by Claire North
In the night, I dream about Tinics, and the temple above the river, and the forest as it grows. I dream about Yue, and lanterns of red and blue. Then Georg is there, in my mind, and he knows everything, and the Medj just watch as he pulls my thoughts out through my blinking eyes, and do nothing, and I wake terrified that I’ve been talking in my sleep and everyone knows.
“Ull doesn’t want to fight,” Georg muses, as I hand him the day’s summary from the radio waves and server offices. It has been nine days since I left my little capsule of photos behind the drainpipe. More than enough time to get it back to Budapesht, to develop the film, to find Pontus, to end this farce. What is taking so long? “Jia knows it too. If she tries to get a consensus from the Provinces to attack, she doesn’t know how many will follow her to war.”
I have to force myself back to the room, paying full attention, but too late. Georg has seen my distraction and clicks his tongue, disappointed, before moving on to the next thing.
Three nights later, the united Temples declare Maze officially in a state of heresy. They should have done it weeks ago, and that night the citizens of Vien wait for the lightning storm, the tornado and the rush of judgement, and none comes. The kakuy, it seems, do not respond to Temple paperwork.
On the day when the summer festival should have been celebrated in baskets of lavender and rosemary, the temples stood silent. Instead Antti proudly struck a shovel into the new open-pit lignite mine on the edge of the river at Yahnbach, a somewhat futile gesture given that the tooth-limbed machines were waiting behind to strip back the soil into dunes of dusty black – but it looked good for the cameras. Antti Col was nothing if not good for selling copy.
Rilka, passing me on the stairs in Georg’s office, caught me by the wrist. “They’re looking for a spy,” she hissed. “They’re looking everywhere.”
They’re looking in her room, and under her bed. She is no spy, I’m almost sure of it, but perhaps she once hid a stick of incense or a letter to another woman, failing in her duty to humanity, reason and her sex. Perhaps she takes contraceptives or once expressed admiration for Jia and the Council, a long, long time ago. Perhaps Georg is inside her head too, as I’m certain he is inside mine.
“We’ll be fine,” I said, pulling my hand free. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”
The next evening, Klem was not at dinner at the hearth, nor the night after that. When he did return, there was blood on his cuff, and bruising on his fists, and he didn’t smile at me, and looked like he might spit at my little shuffling bow.
Lying on my bed in the dark, I did not sleep, and did not think, and did not dream. I was the mountain, hollowed out inside, nothing left but darkness and bones.
The smell hit me when I woke. The ever-present turbid mud of the river, a sudden alien presence rising with the dawn. Then voices through the window, high and urgent, the wailing of a siren somewhere in the distance, and beneath it all a strange rushing, as of wind over the sea when tide and gale contend in opposite directions. I stood up, opened my door and looked down the stairs to see greyish water flowing freely through the hall, rushing through every crack and half-shuttered window. It foamed and rolled like coffee in a vat, bumped floating furniture and spun lifted floor cushions and torn flowers through its maw in little busy eddies. Other members of the hearth were already struggling to save their few ruined belongings, heaving saturated fabrics onto the stairs and clawing at slippery cutlery that spun away from their scrambling blue-tipped fingers. I descended slowly, not wanting to get my feet wet, but seeing no other way than to enter the water, removed my socks and shoes, fruitlessly rolled my trousers up, and stepped in. The flood was a cruel cold, enough to shock without bringing the body to alarmed wakefulness. Grit swirled in it, already caking the floor of the hearth with sand and mud, and other things brushed too, each one presumed sentient, or a knife swept up in the tide which would tear its way through flesh, hidden beneath the swell.
I helped as much as I could, saving those belongings that were salvageable, joining a human chain to pass things to a higher level. Within an hour, even that project was abandoned as the water rose another half metre, coming nearly to my shoulders as I joined the exodus upstairs, peering out through high windows as our garden washed away.
The flood lingered for the best part of two days.
After came the clean-up. The stink of river could not be scrubbed from the city for months. Lines of green and brown smeared every wall, and the hosepipes we turned on to try and blast it away just filled us with the sickening memory of water, water, more moon-cursed water. Dead fish and still-slithering eels rotted and blanched in the sudden hot sun. Every blade of grass, every flower and every twining climbing thing was brown, brown, brown and dead, the streets lost to silt, the sewers overflowing and the raw stink of faeces everywhere. We quickly gave up trying to distinguish between mud and shit, wading through it all in calf-deep splats of sodden earth, from which the occasional flash of child’s toy or purple perfume bottle might emerge like a pearl from the crusty oyster. Any electrics which had been below the water line were destroyed, taking with them cold-stored food and large swathes of the city’s power supply. Families moved towards the rooftops to hard-wire their cookers directly into the solar panels and few overhead compression batteries to get a charge, while children tore and scratched their bare feet on the endless blankets of shattered glass and splintered wood the flood had carried with it.
We all knew disease was coming but were unsure of how, until at last the lack of stored food and difficulties in getting fresh supplies began to bite at our stomachs, and we started eating those apples that were only a little black, or maybe where the decay had only gone somewhat into the core; and that bread where you could dust the mould off, or where the spores were basically the same white as flour. Those whose bowels didn’t immediately open caught the cough that spread on the backs of the teeming, roaring, hungry flies that now rose up from the beds of mud that slathered the city, commuters flapping their way through the translucent swarms which fluffed into hair and nibbled at the moist edges of blinking eyes, fearless of the enervated humans that loosely swatted them away.
Antti came on the radio and proclaimed: “To aid in the relief of Vien, we are introducing a new fleet of ambulances and fire trucks powered by the internal combustion engine! Reliable, fast, these vehicles can get the job done!”
Hearing this, some of the more pious denizens of Vien prayed, and many more rejoiced, even though the fleet of promised vehicles were at least a year and a half away.
Chapter 19
In the most secret hours of the night, I pray to the kakuy.
I do not put my hands together, nor offer incense, nor bow my head. Georg’s hunt for the spy in his midst is at such a fever pitch that I think there must be holes in my wall, that Klem is watching me from the neighbouring room while I sleep, waiting to catch me whispering secret things as I toss and turn. I have grown so paranoid that I now have to sleep with my face turned to the wall, lest the motion of my dreaming lips betray me. I think that when they come for me, it will be better not to be looking at the door; I have spent many hours calculating the best way in which to be murdered.
Please, spare us, I whisper in silence to the darkness and the moon.
Temple taught us such things were futile. The kakuy do not care for the prayers of man. They are not interested in our good or bad, our desires or whims. We pay them our respects, not because they will smell the incense or taste the wine, but to remind ourselves of the needfulness of this pact. Everything changes; the balance is all.
We arise of the earth, and to the earth we return. I whisper it, and it is the beginning of one of the sacred lessons, but it has been so long since I spoke it out loud. Georg will know my thoughts, he will see it in the corner of my eye, know that I have been praying.
I close my eyes, force my hands to my sides, breathe out slowly.
I am the forest, growing.
The illusion that I am an
ything else, flesh and blood, heart and soul – this too will change.
Then Nadira said: “It was Pav.”
I am nearly nauseous with relief, press against the warm mycelium wall, the slimy tidemark of the flood a soft green line against the pale bricks. “Pontus is Pav Krillovko? You’re sure?”
“The document you sent us came from Pav – we’re certain of it.”
“So Council has arrested him? Jia knows? Krima knows?”
“No.”
“Why in the name of sun and fire not?” I have to catch myself from shouting, hold back the breath, clench my fists against shaking.
Nadira’s face is sorrowful without regret. “Because it isn’t possible for Pav Krillovko to be Pontus. He wasn’t in Budapesht when our liaison gave Council the doctored document. It was put on his system, but he couldn’t have physically read it until at least a week after Georg received it from Pontus. He was in a temple in the south – on spiritual retreat. Dozens of Medj were with him every day and every night, praying.”
I am not the fucking mountain. I am not the turning sea. I am small and mortal and made of flesh that can be hacked, blood that can be spilt, this is my life, my only tiny sacred life, and it is running away from me, the only thing that matters, I am terrified of the earth, terrified of maggots, terrified of the size of the sky and how soft and squishy are human eyes as they look up in fear.
Nadira tries: “Ven, listen…”
“No. I told you about the temples – I warned you what Georg would do. He is tearing the Brotherhood apart looking for me, and it’s only a matter of time. Either we find Pontus or Pontus finds me, that was always the deal, and now… How did Georg get Pav’s document, if Pav wasn’t there? Someone on his team?”
“Perhaps. We are investigating – we are. Krima knows, she is why we know Pav couldn’t have… Ven, look at me. You did everything right. We’ll find another way.”
It seems to me that these are the words you say to a corpse, and to my shame I walk away from her before she has a chance to try and make things right.
Chapter 20
On the day that should have been the autumn festival, the temples stood empty, blackened shells, and I travelled through the city with a mask over my face and citronella smeared across every inch of bare skin as the hospitals stank with the smell of putrefaction and the new factory chimneys blasted smoke into the sky.
“We have the technology to defeat all plagues,” Antti proclaimed. “We are growing strong.”
For the first time, the clinics started serving the wealthiest first. It was only right, the Brotherhood said, that those who had the most, made the most, got the most.
Behind the office, I found Rilka vomiting into the gutter. I caught her by the arms and pulled her into the street as she protested, swore she needed to work, needed to keep going, do what was right. I called an ambulance, but when it didn’t come I hailed a rickshaw, bundled her inside, her lips blue, face burning, fingers cold. How could one person be so many seasons at once?
“I’ll be all right,” she said, pressing her face into my chest. “We’re making something better.”
At the hospital, there weren’t any beds, the summer sickness washed in deep by the floods. I called Georg to explain where I was, and why. He was there in sixteen minutes; in nineteen, Rilka had a bed and a private room. He stood over her as she was plugged into drips and drains, held her hand, daubed her brow with the self-same hankie I had given her the night the temples burned, told her what a good girl she was, how proud he was of her, waited until she was asleep. Then at last he stepped away, nodded at me, once, an affirmation – the right thing had been done, though in that time and place I had no idea what the right thing meant any more.
Then he said: “Give you a lift?” and I nodded, and he drove me home and poured me a drink and asked me if I’d had my vaccinations, and I had, and he nodded again and mused: “It will get worse, before it gets better.”
I waited, too tired to give whatever came next even the half-hearted noises of consent a spy should when his enemy speaks.
“The Burning Age was too short-sighted. We shaped the world; built towers, seeded the sky, dug the earth, walked on the moon, built wonders and cured diseases. We waged wars, drained seas, built palaces in the desert. But we consumed too much. Ran too fast. The kakuy were… antibodies, no more. The world’s antibodies stirred by the planet recognising its disease. We were nearly wiped out, the peoples scattered to the furthest corners by the deserts and the storms. This time, we will do better. Our mistake was thinking that the fruits of man’s labours must be shared with all. Now we know it is only for the few to lead, wisely and well. That is the new humanism that we have forged.”
I stared at my hands and didn’t say a word.
“You’ve slept with her?” he asked. In the past, such turns of topic, the sharpness of his voice, would have startled me. But I was the mountain, hollow inside, so I shook my head. “You want to?”
“I don’t know.”
“Men and women need to honour each other. It is the proper way of things. We spent so much time honouring the kakuy we forgot how to do homage to ourselves.”
I looked up at that, bewilderment in my eyes, tongue too tired to keep silent. “Do you really believe that?” I asked. “You say all the things Antti wants to hear, you talk the philosophy and the fight and human superiority, but… do you believe that?”
The boldness of my own question astonished me, but not so much as his reaction. Somewhere in Georg’s clothes there is a hidden blade; I do not know if he has slit the throats of men with it or whether, like the great potentates of old, he allows others to do his killing for him. That night, he laughed. He laughed like nothing I have ever heard, and held my shoulder tight, a brother who at long last saw his kin returning home, and looked into my eyes, and saw something funny there, and laughed again, and poured me another drink, and did not answer my question.
Walking in the park as the crimson leaves fall, there is a smell on the air I do not know, and Nadira says: “It is called gasoline.”
I kick at fallen leaves and nod at nothing much.
“I know it’s taking too long. I know. We’ll find Pontus. Krima is co-operating with the inquisition, there were only so many people who could have accessed Pav’s files, it’s all high clearance – that means limited suspects, it means… do you want out?”
All children love jumping in puddles, playing in leaves. I try to remember if there was a moment when I forgot that particular delight. “Krima could also be Pontus – you know that, don’t you?”
She nods. “We’ve considered the possibility. But she’s head of security. Who else can we go to? Ven. Look at me.”
I do not. A memory hovers on the edge of recollection, blue-black hair in a crowd. “Krima has a… deputy, yes? Yue Taaq. I knew her.”
“How?”
“We grew up together. Well – yes. In the same village, I mean. I saw her when Jia visited, walking in the crowd behind her.”
“Did she see you? Did she recognise you?”
“I don’t think so. What’s her clearance?”
“Why?” I shrug, and don’t know the answer. “I would say no more than classified. Taaq runs military liaison for Krima; she’s not got access to Temple material, let alone to Pav’s servers. Do you trust her?”
“I don’t know. We were children. I hadn’t thought about her since… she was in the forest when it burned, you see. We ran to the river, and there was… but she always said she only saw the fire. Is there going to be a war?”
“Do you think there will be?”
I consider the question. “Yes,” I say at last. “And Jia will lose, for a while, because Antti is building tanks and machine guns and artillery pushed by petrol engines. Then Antti will lose for a while, because these things cost too much to make. Then everyone will lose for a while, as is the way of the thing. I do not know who will be alive at the end of this.”
“Ven.” She s
tops dead, puts her hand on my shoulder – a rare breach of the strict distance between us, a flutter of humanity in our professional undertakings. In the autumn forest, a new cycle is beginning, a kind of rebirth. In every rotting branch, at every shrivelled root, in every fallen leaf and rotten fruit that falls unplucked to the sodden earth, the thin-tendrilled fungi and fat-headed bugs are setting to work, feasting for the winter, breaking down what was into what will be again, a turning without end. “We can get you out.”
“Pontus sends Georg intelligence by microdrone. I found one, once, behind the kitchen. It must have malfunctioned. Solar-powered, a few hundred miles’ range. Fly by night, recharge by day. I have stolen so much from him, he tells me things… but Pontus – nothing is written, nothing is shared. Only Georg knows who they are.”
“I’m going to pull you out.”
“No – no.” I shake my head, am surprised at the ferocity of it. “I will not have this all wasted. When things are on fire, you have to… you have to do the best you can.”
For a moment, I think she will argue. But then Nadira had never really wanted me to quit. So she smiles, nods, and we keep on walking through the fading day.
Two days after remembrance night, when families make offerings to the dead and dancers in white robes bang drums and parade through the streets, chanting the old cries – we are the dead, we are the dead, all that is living is all that dies – Jia mobilised an army.
She justified it as manoeuvres, training exercises. It was a traditional fighting force of six-shot rifles and guerrilla troops, light units on bicycles specialising in a war of forest and night.
“We will resist any aggressive moves by the Council to suppress our freedoms!” Antti proclaimed across the radio waves, as the first iron tank rolled from the new factories on the end of the railway line. Iron production in Maze was still low, steel smelting a low-key industry that the Brotherhood had not yet had time to fully scale up. Nor had they had full access to all the material needed to make a proper, full-blown tank of the kind the Burning Age had rained death from. His was an almost rectangular, creaking thing, with not quite enough braking power to stop itself rushing downhill on the verge of toppling, nor enough horsepower from its combustion engine to get up a hill at more than a snail’s pace, and definitely not in rain. Yet it had machine gun turrets mounted left and right, and a short cannon at front capable of firing shells that could shatter wood into splinters at four hundred metres, once it had cranked its way round to aim. It made an impression, and making an impression was half the point.