Suddenly I saw the Cat. It was crouched under a wide-branched tree, batting a ball between its paws. I looked more intently and saw that the ball was a bird. Its head lolled and there was blood on its feathers.
I felt slightly sick, though why it should be more disturbing for an Animal rather than a Truecat to kill a bird I couldn’t say. I walked quickly up the road and through the paddock and didn’t look back until I was halfway up the hill.
The Cat had vanished. The Utopia looked peaceful, almost idyllic; doll-like figures in a green and fruitful calm. I thought I saw Neil among the shadows of the distant orchard trees. It was hard to mistake his bulk. He was talking to someone—the girl Samantha perhaps. But he didn’t look my way and when I reached the top of the hill and looked down again the pair had gone.
It occurred to me as my feet crunched wattle seeds and small dead twigs that I hadn’t asked if there was an easier way from my place to the community.
But then I wouldn’t be visiting often.
Chapter 10
The nights consumed themselves, filled with a million memories I could never reach, a universe of data and other minds and worlds I would never now be able to create, and which always faded with the morning.
The days fell into a pattern—meals and gardening and books. I forced myself to read to occupy my mind, to try to stop the images that pelted it. I made sure I worked physically at least three hours a day and walked for another hour. I was afraid that if I were less exhausted I wouldn’t sleep at all.
The garden produced radishes, which I discovered I disliked, and small leaves of spinach as big as my thumb, and carrots all ferny top and no root. I had to sit and concentrate to remember that they grew their tops before their bottoms.
I’d once done a Garden of Eden—a Reality I’d been particularly proud of. A flowering abundance of fruit and vegetables, bees, birds, butterflies, with a particularly subtle range of subliminals—you didn’t need to touch the fruit to taste it—each sense merging with another. I’d picked up quite a bit of information on the growing habits of various foods, which still stuck oyster-like in my mind.
The Wombat visited irregularly, each third or fourth night perhaps, ate his bread or carrots and invaded the vegetable garden if I forgot to latch the gate. Either he didn’t know about latches or couldn’t manipulate them. A lyrebird visited the vegetable garden too; scratched up any recently dug dirt, but fled with a squawk of skinny legs and feathers when I approached.
And I was lonely, with a bone-deep ache. Lonely for the companions of my mind. Lonely even for the chatter of a human voice, so that I almost did walk over the hill, almost hoped that one day the basket of milk and fruit and bread might not be there, so I would have an excuse to return.
But it was there when I opened my door on the morning of every second or third day, and the previous basket taken in its place; never quite regular enough to wait and pretend to accidentally meet whoever brought it.
If it was still Theo’s wife, Elaine, who delivered it, I thought, she must enjoy walking late at night or early in the morning, because it was never there when I looked before going to bed. But the only sounds I heard in the night were the gongs of far-off owls, the snuffling of the Wombat and the mutter of the community’s rooster when the wind blew from that direction.
Then I finally met Elaine.
I’d been reading, had unexpectedly been caught up in the book. Like all City children I’d learnt to read and write, then promptly forgot the skill until I was seventeen and my explorations in the databanks led me back into the days of printed words, and the half forgotten skills began to grow again.
Now I found myself reading actual pages for pleasure, at first just a vague replacement for vids and Virtuals. (There wasn’t even a vid screen in the house, possibly because the City no longer produced screens that could be operated manually. If I ever wanted to see a vid again I’d have to go across the hill.)
Reading had become an occupation for days when the sun burnt down too fiercely to go outside till dusk or when the wind gusted hot leaves and hotter air in quarrelsome buffets at the house and, finally, I found myself reading for enjoyment, not to ward off boredom, and that night had stayed up to finish the book.
I heard the scratch at the door just as I was heading up the stairs. I opened it automatically, expecting to see the Wombat.
‘If you’ve been trying to open the gate into the carrot patch again…’ I said, then stopped, because it wasn’t the Wombat at all.
She was middle-aged, or possibly older, with the clear fresh skin of regular rejuvenations but the age-thin hair and weathered wrinkles around her eyes of someone who had never bothered—or perhaps never had the chance—to go cosmetic. She looked up at me and smiled. The smile looked a little too deliberate, a little forced.
‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you,’ she said, a touch too politely. ‘I was trying to be quiet.’
I took the basket from her. ‘You were. You always are,’ I said stupidly. ‘I was just passing the door, that’s all. Would you like to come inside? Have some tea? Or a cool drink or something?’
She must have heard the touch of desperation. Her smile grew more genuine. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’d like that.’ She stepped inside and followed me down the passage to the kitchen.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ I asked, my hand on the kettle.
She nodded to the cold flask in the basket. ‘Just milk, if it won’t leave you short. Though if it does you’re welcome to come down for more.’
I paused, my hand on the glass in the cupboard. ‘You must think me very rude,’ I said. ‘Taking everything you’ve given me and giving nothing in return.’
‘Theo says you pay for what you use.’
I filled the glass. ‘I get the feeling your community has no need at all of a credit deciliter a month.’
She laughed and took the milk. ‘Well, that’s true. Our credit balance is very comfortable, thank you.’
‘What’s your main exchange?’ I asked. I had become more and more curious about the Utopia on my doorstep. Although the library contained several Outlands reference books, there were none that mentioned Faith Hope and Charity, which added another sharp itch to the pain of the loss of my Link.
‘Apples. Mostly NewTech, a few old varieties, though we do keep a good stock of old ones for their genes. We hold the patents for OldGold and Russian Black,’ she added, naming two of the most popular apple varieties in the City.
‘Your community developed them?’ Somehow I had never thought that a Utopia might be hitech.
She nodded. ‘Several of us are involved in research as well as growing them.’
‘I saw some cows,’ I said.
She laughed again. ‘Thirty-six cows wouldn’t go far in credit exchange with the City. They’re for home consumption. We’ve got alpacas too. Just for our own use, like the hens and vegetable gardens. They’re usually in the paddock furthest from you.’
‘How many of you are there?’
She wrinkled her nose and put the empty glass down on the table. ‘I’m not sure exactly. Let’s see, sixty-two houses, Theo, Neil and me up at the Hall. There were fourteen kids in the last round of vaccinations. I put in a regular order for fifty regen packs each month. I suppose a hundred and fifty, hundred and sixty or so, all told.’
‘I hadn’t realised there were so many,’ I said.
‘Bigger than most Utopias. We’re more like a village really. No communal baths, that sort of thing.’ She grinned at me. ‘We each earn a wage depending on hours worked and the community’s income and a pension if working’s impossible. We get whatever fruit, veg and other home produced stuff we need—we always have too much anyway. Any City stuff you want you pay for yourself, except for things we all agree on, like OpenNet for the kids and tech training. And my equipment, of course.’
‘You’re the community MediTech?’
She nodded. ‘One of the girls is doing a year’s advanced practical in the City. She shou
ld be coming back in a few months. It’ll be good to have someone to share the load.’
She didn’t look as though the load was too burdensome. ‘You said Neil lives with you?’ I asked casually.
‘Since his parents died. Before that too, I suppose. They were ill on and off for a year before they died. Which was hard on Neil, but good in a way. He was as much my son, and Theo’s, as his parents’ by the time it all got bad.’ She met my eyes. ‘They weren’t easy deaths,’ she added.
‘No,’ I said. I knew enough from Mel about immune system collapse to know they wouldn’t have been easy at all.
‘Neil helped look after them,’ said Elaine. ‘I think he has the habit of looking after things now. He looks after Prissy just as much as Theo does. You met Priss didn’t you?’
I nodded.
‘And the Wombat too,’ she added. ‘Neil’s good at looking after things.’ It was definitely a reproach. ‘I’m not sure what Theo would do without him sometimes.’
‘What exactly does Theo do?’ I asked.
Again the smile. ‘Bookwork—strange how that phrase has lasted, isn’t it? Because of course there are no books involved at all now. Theo keeps the records, dickers with the City, does the advanced Net training applications, calculates wage rates, manages the credit lines. He enjoys it. But he’s getting on now and he’s allergic to the regeneration stabiliser.’ She said it matter-of-factly, but I could see the sadness there too. ‘It will be a blow to the community when we lose him.’
‘Is Neil his assistant?’
‘My word, no. Neil’s a Research Tech, level B access,’ she said, with more than a little pride. She stood up. ‘Thank you for the chat, my dear. It was good to meet you at last.’
‘Yes,’ I said awkwardly. ‘And I really do thank you.’
‘No thanks needed,’ she said briskly.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to come down to the community. I mean it is, but…’ I stumbled to a stop.
‘It’s just that some scars are best left to heal by themselves?’ she suggested gently, and I could hear the echo of her husband’s voice in her tone, the way couples who have shared their lives will share their intonations. ‘Is that it?’
‘More or less.’
‘And if humans proclaimed you non-human, then you’ll punish us by leaving us alone.’
Very like Theo, I thought. ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s not…’ I stopped again.
‘You know,’ said Elaine. ‘I’ve no idea what the word “human” really means. I’ve never really cared. See you soon I hope, my dear.’ She took the empty basket and slipped out through the door.
I sat in the kitchen for a long time after she left. I tried to think, but all my mind came up with was a repeated hum: ‘human human human.’
I wasn’t human. The Proclamation had said I wasn’t and, besides, I’d known it in my heart all along. I wasn’t human. I was Forest and we were more than human.
But now the Forest was gone and I still wasn’t human, and I was alone.
Chapter 11
Change always comes when you least expect it.
The body was lying by my gate when I went out for my evening walk two days later, half curled around the post as though for comfort.
At first I thought it was Elaine. But as I ran towards it I saw she—for it was female—was much smaller than Elaine, and younger too. A child’s body, I thought at first, then, when I turned her carefully face up I saw she was older than that. A teenager’s face, thin and sharp-chinned, and white except where the blood had smeared and crusted.
There was a lot of blood. It welled gently from a thin gash on the left side of her neck and from one wrist as well.
I tried to feel a pulse. The blood smeared my fingers—bright red, as well as dark and dried.
‘Can you hear me? Who are you?’
She muttered something. It sounded like ‘Please help.’
‘Of course I’ll help you. Oh God.’ I looked around frantically, as though miraculously someone might appear. But there was no one else.
I’d have to lift her, to carry her inside. Or should I try to stop the bleeding first?
Not panic. That’s what I had to do. Breathe deeply. Work out what to do. Retrieve the necessary data…
It always calmed me and it didn’t fail me this time. The necessary information welled up through my brain like the blood was welling from her neck…
No, don’t think of that. Think of what to do instead.
Pressure points, that was what I needed. Apply pressure till the bleeding stopped. There wasn’t very much, now I looked more closely, most of the blood was dark and old, with just a thin line of brighter newness.
Treat her for shock then. Get her into the house.
Oh God. It struck me then. Someone had done this. Someone who might still be watching, waiting, a darker shadow in the shadows of the trees…
A twig crackled behind me. I spun round, choking on a scream. But it was just the Wombat. It peered at me shortsightedly, sniffed three times at the unaccustomed scent of blood, then said, ‘Carrot? Bread?’
‘No, not tonight. Please, you’ve got to help me.’
‘Carrot? Bread?’ he said.
No help there. Besides, I doubted his paws could help me carry her in any case, despite the rudimentary fingers. Suddenly I had an idea.
‘Elaine! You know Elaine! Down at the community!’
‘Elaine,’ he repeated vaguely. There was blood on his paw I noticed. He must have trodden in her blood.
‘Or Neil! You must remember Neil!’ Neil had looked after the Wombat, I remembered suddenly. Surely the Wombat would remember Neil.
‘Neil apples apples bread apples,’ said the Wombat happily.
I breathed out in relief. ‘All right, Neil then. Tell him that if he comes here I’ve got some bread for both of you. Can you understand that?’
No reply. He blinked at me again. The girl groaned softly at my feet. I tried desperately to think of another way to say it. ‘Neil. You. Bread. Here.’
The Wombat looked at me for a moment. ‘Neil. Bread. Here.’
‘That’s it! You come here with Neil and I’ll give you bread. Lots of bread. Carrots, too.’
‘Carrots?’
‘Lots of carrots.’ I wondered frantically if I still had any. But that was the least of my worries. ‘Please go! Please!’
‘Carrots. Neil,’ he repeated. Then more firmly. ‘Carrots. Neil.’ He sniffed at the girl a final time, then padded off into the twilight.
I hoped Neil would understand. Hoped that any message from me, no matter how garbled, meant I needed help, needed someone to come.
Now to take her inside. I wriggled my arm carefully under her shoulders, trying to support her injured neck, then the other under her knees. She was surprisingly light and again I wondered if she might be a child.
Her head lolled on my shoulder. I could smell the blood on her, and something else, perfume perhaps, the scent of musk and roses, or was that the scent of blood?
Luckily I hadn’t locked the door. There was no way I could have unlocked it with her in my arms. Even so, turning the handle was almost impossible. I had to wedge her against the door, then push it open with my knee.
Inside I kicked the door closed behind me and headed for the stairs.
No, not up the stairs. Not my bedroom. I needed to be close to the kitchen. I carried her into the living room instead and laid her on the sofa as well as I could, with the cushions supporting her head and neck.
What next? Blankets. I ran upstairs, dragged the bedding from my bed and ran back down with it. I tucked it all around her, with her injured wrist outside. The blood began to ooze into the sheet. It had dripped onto the cushion already.
I fetched medi-seal from the medical kit in the pantry and disinfectant too. For a moment I wondered if I should try to stitch the wounds. I knew how to do it, theoretically at least. But perhaps the deeper tissue was damaged too. I had best leave it till Elaine arriv
ed.
I glanced out the window, but it had only been five minutes at the most since the Wombat had left. He would hardly be halfway to the community yet. If he was headed there at all. If he didn’t forget about it and remember tomorrow.
More warmth. She needed warmth. I grabbed the heatpaks from the medical kit and shoved them in the ultrawave, then wrapped them in clean teatowels and placed them by her feet, her chest.
I checked the medi-seal. There was no sign of blood welling up under the edges. Evidently the bleeding had stopped, at least.
I went into the kitchen, more slowly this time, and fetched a bowl of warm water and a new sponge from the packet in the larder. I pulled a chair up to the sofa and began to sponge the blood from her face and neck and hands.
Her skin was cold and very white, except about her eyes and mouth and cheekbones, where it looked blue. Not just from cold, I thought, but blood loss too. How much blood had she lost then? There had only been a few drops on the ground when I picked her up.
I tried to scroll through my mind for ‘blood loss’. But I’d only ever scrolled for basic first-aid. Even Mel had never been interested in the hands-on side of medicine. There was no data there for me to find.
The blood had caked in small waves across her skin. It was hard to wash off and I didn’t want to press too hard. Her skin felt cold and damp and almost spongy.
Suddenly her eyes opened. She stared at me. The injured arm trembled as though she was trying to lift it from the sheet. I laid my hand on hers as gently as I could. ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘You’re safe.’
‘Safe?’ Her voice was almost too faint to hear. Her eyes shut again, then opened. She stared at me in terror and pain. ‘Help me,’ she whispered again.
‘Yes, I’ll help you,’ I said.
‘Please don’t let me die.’
‘You’re not going to die. I’ve sent for help.’
‘He…he…’ Her eyes became unfocussed. Sweat beaded her forehead. She tossed her head distractedly and then, suddenly, she screamed, ‘No! Nooo!’ All at once she was struggling, as though she was trying to get away.
In the Blood Page 4