Bloodsong

by Melvin Burgess

  Another few minutes and Ida has reached the deepest part of the lake. She lays her oars in the boat and turns to the empty man. She avoids looking again into his face. She takes him under the arms and heaves. Her work is interrupted when something small and fast flies past. She catches only a sense of it as it disappears suddenly into the black air over the water, but it startles her out of all proportion because this dead-of-night stuff is disturbing and she imagines that whatever it was flew right out of Sigurd’s head. She gives a great cry and flings herself back into the boat, which rocks dangerously. She clings to the sides panting, staring at the man flopping awkwardly, half in, half out of the boat, his feet weighed down by steel, his head dangling in the water. Impossible! Of course. But even so the impression was so vivid she passes a hand over his face to convince herself there is no hole in it.

  My god, it scared her half to death! A moth hiding in the boat. A bat. Gods! Her heart was beating its way out of her chest.

  Ida turns on her torch and peers into Sigurd’s face. Nothing. Just drool and starlight reflecting against empty eyes. She grunts. That’s better. It’s not murder when there’s no one to kill. Well, it’s still dark work but it must be done.

  With an effort she pushes the body over the side, picks up the oars, and heads for the shore. She wants her breakfast. Beneath the water Sigurd struggles like a worm in the water, fighting for a life he no longer knows he has. He awakens—at last but so late. All his memories are gone but those that live in the body—even Grimhild can’t steal those—and in a flash of dreadful fear, he knows that his life is in danger, that there are things he loves in his blood and his bones, and things he once knew that are worth every struggle and pain. Fight, Sigurd, fight! He kicks his legs: such is his strength, even bound with wire and drained of every thought and feeling, he manages to swim up. His chains tauten on the huge steel weight attached to him, but even that can’t stop him. He hauls the weight out of the mud and still he kicks—up, up, up to the air. Two minutes have passed. Slowly, so slowly. Another minute. He is kicking so violently in the water that the body of the lake shakes, and still he goes up—slowly, slowly, a third of a meter up and then a quarter down, a third up, a quarter down. Four minutes. His strength is incredible. And now the impossible happens, and Sigurd’s face breaks the surface, his mouth opens—and he sucks in a great lungful of air.

  And what good does that do you, Sigurd? Where will you go? To the shore? What will you do when you get there with no memory, no personality, nothing but form and muscle? Sigurd, you are already dead.

  There he goes, on the surface of the water, what was Sigurd, kicking, kicking, kicking, breathing, breathing, breathing. It took him nearly five minutes to get to the surface. Ida had beached her boat and was stepping into the house when she heard the splashing in the middle of the lake. Filled with horror, she launches the boat again, rides out with her torch to find what? Sigurd’s face, sitting on the surface like a duck, as the lake heaves around him with the violence of his kicks. She is horrified—horrified that he’s still alive and horrified at his strength, that he could kick like that and hold a two-hundred-pound weight suspended in midwater.

  She lifts her oar high into the air and brings it down with all her violence on the upturned face. The face sinks and then reappears. She lifts again and strikes—again and again, over and over, hard as she can. The face turns red; the water around it turns red. Membranes deep inside burst open. Still he kicks, still he hangs on with his chin to the water’s surface, staring at her sideways out of his mindless eyes; and still Ida bangs and bangs and bangs until it seems to her that she’s in Hel and this is her punishment—to murder Sigurd forever and ever and ever, amen.

  Just before dawn, Sigurd’s kicks weakened and he began to sink. Four times he made it back to the air and Ida’s waiting oar, before he sank back down, filled up with water and mud, and died. He was just a few months past his sixteenth birthday.

  The clone awoke next morning from a deep sleep. He lay for a while gazing up at the ceiling and slowly gathering his thoughts, which seemed to rise up from somewhere deep inside and then gather in front of his eyes like a puzzle solving itself inside him. He was at the Old House. The war was ending. He was making plans; they were almost ready.

  He felt deeply rested, as if he’d slept for a lifetime. But odd, very odd. Something was wrong but he had no idea what.

  He got up and went to the window and looked out into the cool milky air of the morning. He felt so rested! He had no right to feel so rested after the weeks that had just gone. The call of a curlew came floating across the rough pastures: beautiful. But something was different. There was something on his mind—that wasn’t on his mind. Something he had to do. But what on earth was it?

  On the other side of the window was a tap, tap, tap. He looked up to see a bird on the other side of the glass. It rapped again, like a scattering of seed flung at the windowpane. A wren! Such shy birds, what was it doing? It was as if the bird wanted to come in. Smiling, he got up, expecting the little thing to fly away, but it just stood there, waiting for him. Around its foot was wrapped a scrap of cloth. A homing bird? A homing wren? He opened the window and the bird flew in so quickly he hardly saw it move. It seemed simply to have changed places instantly and was now sitting on the sill in front of him. It lifted a leg, like a parrot wanting to climb on his finger. He held out his finger and sure enough the bird stepped onto it. The clone smiled in amazement, then reached out and very, very gently unwrapped the little scrap of scorched cloth from around its leg and opened it up.

  There were two words written on it, one on each side. LOVE; and WAITING.

  What sort of a message was that?

  Suddenly the wren, which had seemed so tame, jumped up and fluttered in his face, straight at his eyes. With a cry the clone brushed it away. It darted back at him, struck him on the forehead, and he dashed it away again. With an angry squeak, the little bird fluttered around the room—and then it was gone out of the window and hidden away in the bushes outside. He looked out after it, but there was no sign.

  What was that about? A message? From who? Odin, perhaps? “Love” was not a very Odin-like word. Trying to peck your eyes out, that was a bit more in character. Perhaps love was coming his way. Waiting? What did that mean? A warning perhaps, that he was going too fast? It could mean anything. If you didn’t know what was going on, you read into things whatever you wanted.

  The clone scowled. He wasn’t used to mysteries, things were always clear to him. And yet it felt that this was something he should know. Was someone trying to tell him something? Then why didn’t they speak clearly?

  He put the scrap of cloth in his pocket. In there, to his surprise, he found a number of strange little items; a golden nut from a tiny bolt, a few scraps of material. Meaningless. He threw them in the bin and went down to breakfast.

  I was scared. I’d been scared a lot lately. Scared of turning into a monster, scared of turning into a god. Then it was the war. But that morning I felt empty. I was changing all the time. Was this what the gods felt in the face of the horror of war? Nothing?

  Mass murder—that had been our work for weeks. It was difficult to believe that it was nearly over and that a whole nation of murderers would put down their guns, disarm their terrible machines, go back to their families, kiss their mothers, and get back to work. You turn yourself into this great big shit to get it over with. What if you got stuck?

  I never saw a dead body during the whole war—that’s so sick. I was kept out of the way. I was too valuable to risk. I was saving lives—me, the murderer, the war machine. I started it and I was saving lives so I had to be kept alive and I was the direct cause of thousands of deaths every day. It made me sick. Every time I finished a plan, every time an operation was carried out, I’d start retching like a cat.

  But that particularly morning there was no nausea, no fear, nothing. I felt different . . . calm. Maybe I was just so worn out I’d gone numb at last. I believe
that every time you kill someone, you lose a part of your soul. Surely I had none left by this time. And then there was that strange incident with the wren at my window. Such shy little birds and there it was, almost trying to talk to me. That’s what it felt like. When it left, I leaned out of the window and there was a honeysuckle growing there. Lovely thing, covered in yellowy pink flowers that smelled of honey. Only the day before, the sight of something like that would have filled my heart to overflowing. Now—well, it was beautiful, I could see it; but I couldn’t feel it.

  Something was different.

  I thought, So soon? I’m only sixteen and I’ve lost the taste for life already? It made me laugh. At the time I thought it was a part of changing into a god but now I know better. It was something human in me dying. I think I killed too much. I only know that I used to be overflowing with love for the whole world, but that night, something in me died. I dried up.

  The numbness didn’t surprise me. The war was almost over now, and there’d been no time to mourn before. As soon as you relax, the pain starts. I’d lost my mother and Alf and all the good people I knew back in Wales. Perhaps it was just sinking in.

  I got up and went downstairs. Grimhild was away somewhere, the staff were all off that morning, I was on my own. I felt lonely. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs to feel—you understand? To feel what I was feeling. And there was nothing there. Nothing. I shook my head. It was as if a plate glass wall had fallen down between me and the world. I remember thinking, This ought to be scaring me. But I had the sense that pretty soon it would.

  I had a pee, went into the kitchen to get something to eat. I opened the fridge, took out some milk, had a swig, put it back, turned round—and then it started. The strangest feelings, deep inside. I couldn’t place them, I had no idea what they were, but they were moving right down in the deepest part of me, and they were coming closer. I could almost see them swimming up, like monsters rising from the depths.

  I stood still and waited for it to go away, but it didn’t stop. It just went on and on, it got stronger and stronger. So many feelings, so strong, so confused. Everything was—out of place.

  I managed to make myself a cup of coffee and went through to sit on the sofa next door. It felt so big already and it was still getting stronger. Fafnir was nothing compared to this. It’s true what they say, the worst monsters are inside you all the time. Stronger and stronger, I’d never felt anything like it. I thought it was the horror of war coming to get me, the weight of all I’d done, all the people I’d helped kill, all the widows and orphans I’d made. The longer it went on, the faster and more powerful it got. There was no end to it. I don’t know how long I sat there holding on to the coffee, trying to stop myself going mad, but suddenly the cup fell out of fingers onto my legs, and it was stone cold. I was amazed, I couldn’t have had a thought in my head for an hour or more. I knew I was in bad trouble then. It wasn’t just feeling bad—I was literally falling to pieces. I was having some sort of a breakdown. I thought, Me? This doesn’t happen to me, but having a skin nothing could pierce wasn’t going to help me this time. My mind started spinning faster and faster than ever, I was getting giddier and giddier and sicker and sicker, and I was holding on tighter and tighter but there was nothing at the center and pretty soon the whole fucking mess was going to fly off in every direction.

  I was late, we got held up. Troop movements, I can’t remember the details but it held me up and I didn’t get to the Old House until late afternoon. I was pissed off about it because, yow!— you know, Gunar and Hogni weren’t due there until later, Mum was out, so me ’n’ Sigurd’d have the place to ourselves. Yeah, yow yow yow I was still hoping—you know? I’d caught his eyes on me a few times. I’d look up and he’d look away. He was so young. Maybe he was shy.

  Yeah rrr. There was someone else. I’d have asked about her—the bitch!—but we hadn’t time. That month. War! Awful. But even in the middle of all that your feelings for people go on. I was thinking about him all the time. Rrrow. Oh. Poor me. Maybe today I’d find out.

  But we had something between us. It was the first time I was going to be on my own with him. So my heart was beating when I came through the door, but what I found I never dreamed of it.

  It was a complete shock. I heard it from outside before I went in—this whimpering, like an animal that’s been beaten. It didn’t sound like a man at all. I pushed the door and went in. He was curled up into a ball on the sofa clutching this cushion like it was all he had in the world and crying. I was going quietly to surprise him. He didn’t see me at first. I just stood there, I was so shocked. I’d started to think of him as almost invulnerable, we all had. So strong! But I realized then— there’s a little boy underneath it. Just a kid after all. You could tell by the way he was holding himself that there was something deeply wrong. I thought, Breakdown! At once. I knew something inside him had broken. I was terrified. He was everything to us. But at the same time I was relieved, in a way, because—well, it was like he was human after all.

  I called his name and he turned round to look, all crooked. He’d been crying for hours, I think. His face was red and puffy. He looked awful. Not himself anymore.

  “Are you all right?” I began, and he started talking—trying to talk, I mean. Odd words and stutters, and phrases, but it wasn’t stringing together. I remember frowning and trying to work it out, like I was hearing it wrong or something, but it was just gibberish. He couldn’t speak. He held out an arm to me instead and I ran across the room and took him in my arms. It was dreadful, dreadful. Watching something so beautiful and precious and full of love just falling to pieces in front of your eyes. I was so desperate and so scared for him, so scared I was going to lose him. He was the hope of the world, but it wasn’t because of that. It was because I loved him. I loved him so much. I know. Everyone loves Sigurd of course, but I loved him like—like a woman loves a man. I’d have done anything to make him mine. I’d fall to pieces myself if anything happened to him—his beautiful body or his beautiful mind or his beautiful spirit.

  As soon as I took hold of him, he let go of the cushion that he’d been hanging on to for dear life—it was sodden wet with dribble and tears, and he grabbed hold of me hard, like he was letting go of a beam a thousand feet high in order to reach me.

  “Stay here, stay with me, please, I need help . . . stay with me, stay here with me, please . . .” he panted, a long string of words wrapped up in breath and choked in tears.

  “Yes, darling, oh yes, yes. Oh, whoh whoh whoh. Okay, okay, I’m here. Don’t worry. Don’t worry, no no no no, I’m not leaving you. Hang on, hang on, it’ll pass,” I said, that sort of thing. And all the time he was still saying over and over:

  “Please don’t go, hold on to me, please don’t go, hold on to me, please don’t go, please don’t go . . .”

  It was so awful, it broke my heart. How long had he been there? He held me so tight. I’d been dying for him to hold me tight, but not like this, not like this. I was terrified that he was going to fall to bits on me—you know, just disintegrate and fall totally to pieces in my arms. I didn’t know what was going to happen or what to do. I wanted to get up to ring for help, get a doctor or some medication, but I was scared to let him go, he was so desperate for me to be there with him, not to be alone. Every time I made a move he panicked and grabbed hold of me. So I just stayed there, holding on to him, stroking his head, murmuring to him, telling him it was going to be okay.

  He stopped crying after a bit and just lay there panting, like a scared animal. I honestly thought he was dying, but he was getting calmer. I kept on stroking his head and waited. I hoped he was going to go to sleep, or pass out or something, and then I could creep to get the phone and ring for help. I was thinking, What are we going to do now? Because one thing was for sure— if we lost Sigurd, we were going to lose everything. What would the people think if he disappeared?

  Gradually he became very still and calm. I kept thinking he was asleep, but every ti
me I moved, he tightened his grip on me. I didn’t know if he was gone—do you understand? I mean, his personality. I thought maybe all that was left was something like an animal, nothing but that. And then—it was odd. He was lying across my lap and he started to stiffen up. You know? I could feel it against my stomach.

  “Well!” It made me laugh. “You can’t be that ill.”

  Sigurd pulled back and half laughed, wiping his eyes. But he still looked dreadful.

  “Okay,” he said. He sat up and looked at me, and I looked back at him.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, which was stupid because he obviously wasn’t.

  “No.”

  “I’m going to ring for a doctor . . .”

  “No! Don’t go!” He grabbed me again in panic. He pressed me to him. But it was a bit different now. We were front to front.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  “Do you want to come with me to the phone?” I asked.

  “Stay here,” he said, and he nodded firmly as if that was the right thing to do.

  I disentangled myself and we both sat back down. He had one hand on my leg, the other on my shoulder. It was partly like he wasn’t going to let me go and partly like he was going to kiss me. “What’s all this about, then?” I asked.

  He smiled thinly. “I’m going mad.” As he spoke, he was looking closely into my face as if he was seeing me for the first time. “I’ve been going mad all day. Now I’m . . .”

  “What?”

  “Now I’m coming back.” He scowled. “I don’t understand.”

  “It must be me, I must be completely marvelous, just me being here has made you better,” I told him, and we both laughed.

  “You are,” he said. I smiled at him, but he was quite serious for a moment. Then he smiled back at last, and—yow-yow-yow—my heart began beating like an engine because he’d never looked at me like that before. I mean, he’d looked me over, I knew he fancied me, but I mean—you know what guys are like, they can fancy their own mothers practically if it’s just a question of looking. This was different. It felt like—we’d both fallen into the right place.