Perhaps it was merely indigestion, I eventually concluded. But a month later the same thing happened.
We were on a walk when I noticed you had lagged behind.
‘Keep up, Reed,’ I said, but glancing back I froze. You had staggered to a halt by a tree, against which you now leaned panting and holding your chest. The sight took the breath from my lungs.
This time I took you to the Halls of Gestation, making no attempt to keep my speed from you.
I burst through the doors and made straight for the stone desk that sits in the centre of the wide, candlelit entrance hall. The attendant—a pale-faced female with a skewered bun of red-hair—looked up at the intrusion, eyes widening when she saw you.
‘There is something wrong with him,’ I said.
The attendant looked between us, then cocked her head.
‘Pardon?’
‘There is something wrong with my… with Reed.’
Once again she looked between us, as if we were a puzzle she had no interest in solving. I could already feel my hope for a positive outcome waning. Eventually she opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again and mouthed a word—human?—at me.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘What else? He’s ill. I need to find out what’s wrong with him.’
You are like a bird, I thought, as I watched her regarding you.
‘He seems fine to me.’
You did appear brighter. Your cheeks were ruddy after the journey through the forest, and you were happily engrossed in a stray thread at my collar.
‘He was not ten minutes ago. His chest was giving him pain.’
‘Perhaps it was indigestion.’ She lowered her voice. ‘They used to have that, I believe.’
‘It is not indigestion. I think it is his heart.’
‘You are Ima,’ she said, scanning my face.
‘Yes?’
‘You were the one who created him, correct?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘Well then, surely you know his genetic code. Did you include anything that would have led to a heart condition?’
‘No, of course I did not.’
‘Well then, there you go.’
She smiled sweetly. I stared back at her, feeling a sudden overwhelming urge to stab her pretty hands with her own hair pin.
‘I think something went wrong,’ I said.
‘And what do you expect us to do about it?’
‘Nothing, I just need to go in there and run some tests.’
‘That is quite out of the question.’
‘Why?’
She flustered.
‘We cannot let anyone just come in and use valuable resources to run tests. We are the Halls of Gestation, not a laboratory, and besides, we are extremely busy.’
I heard the wax drip from a distant candle.
‘Busy with what?’ I said.
‘Transcendence.’
I rolled my eyes and shifted you onto my other hip.
‘I might have guessed,’ I said.
She straightened her neck in afront.
‘Our work untangling the quantum interactions of consciousness is critical to the project. We cannot afford to spend time or resources on anything else, least of all your foolish mistakes.’
I gritted my teeth.
‘I told you, I made no mistake.’
‘Then there is no problem, is there?’ There was that pretty smile again. ‘Good day.’
I stormed out and took you home, ruminating on what to do. I would take this to the council at the very next opportunity.
As it turned out, I did not need to wait long.
— TWENTY-TWO —
‘SIBLINGS, CHILDREN, NEPHEWS, welcome.’
The following day news of a meeting was screeched through the forest, and we travelled again to Ertanea, this time at a less spectacular pace. Boron’s hoof had improved so we rode upon him, with you sitting astride his shoulders exclaiming what you saw and heard.
‘Tree. Bird. Tree. Tree. Bird.’
‘Yes. Bird.’
You were tired when we arrived, so I lay you to sleep on a bench at the back of the hall. Unlike the last time you had been in the Halls of Reason, you drew interest in the form of whispers and pointed fingers, though nobody came to talk to me. I placed a blanket over you and joined the throng.
The council line was full, but there were ten missing from the hundred, including Haralia and Jakob.
My mother brought her hands together.
‘Transcendence.’
Transcendence. Again.
‘The progress made by Benedikt and his team, aided by many of you—’ I caught my mother’s eye, certain I had heard the word “many” louder than the rest ‘—has been staggering. Not in the five centuries of our achievements have we developed such technology at such a rate, and with—’ she found Benedikt in the circle—’such promising results. Benedikt?’
Benedikt, who had already stepped forwards, smiled and raised his chin.
‘Yes, indeed, most promising. A proof of concept has been achieved and we have made a start on a prototype. We will be ready to begin full trials within two years, with the help of our team of volunteers.’
He held out his hand to a group of ten, who stepped from the darkness behind.
‘I give you The Devoted.’
There was Haralia with Jakob by her side. She seemed to glow more brightly than ever, beaming with pride in the halo of candlelight.
My mother approached them, face shadowed with concern.
‘Such bravery,’ she said. ‘Such selflessness. To give up your lives, to submit yourselves to the unknown as you do. What purpose you have.’
She began to clap, and the council joined her.
‘What purpose!’ she repeated, and the room filled with the sound of applause and appreciative murmurs. I joined with my own small claps, glancing back at you, relieved when you failed to stir. I did not want to risk an outburst.
The noise ebbed, and my mother returned to her place at the front.
‘More of you will be required as work begins on the prototype, and we shall have more regular meetings to discuss progress. Thank you, all of you, for your efforts.’
This was my chance. I prepared to speak over the throng’s murmurs, but my mother got there first.
‘Now then, onto another matter. Ima?’
The murmurs stopped, and every face turned to me. I stared back in surprise.
‘Yes?’
My mother smiled kindly and raised her eyebrows, nodding at your bench.
‘How is your project?’
‘What?’
‘The human, Ima. How does it fare?’
‘Well, actually I wanted to… I mean I—’ I began, swallowing and looking around the sea of expectant faces. In the shadows I saw Benedikt, his eyes doing what they always do. I felt a sudden unfathomable urge to flee.
My mother cocked her head.
‘He is two years old now, is he not?’
‘Almost three.’
‘And how does he behave?’
My mind presented me with a recent memory of you, red-faced and squashed in a corner, grizzling over a plate of incorrectly arranged carrots.
‘He can walk.’ You still stagger, and not over any great distance. ‘He feeds himself.’ You mash food into your maw when it suits you. ‘He has learned speech.’ I have already discussed this.
‘Perhaps we can see… him,’ said Council Member Caige, who stood beside Benedikt. There were murmurs of agreement.
‘He is asleep,’ I said.
‘Could we wake him?’
I paused.
‘I would strongly advise against it.’
More murmurs, this time of dissatisfaction. Benedikt rolled his eyes.
‘Why have you moved dwellings?’ he said. This brought silence.
‘Pardon?’
I had heard him perfectly well.
‘I understand that you have built a new dwelling, up in the rocks above your settlemen
t.’
‘Really,’ I said. ‘How do you understand that?’
‘It is my job to know everything that happens in the settlements.’
‘Is that so? I thought you were absorbed in the problem of transcendence. I did not think you had time to send out spies.’
I was speaking dangerously, but I did not care, and it was of no surprise to me that I had been spied on, or that my villagers had passed information to Benedikt without me knowing.
‘Spies?’ he said, frowning. ‘What a strange word to use. A human word. They sent spies to discover information of interest which was otherwise kept hidden by others. Secrets, you might say. The fact that you have moved is not a secret, is it, Ima?’
‘Of course not. But neither should it be of particular interest.’
‘Then why not just answer the question?’ Benedikt’s voice carried the hard edge of a constricted throat. ‘Your dwelling. Why have you moved?’
I paused.
‘It was better for my settlement. And for me. And for Reed.’
‘Reed?’ Benedikt’s eyes lit up. ‘He has a name?’
‘Everything has a name.’
He walked down the single step that raised the council from the crowd. The front row parted, allowing him in, and he approached me, moving slowly with his head bowed. The walls felt close, the darkness growing with his approach. I felt hunted, trapped. By now I wanted nothing more than to gather you up and bolt.
He stopped before me and raised his chin.
‘And why was it better that Reed was moved away from Fane?’
‘That is not what I said…’
‘Was he proving troublesome?’
‘Not troublesome, just…’
‘A disturbance?’
‘He himself was disturbed…’
‘Did he cry? Scream? Wail? Keep everyone awake at night?’
I have a piece of advice for you, and I am certain it can apply equally to humans as it does to erta.
Sometimes it is necessary to stop.
Whatever you are doing, whatever kind of exertion is putting you under strain—physical, mental, social—try to remove yourself from it, and be an observer of your own life. The more you do this, the more you realise you are not your own life at all, but something else. Something bigger. Perhaps what our friend Roop had in mind as he bowed over that warm, rolling river.
Just stop, before it all consumes you.
This is what I did. I allowed the wrinkle of anguish to unfurl from my face, and studied Benedikt’s expression.
Wide eyes, quivering lips arranged in a crooked, tooth-baring smile. I had never before witnessed an erta take such delight in another’s discomfort. Like the faces of the mob at my doorstep, this was a new experience.
Was this my fault? Had my work really taken me so far from the world that I simply did not understand the emotional complexities of my people, and that they were capable of such rage, such malice, such spite?
Or was this your doing?
‘Well?’ said Benedikt.
There was no point trying to explain away your night time terrors. Benedikt was quite correct; you had been both troublesome and disturbing.
‘He did.’
‘Ha.’ This time Caige spoke up. ‘Not yet three years alive and he has created unrest within a village and necessitated a brand new house. It is little wonder that his species was one of war and over-consumption.’
My gaze snapped upon him.
‘That is somewhat hyperbolic, Caige, even for you.’
I heard seven muffled laughs.
‘Life is difficult for him,’ I went on, calmed by Caige’s rankled face.
‘Difficult,’ said Benedikt, glowering. ‘How is it difficult?’
‘He requires comfort. And I moved dwellings because I detected an imbalance in my fellow villagers’ outlook, one that would skew their appraisal of his progress unfairly. They had grown impatient.’ I cocked my head. ‘As you appear to be yourself, Benedikt, even though you have never met the child. So I do wonder: where does your frustration originate?’
‘I am not frustrated, Ima. I merely want to…’
I raised myself up. My voice is a baritone, not loud, but I used all I could of it to fill the hall.
‘I congratulate you upon your progress, Benedikt. Transcendence will surely deliver us into wondrous new planes of existence. But I am sure your project has not been without its challenges, and I would never think to scorn it for them so early in its development. Neither should you do so with mine.’
I looked between the faces, along the broken council line, to Haralia, Jakob, my brothers and sisters who surrounded me in silence, and finally my mother.
‘What did you want to ask us?’ she said, breaking the silence. ‘Is the child all right?’
I hesitated. This was my chance. But I could not bring myself to do it. To ask for help would be to endure the glee of Benedikt and Caige.
‘We are fine,’ I said. ‘I do not ask for any help, no volunteers, tests, or trials. All I ask is for your belief in my project.’
‘Belief.’ Caige smiled unkindly. ‘Another human word. They only believed in imaginary things.’
‘That is true. But they also believed in us.’
My words trailed into silence, and I felt foolish.
I turned and made for the door, scooping you up in my arms as I left.
AS I MARCHED across the empty square to Ertanea’s grand paddock, where Boron waited, grazing, I heard footsteps behind.
‘Ima, wait.’
Greye was hurrying after me.
‘Are you all right?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said, though I was not.
‘Nobody has ever walked from a council meeting like that before.’
‘Yes, well, lots of things have happened recently which have not happened before.’
I turned. He had stopped in the middle of the square.
‘You have noticed it too,’ I said. ‘Things are not the same as they once were.’
It was barely a nod, but enough.
‘What is happening to us?’ I said.
He stood there, quite still, like an ancient tree.
‘You know the biggest difference between us and humans? They were always asking questions that do not seem to need an answer. Do you ever do that?’
‘What kind of questions?’
‘There are things you need to know.’
‘What things?’
Before he could answer you stirred, lifting your head from my shoulder.
‘Ima?’ you mumbled.
Greye smiled, startled. ‘He wakes. And speaks, too.’
‘What is it, Reed?’ I said.
You sat up, rubbed your eyes, looked around, and finally flung a chubby finger to the ground. This was an order. I placed you down and you waddled off to inspect the flower beds. I watched you, nibbling at my fingernail.
‘Something troubles you,’ said Greye. ‘What is it?’
‘He is unwell, Greye.’
There followed a void of words. Finally he took a deep breath and nodded.
‘The Halls of Necessity will not help, correct? And you do not want to ask the council for it.’
‘I will, just not—’
‘Don’t. You will put him in danger if you do.’
‘Why?’
‘Trust me.’
Just then the door to the council halls opened, and Greye turned.
‘I have to go,’ he said, suddenly hurrying. ‘Your friend, the one who visits you.’
‘Jorne?’
‘That’s right. Benedikt isn’t the only one watching.’
People were drifting out onto the square. I looked for you.
‘Reed, come here!’
You returned to me, arms out, and I lifted you up.
‘What about him?’ I said.
‘He is Sundra.’
‘You need not worry, I have no intention of seeking their company.’
‘You should. They
will be able to help you.’
He glanced over his shoulder at the growing crowd.
‘Take care of yourself, Ima, and of Reed. And please don’t stop asking questions.’
‘What questions?’
But he was already lost in the throng.
LIKE AN ANCIENT tree.
I am certain I did not read that in a book.
— TWENTY-THREE —
WHEN I RETURNED to Fane I made for the beach and found Jorne sitting on a rock, looking out to sea. A strong south wind whipped up the surf, and you ran off to play in it as I stood before him. He was turning a pebble in his hand.
‘Who are you?’ I said.
‘Nice to see you too, Ima.’
‘Tell me who you are.’
‘I am Jorne.’
‘You are Sundra.’
He stopped fiddling with his pebble and looked up.
‘Sundra is just another word. It means nothing.’
He stood and walked towards the water.
‘But you are,’ I said, following. ‘What do Sundra want? What is your purpose?’
‘We don’t have one. We don’t need one.’
‘Do you know much about humans?’
He turned and faced me.
‘Why are you so interested in the Sundra all of a sudden?’
‘Because I need your help.’ I looked for you. ‘With him.’
He followed my gaze to where you played. The sun had dipped and the shadows of trees were lengthening upon the sand.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Jorne.
I told him of your episodes, and of the Halls of Necessity, and of the council. He watched you as he listened, working his jaw and rubbing his thumb and fingers together. When I had finished, he turned to me.
‘And why do you need my help now?’
‘As I have explained, he is sick.’
‘So? Why should you or I care? After all, he’s only data, isn’t he? Well there you go.’ He pointed in your direction. ‘There is your data. Barely three years on the planet and nature has him by the throat.’
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