The Art of War

by David Wingrove

  He shivered. And then the pain came back, like nothing he had ever experienced.

  Ben woke and sat upright, beaded in sweat, his left hand held tightly in his right, the pain from it quite real. He stared at it, expecting to see a tiny hole burned through from front to back, but there was no outward sign of what was wrong. It spasmed again, making him cry out, the pain unbelievable – worse than the worst cramp he had ever had.

  ‘Shit!’ he said beneath his breath, annoyed at himself for his weakness. Control the pain, he thought. Learn from it. He gritted his teeth and looked at the timer on the wall beside his bed. It was just after five.

  He must have damaged the hand, getting Meg out of the water.

  When the pain subsided he got up, cradling the hand against his chest, and began to dress. It was more difficult than he had imagined, for the slightest awkward movement of the hand would put it into spasm again, taking his breath. But eventually it was done and, quietly, he made his way out and down the passageway.

  The door to Meg’s room was open. Careful not to wake her, he looked inside. Her bed was to the left against the far wall, the window just above her head. She lay on her front, her hair covering her face, her shoulders naked in the shadow, her right arm bent above the covers. The curtains were drawn, the room in partial darkness, but a small gap high up let in a fragment of the early morning sun, a narrow bar of golden light. It traced a contoured line across the covers and up the wall, revealing part of her upper arm. He stared at it a moment, oblivious of the dull pain in his hand, seeing how soft her flesh seemed in this light.

  For a moment he hesitated, wondering if he should wake her.

  And if he did?

  He shivered, remembering how she had come to him in the night, and felt that same strong stirring of desire. Though it disturbed him, he could not lie to himself. He wanted her. More now than before. Wanted to kiss the softness of her neck and see her turn, warm and smiling, and take him in her arms.

  The shiver that ran up his spine was like the feeling he had when listening to an exquisite piece of music, or on first viewing a perfect work of art. But how so? he wondered. Or was all art grounded in desire?

  The fingers of his damaged hand clenched again. He took a sharp intake of breath against the pain and leaned his shoulder against the doorpost. It was the worst yet and left him feeling cold and weak, his brow beaded with sweat. He would have to have it seen to today. This morning, if possible. But first there was something he must do.

  He went down and unlatched the door that led into the garden. Outside the air was sharp, fresh, the sky clear after the rain. Long shadows lay across the glittering, dew-soaked grass, exaggerating every hump and hollow, making the ground seem rutted and uneven. The roses were beaded with dew, the trestle table dark and wet.

  He was still a moment, listening to the call of birds in the eaves above him and in the trees down by the water. It was strange how that sound seemed always not to breach but to emphasize the underlying silence.

  The pain came again, more bearable this time. He braced himself against it, then, when it was fading, lifted the injured hand to his face. There was the faintest scent of burning. A sweet, quite pleasant scent. He pressed it against his cheek. It was warm. Unnaturally warm.

  Cradling the hand against his chest, he stared out across the lawn towards the shadowed bay. The tide was high. Sunlight lay in the trees on the far side of the water, creeping slowly towards the waterline.

  He smiled. This much never changed: each day created anew; light flying out from everything, three hundred metres in a millionth of a second, off on its journey to infinity.

  He went down, across the lawn and on to the narrow gravel path that led, by way of an old, rickety gate, into the meadows. The grass here was knee high, uncut since his father had left, three months past, the tall stems richly green and tufted. He waded out into that sea of grass, ignoring the path that cut down to the meandering creek, making for the Wall.

  There, at the foot of the Wall, he stopped, balanced at the end of a long rib of rock that protruded above the surrounding marshland. The Wall was an overpowering presence here, the featureless whiteness of its two-li height making a perfect geometric turn of one hundred and twenty degrees towards the southeast. It was like being in the corner of a giant’s playbox, the shadow of the Wall so deep it seemed almost night. Even so, he could make out the great circle of the Seal quite clearly, there, at the bottom of the Wall, no more than thirty paces distant.

  Ben squatted and looked about him. Here memory was dense. Images clustered about him like restless ghosts. He had only to close his eyes to summon them back. There, off to his left, he could see the dead rabbit from five years before, sunk into the grass. And there, just beyond it, his father, less than a year ago, looking back towards him but pointing at the Seal, explaining the new policy the Seven had drawn up for dealing with incursions from the Clay. He turned his head. To his right he could see Meg, a hundred, no, a thousand times, smiling or thoughtful, standing and sitting, facing towards him or away, running through the grass or simply standing by the creek, looking outward at the distant hills. Meg as a child, a girl, a woman. Countless images of her. All stored, hoarded in his mind. And for what? Why such endless duplication of events?

  He shuddered, then turned, looking back at the cottage, thinking how ageless it seemed in this early morning light. He looked down, then rubbed the back of his left hand with his right, massaging it. It felt better now, more relaxed, which made him think it was some form of cramp. But did machines get cramp?

  He breathed deeply, then laughed. And what if we’re all machines? What if we’re merely programmed to think otherwise?

  Then the answer would be, yes, machines get cramp.

  It was strange, that feeling of compulsion he had had to come here. Overpowering, like his desire for Meg. It frightened him. And even when it was purged it left him feeling less in control of himself than he had ever been. Part of that, of course, was the drugs – or the absence of them. It was over a week now since he had last taken them. But it was more than that. He was changing. He could feel it in himself. But into what? And for what purpose?

  He stared at the Seal a moment longer, then looked away, disturbed. It was like in his dream. The bottom of the lake: that had been the Wall. He had sunk through the darkness to confront the Wall.

  And?

  He shivered. No, he didn’t understand it yet. Perhaps, being what he was – schizophrenic – he couldn’t understand it. Not from where he was, anyway. Not from the inside. But if he passed through?

  He stared at the Wall intently, then looked down. And if his father said no? If his father said he couldn’t go to college?

  Ben got to his feet, turning his back upon the Wall. If Hal said no he would defy him. He would do it anyway.

  ‘Again, Meg. And this time try to relax a bit. Your fingers are too tense. Stretch them gently. Let them feel for the notes. Accuracy is less important than feeling at this stage. Accuracy will come, but the feeling has to be there from the start.’

  Meg was sitting beside her mother at the piano. It was just after nine and they had been practising for more than an hour already, but she was determined to master the phrase – to have something to show Ben when he returned.

  She began again. This time it seemed to flow better. She missed two notes and one of the chords was badly shaped, yet, for all its flaws, it sounded much more like the phrase her mother had played than before. She turned and saw Beth was smiling.

  ‘Good, Meg. Much better. Try it again. This time a little slower.’

  She did as she was bid, leaning forward over the keys. This time it was note perfect and she sat back, pleased with herself, feeling a genuine sense of achievement. It was only a small thing, of course – nothing like Ben’s playing – yet it was a start: the first step in her attempt to keep up with him.

  She looked round again. Her mother was watching her strangely.

  ‘What is i
t?’

  Beth took her hand. ‘You’re a good child, Meg. You know that? Nothing comes easy to you. Not like Ben. But you work at it. You work hard. And you never get disheartened. I’ve watched you labour at something for weeks, then seen Ben come along and master it in a few moments. And always – without fail – you’ve been delighted for him. Not envious, as some might be. Or bitter. And that’s...’ She laughed. ‘Well, it’s remarkable. And I love you for it.’

  Meg looked down. ‘He needs someone.’

  ‘He does, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I mean...’ Meg placed her free hand gently on the keys, making no sound. ‘It must be difficult being as he is. Being so alone.’

  ‘Alone? I don’t follow you, Meg.’

  ‘Like Zarathustra, up in his cave on the mountainside. Up where the air is rarefied, and few venture. Only with Ben the mountain, the cave are in his head.’

  Beth nodded thoughtfully. ‘He’s certainly different.’

  ‘That’s what I mean. It’s his difference that makes him alone. Even if there were a hundred thousand people here, in the Domain, he would be separate from them all. Cut off by what he is. That’s why I have to make the effort. To try to reach him where he is. To try to understand what he is and what he needs.’

  Beth looked at her daughter, surprised. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s Ben. And because I love him.’

  She reached out and gently brushed Meg’s cheek with her knuckles. ‘That’s nice. But you don’t have to worry. Give him time. He’ll find someone.’

  Meg looked away. Her mother didn’t understand. There was no one else for Ben. No one who would ever understand him a tenth as well. Not one in the whole of Chung Kuo.

  ‘Do you want to play some more?’

  Meg shook her head. ‘Not now. This afternoon, perhaps?’

  ‘All right. Some breakfast, then?’

  Meg smiled. ‘Why not?’

  They were in the kitchen, at the big, scrubbed pine table, their meal finished, when there were footsteps on the flagstones outside. The latch creaked, then the door swung outward. Ben stood in the doorway, looking in, his left arm held strangely at his side.

  ‘That smells good.’

  His mother got up. ‘Sit down. I’ll cook you something.’

  ‘Thanks. But not now.’ He looked at Meg. ‘Are you free, Megs? I need to talk.’

  Meg looked across at her mother. She had been about to help her with the washing. ‘Can I?’

  Beth smiled and nodded. ‘Go on. I’ll be all right.’

  Meg got up, taking her plate to the sink, then turned back, facing him. ‘Where have you been... ?’ She stopped, noticing how he was holding his left arm. ‘Ben? What have you done?’

  He stared at her a moment, then looked towards his mother. ‘I’ve damaged the hand. I must have done it on the rocks.’ He held it out to her. ‘I can barely use it. If I try to it goes into spasm.’

  Beth wiped her hands, then went to him. She took the hand carefully and studied it, Meg at her side, her face filled with concern.

  ‘Well, there’s no outward sign of damage. And it was working perfectly well yesterday.’

  Ben nodded. ‘Yes. But that stint at the piano probably didn’t help it any.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’ Meg asked.

  ‘It did. When I woke up. But I’ve learned how not to set it off. I pretend the problem’s higher up. Here.’ He tapped his left shoulder with his right hand. ‘I pretend the whole arm’s dead. That way I’m not tempted to try to use the hand.’

  Beth placed his arm back against his side, then turned away, looking for something in the cupboards. ‘Have you notified anyone?’

  He nodded. ‘Two hours back. When I came in from the meadows. They’re sending a man this afternoon.’

  She turned back, a triangle of white cloth between her hands. ‘Good. Well, for now I’ll make a sling for you. That’ll ease the strain of carrying it about.’

  He sat, letting his mother attend to him. Meg, meanwhile, stood beside him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder.

  ‘Why was the keyboard black? I mean, totally black?’

  He looked up at her. ‘Why?’

  Meg shrugged. ‘It’s been playing on my mind, that’s all. It just seemed... strange. Unnecessary.’

  Beth, kneeling before him, fastening the sling at his shoulder, looked up, interested in what he would say.

  ‘It’s just that I find the old-style keyboard distracting. It preconditions thought; sets the mind into old patterns. But that all-black keyboard is only a transitional stage. A way of shaking free old associations. Ultimately I want to develop a brand-new keyboard – one better suited to what I’m doing.’

  ‘There!’ Beth tightened the knot then stood up. ‘And what are you doing?’

  Ben met her eyes candidly. ‘I don’t know yet. Not the all of it, anyway.’ He stood, moving his shoulder slightly. ‘Thanks. That’s much easier.’ Then he looked across at Meg. ‘Are you ready?’

  She hesitated, wondering for a moment if she might persuade him to listen to the piano phrase she had learned that morning, then smiled and answered him softly. ‘Okay. Let’s go.’

  It was late morning, the sun high overhead, the air clear and fresh. They sat beneath the trees on the slope overlooking the bay, sunlight through the branches dappling the grass about them, sparkling on the water below. Above them, near the top of the hillside, obscured by a small copse of trees, was the ruined barn, preserved as it had been when their great-great-great-grandfather, Amos, had been a boy.

  For two hours they had rehearsed the reasons why Ben should leave or stay. Until now it had been a reasonably amicable discussion, a clearing of the air, but things had changed. Now Meg sat there, her head turned away from her brother, angry with him.

  ‘You’re just pig stubborn! Did you know that, Ben? Stubborn as in stupid. It’s not the time. Not now.’

  He answered her quietly, knowing he had hurt her. ‘Then when is the time? I have to do this. I feel I have to. And all the rest... that’s just me rationalizing that feeling. It’s the feeling – the instinct – that I trust.’

  She turned on him, her eyes flashing. ‘Instinct! Wasn’t it you who said that instinct was just a straitjacket – the Great Creator’s way of showing us whose fingers are really on the control buttons?’

  He laughed, but she turned away from him. For once this was about something other than what he wanted. This was to do with Meg, with her needs.

  ‘Don’t make it hard, Megs. Please don’t.’

  She shivered and stared outward, across the water, her eyes burning, her chin jutting defiantly. ‘Why ask me? You’ll do what you want to anyway. Why torment me like this when you know you’ve decided already what you’re going to do?’

  He watched her, admiring her, wanting to lean forward and kiss her neck, her shoulder. She was wearing a long, nut-brown cotton dress that was drawn in below the breasts and buttoned above. The hem of it was gathered about her knees, exposing the tanned flesh of her naked calves. He looked down, studying her feet, noting the delicacy of the toes, the finely rounded nails. She was beautiful. Even her feet were beautiful. But she could not keep him here. Nothing could keep him. He must find himself. Maybe then he could return.

  ‘Don’t chain me, Meg. Help me become myself. That’s all I’m asking.’

  She turned angrily, as if to say something, then looked down sharply, her hurt confusion written starkly on her face.

  ‘I want to help you, Ben. I really do. It’s just...’

  He hardened himself against her, against the pity he instinctively felt. She was his sister. His lover. There was no one in the world he was closer to and it was hard to hurt her like this, but hurt her he must, or lose sight of what he must become. In time she would understand this, but for now the ties of love blinded her to what was best. And not just for him, but for the two of them.

  ‘Keep me here, Meg and it’ll die in me. It’ll turn inward and fester.
You know it will. And I’ll blame you for that. Deep down I’ll come to hate you for keeping me here. And I never want to hate you. Never.’

  She met his eyes, her own moist with unshed tears. Then she turned and came to him, holding him, careful not to hurt his damaged arm, her head laid warmly, softly, on his right shoulder.

  ‘Well?’ he said after a while. ‘Will you support me against Father?’

  He noticed the slight change in her breathing. Then she moved back away from him, looking at him intently, as if reading something in his face.

  ‘You think he’ll try to stop you?’

  Ben nodded. ‘He’ll make excuses. The uncertainty of the times. My age.’

  ‘But what if he’s right, Ben? What if it is too dangerous? What if you are too young?’

  ‘Too young? I’m seventeen, Meg. Seventeen! And, apart from that one visit to Tongjiang, I’ve never seen anything other than this, never been anywhere but here.’

  ‘Is that so bad?’

  ‘Yes. Because there’s more to life than this. Much more. There’s a whole new world in there. One I’ve no real knowledge of. And I need to experience it. Not at second hand, through a screen, but close up.’

  She looked down. ‘What you were saying, Ben, about me chaining you. I’d never do that. You know I wouldn’t. And I can free you. But not in there. Not in the City.’ She raised her eyes. ‘This is our place. Right here. It’s what we’ve been made for. Like the missing pieces of a puzzle.’ She paused, then, more earnestly, she went on, ‘We’re not like them, Ben. We’re different. Different in kind. Like aliens. You’ll find that out.’

  ‘All part of Amos’s great experiment, eh?’

  ‘Maybe...’ But it wasn’t what she had meant. She was thinking less of genetic charts than of something deeper in their natures – some sense of connection with the earth that they had, and that others – cut off by the walls and levels of the City – lacked. It was as if they were at the same time both more and less advanced as human beings, more primitive and yet more exalted spiritually. They were the bridge between Heaven and Earth – the link between the distant past and the far future. For them, therefore, the City was an irrelevancy – a wrong direction Man had taken – and for Ben to embrace it was simply foolish, a waste of his precious time and talents.