, where there was a tiny wristwatch. I looked down at it.

  ‘It is a heavy detriment,’ she said again. ‘You were in Salay, moved between the five islands, did not find me.’

  ‘I never saw you,’ I said. Then I pointed at her wrist, and showed her my own watch. ‘There isn’t much difference in time.’

  She laughed. ‘You want to leave it like this? You think it is not much?’

  ‘A few minutes.’

  ‘You are nearly twelve hours ahead of me. That what you want?’

  Absolute time, ship time – I had seen the chronometers drifting in the gradual.

  ‘So what should I do?’

  ‘First we wait for the ship to dock.’

  She stood close beside me at the rail, leaning forward with her weight on her elbows. I could feel the warmth of her arm – she was standing much closer to me than perhaps a mere working acquaintance might stand. I liked the sensation of her near presence, but wondered what she meant by it, if anything. Her manner was casual. A gulf of difference lay between us – age, background, culture, her adeptship. The ferry was manoeuvring slowly in the approaches to the harbour but there were so many small boats milling around us that we were barely moving. The ship’s siren sounded several times, a warning to the boats to make way for us. Nothing much was affected by the noise and the colourful chaos around the harbour continued.

  Looking across the water at what I could see of the town I watched the crowds moving about on the streets, the gaily coloured bunting strung from trees and high posts, the profusion of bright electric signs. When I had stayed on Hakerline before we had been in a large hotel on the edge of town, used its private beach and only ventured into Hakerline Promise after dark to visit restaurants and bars. I recalled an infectiously happy place, full of loud music, noise and crowds. Even as we moved into the harbour, amplified music came thundering to us across the water.

  ‘You like that sort of music?’ I said to her.

  I felt her shifting position. Although she remained beside me, leaning forward with her arms across the rail, she was suddenly on her guard.

  ‘Some,’ she said.

  ‘You like some of it?’ I said. ‘Or you like it somewhat?’

  ‘No difference.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of a young musician called And Ante? He lives on Temmil, Choker of Air.’

  ‘Are you travelling to Choker of Air?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Leaving soon? Or staying in Hakerline Promise?’

  ‘I haven’t decided. There is someone I want to meet on Temmil. That man – Ante. But I need to think about it.’

  ‘If you stay in Hakerline a few minutes, OK. But here an overnight stay, or part of one day, and you will need me. The time gradual is steep, and erratic. I would have to follow you constantly.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘You could not walk down the street without a detriment. You cannot even cross a room in this town without losing or gaining a few seconds. Even to move while you are asleep is dangerous.’

  ‘You need to be with me constantly.’

  ‘Not at night.’

  She started telling me a story. At first I expected the short sentences she normally came out with, but for once she was loquacious: this was something she wanted to tell me about. It concerned her parents. They had met as young adults, she said, while they were on holiday, part of a group travelling around this area of the Archipelago, sailing from island to island in a fleet of small boats and staying at hostels or inexpensive hotels. There had been couriers, organizers, who were with them all the way. Kan said that when islanders travelled about the Archipelago, or they went on an organized tour, they did not need the constant attention of adepts. By law, each booking agency, each tour operator, had to be licensed to an adeptive agency. At the end of each journey, or at the conclusion of a tour, the detriments were corrected collectively.

  ‘Everyone you can see,’ Kan said, pointing across to the crowded street alongside the harbour, where the crowds ambled by. ‘All these people are travelling with that sort of licence. They each have a profile, defined on the licence: which island group they were born in, on which island, the time of day, blood group – everything like that. Before computers i
t was difficult to calculate groups. They made many mistakes. That was when the staves started to be used. But these days it is centralized. When you buy a ticket, or book a tour, you fill in a form or use a website. The tour operator does the rest.’

  ‘You were telling me how this affected your parents?’

  ‘They met each other during their holiday, fell in love and wanted to be together. The tour operator refused to amend their licences, or more likely didn’t know how to. They had to travel on different coaches, or follow separate routes. They had to keep taking different ferries planned in advance for them. When the tour arrived here on Hakerline they ran away from it and went off on their own. I think they found a hotel somewhere. Then at the end, when they went to catch up with the ship, the one booked for the return journey, they discovered they had lost seventy-eight days. The rest of the tour had departed weeks earlier. They were stranded without much money, unable to make contact with home. It was romantic, but it made their lives chaotic. In the end it was sorted out by adepts, but by then they had decided to stay here, on Hakerline. They found somewhere to live, married, found jobs, had me, had my two brothers. They still live here, in the Promise.’

  ‘Do you live with them?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘So – why couldn’t I be given a licence too?’

  ‘You were born in the north. The stave says Glaund.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All mainlanders are outside the system. You have to use the stave because even though you’re a mainlander you’re still vulnerable to the gradual. Hakerline is a problem for everyone. This is a gradual vortex within another vortex.’

  The ship had passed the harbour arm and was slowly manoeuvring towards the long wall, the engines turning slowly. The familiar, insistent sound of cicadas rasped, but they were for once almost drowned by the ambient noise from the loudspeakers mounted on the town buildings. Without the breeze created by the ship’s motion the air felt sticky and hot. Rich scents drifted from the shore: too strong for flowers, but varied, alluring, illicit, foreshadowing night-time adventures.