Origin m-3

by Stephen Baxter

  Without-Name grabbed her arm and held it tight; Manekato felt moisture, blood and sweat, soaking into her fur. “Of course Praisegod Michael is mad. But it is a glorious madness.”

  Manekato prised her arm away from Without-Name’s grip. Regretfully she said, “Glorious or not, I have to stop you.”

  Without-Name laughed. “You do not have the imagination or the courage for that, Manekato.”

  The Zealots were returning to the pile of Ham corpses. They were cutting away ears and hands, perhaps as trophies. But their movements were characteristically sluggish, like pale worms moving in the dark.

  Joshua:

  Joshua lay on the filth-crusted floor of his cell.

  He was left alone for days. It was worse than any beating. There was nobody to look at him.

  The People of the Grey Earth were never alone by choice. They spent their entire lives in their tight-knit communities, surrounded day and night by the same faces, change coming only through the slow tide of birth and death. Some women spent their entire lives within a hundred paces of where they were born. Even parties of hunters who ranged farther in search of big game would not mix with other groups of hominids, even other Hams; strangers were like faces in a dream, remote, not real.

  He tried to picture the hut, the people coming and going about their business. He tried to recall the faces of Abel and Saul and Mary and Ruth and the others. The life of the people was going on, even though he was not there to be looked at — just as it had continued after the death of Jacob, the endless round of days and nights, of eating and sleeping and fornicating, of birth and love and death.

  Jacob was dead. Was Joshua dead?

  Away from others, Joshua was not even fully conscious. As the light came and went, he felt himself crumble. He was the walls, the filthy floor, the patch of daylight in the roof.

  …And yet he was not alone, for there were people in the walls.

  Faint marks had been scratched there, perhaps by fingernails, or with bits of stone. Some of them were so ancient they were crusted with dirt, and could be detected only by the touch of his fingertips. Perhaps they were made by Skinny or Nutcracker-man or Elf or Runner. But not by Ham, for no Ham made marks like these.

  Scratches on the wall. Patterns that pulled at his consciousness. Boxes and circles and lines that longed to speak to him.

  He was in a cave. But it was not a cave, for its walls were made of rocks piled one on top of the other. Sometimes the people would build walls, lines of rubble loosely piled, to help keep out the small animals that foraged at night. Joshua knew what a wall was. But these walls went up, high above Joshua’s head, too high for him to reach.

  And there was a roof made of rocks too, suspended over his head. On first waking here, he had cringed, thinking a sky full of rocks was descending on him. But the roof did not fall. He learned to uncurl, even to stand — though each time he woke from sleep he forgot about the roof, and whimpered in terror and curled in a corner of the cell.

  The only light here came from a hole in the roof. He saw the days come and go through that hole, night succeeding day. He would lie on his back staring at the little circle of light. But when it rained, the water would pour through the hole, and he would huddle in a corner, shivering.

  Sometimes a face would appear in the hole, the face of a Skinny. Stuff would be thrown down at him. Sometimes it would be food that he would scrabble to collect from the floor. The food was poor, scraps of cut-up vegetable or fruit peel or bits of gristle, some of it already chewed, sour with the saliva of Skinnies. But he devoured it all, for he was constantly hungry.

  Sometimes they would hurl down water at him, usually brackish and stinking, enough to drench him. It would drain away out of a hole in the centre of the blackened, worn floor, taking much of his own shit and piss with it. When the water came he would stand with his mouth and hands open, catching as much as he could. And when it had finished he would scrape at the filth-blackened floor with his fingers, collecting as much of the water as he could, even lick the floor with his tongue.

  But sometimes all the Skinnies would throw down was their own thin shit, or they would piss in the hole, trying to hit him as he scurried from side to side.

  His memories of how he had come here were blurred.

  He remembered the clearing. After Mary had escaped he had been picked up by many Skinnies, all grunting with the effort. With every jolt his shoulder had blazed with pain. They had thrown him onto a platform made of strips of cut-up wood. And then the platform had been dragged away, along broad trails burned into the woods.

  He remembered entering the stockade. It was a great wall of sharpened tree trunks driven into the ground, many times higher than Joshua could have reached. Inside there were huts of sod and wood, dark hovels whose stink had struck him as he was dragged past. There were many animals, goats and rabbits and ducks. There were many, many Skinnies, with grimy skin and brown teeth.

  And there were Hams. They dragged at ropes and pushed bits of wood and dug at the ground. Joshua had hooted to the Hams, seeking help. Though the Hams were few, they could surely overpower these Skinny folk easily. But they had not responded, not even looked up, and he had been silenced by a slamming blow to his mouth.

  They had removed his skins, and he was naked. And he had been thrown into this darkened cell.

  The punishment had started immediately.

  There had been Skinnies around him. Some of them were grinning. One of them carried a stick whose tip glowed bright red. Joshua stared at the glowing stick; it was one of the most beautiful colours he had ever seen. For one brief instant he left his aching body, and was the fiery glow.

  But then the Skinnies shoved him on his back, trapping his limbs. The man with the glowing stick held it before Joshua’s face — he could feel heat, like a fire — the man rammed it into the wound in his shoulder.

  Only fragments after that, dark red fragments soaked with pain. Fragments, fading into dark.

  But Joshua welcomed the presence of those who beat him. For at least, then, he was not alone.

  One day he saw faces in the scratches on the wall. Faces that peered out at him, the faces of Skinnies.

  No, not faces: one face, over and over.

  The face of a man, thin, bearded, a circle over his head. The man looked at him, but did not look at him. Sometimes Joshua yelled at him, punched the face. But the wall would return, scraping his knuckles, and the man, not replying, would disappear into his web of scratches.

  Joshua was dead. He was in a hole in the ground, like Jacob. But there were no worms here. There were only the faces, looking at him, not looking at him.

  He screamed. He cowered in the corner, as he did when his captors pissed on him.

  That was how the Skinnies found him one day, when they burst into his cell with their clubs and rocks and whips. They mocked him, kicking at his back and kidneys, and they pulled him out of the corner and stretched him.

  A leering face hovered over him. “We’ll break you yet, boy, while there’s still some work left in that hulking body of yours.” He arched his back, trying to see the man in the wall.

  There was laughter. “He’s looking for Jesus.”

  Running footsteps. A boot launched at his face. He felt a tooth smash at the back of his mouth.

  “Help!” he cried. “Help me, Cheesus!”

  The gaolers staggered back, open-mouthed, staring.

  A day and a night. His tooth was a pit of pain.

  Skinnies were in the cell. Joshua scuttled to his corner, expecting the usual blows.

  But a net was thrown over him. He did not resist. His hands and arms and feet and legs were tightly bound, and then his legs folded behind his back and tied up to his waist.

  Wrapped in the net, he was dragged out of his cell.

  Outside was a long, narrow cavern. There was no daylight, but fires burned in pits on the wall. He saw only the floor and walls, the lumping shadows of his gaolers as they dragged him, letting
his bruised limbs and head rattle on the floor.

  They paused, and there was a clanking, clattering noise. Joshua lifted his head dully.

  He was facing an open cell. A man sat in the cell, a Skinny. But this was a Skinny like none Joshua had ever seen. He had no hair on the top of his head, none at all, although stubble clustered on his cheek. And his clothing, though filthy, blood-stained and torn, was not like the skin the Zealots wore. It was blue: a blue membrane, like the wings of the sky seed.

  Joshua, electrified, gasped with recognition.

  The man was looking at him. “My name is Reid Malenfant,” he said gently. “If you get out of here, remember that. Malenfant.”

  Joshua worked his mouth; it was crusted with blood and his lips were cracked. “Mal’fan’.”

  Malenfant nodded. “Good luck to you, friend.”

  And then the door was slammed.

  Shadow:

  She stayed away from the others. She slept in nests at the periphery of the crater-wall forest, and fed from trees and shrubs far from the movements of the rest of the group.

  She searched for cobbles in streams and on the exposed, eroded crater walls.

  She had not grown old enough to acquire more than the most basic tool-making skills. So it took her many tries, chipping at cobbles with stones and bits of bone, before she had manufactured something that felt right. It was a lens shaped cobble, with one crudely sharpened edge, that fit neatly in her hand.

  Through these days her determination burned, clear and unwavering.

  Burned until she was ready.

  Joshua:

  Joshua was in a new place. The walls were white, like snow. The floor shone, smooth as a bamboo trunk.

  Joshua stood naked at the cell’s centre. Heavy ropes bound his hands before him and his feet, and the ropes were fixed to a great bar dug out of the rock floor beneath him. There were big holes in the walls covered by palm fronds, and through them Joshua could see daylight. He sniffed deeply, but his cavernous nostrils were clogged with snot and blood.

  There were people in the walls.

  The marks on these walls were not mere scratches. They were vivid images in bright blood-red and night-black, and in them Joshua saw the thin, bearded man. The man was much clearer here than in the deep cell — so clear he never went away — and there were many of him, shining brightly, even one version of him fixed to a tree trunk and bleeding.

  Joshua cowered.

  “Well might you avert your eyes from the Lord’s countenance.”

  Joshua turned. A man had spoken. A Skinny. He was taller than Joshua, his hair grey, and his black clothing swept to the ground. His black robes were skin, finely worked, black like charcoal from a hearth.

  Joshua cringed. But no blow came. There was only a hand on his forehead, light, almost curious, exploring his brow ridges.

  “Well might you hide your face for shame of what you are. And yet you called out for the Lord’s help — so the brutes assigned to break you assured me… Stand up, boy.” Joshua received a hard toe cap to the side of his leg. “Up, Ham.”

  Reluctantly Joshua stood.

  The man had a sharp nose, and warts on his face, and eyes such a pale blue they made Joshua think of the sky. He walked around Joshua, and touched his chest and back. His hands were very soft. “I did ask for you to be cleaned up,” he said absently. “Well. You may call me Praisegod Michael. Do you understand? I am Praisegod Michael. Praisegod.”

  “Prai’go’.”

  “Praisegod Michael, yes.” Praisegod peered into his eyes. “What brows, what a countenance… And you, do you give yourself a name?” When Joshua didn’t reply, Praisegod pointed to his own chest. “Praisegod Michael.” And he pointed to Joshua.

  Joshua spoke his name. When he moved his mouth his smashed tooth hurt; he could feel pulp leak into his mouth.

  Praisegod laughed. “Joshua. My fathers named your fathers, when they found themselves sharing this Purgatorial place with you… And now you pass on the names one to the other, down through the generations, like heirlooms in the hands of apes. Very well, Joshua. And what are you?”

  The man’s thin face, with its flat brow and high, bulging forehead, terrified Joshua. He had no idea what Praisegod wanted.

  Praisegod produced a short, thick whip. With practised motions he lashed at Joshua’s shoulder. The pain was great, for that was the site of Joshua’s spear wound. But the skin was not broken.

  “If you do not answer, you will be treated so,” Praisegod said evenly. “But let me answer for you. You have a man’s name, but you are not a man. You are a Ham. That is another name my father gave yours, and it is appropriate. Do you know who Ham was?”

  A failure to reply brought a fresh lash of the whip.

  “Ham, father of Canaan, son of Noah. He failed to respect his father. Cursed be Canaan; a servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren. Genesis 9,2-5. A servant of servants, yes; that is your place, boy. But then you know nothing of Noah, do you? You are an animal — a magnificent one, perhaps, and yet an animal even so. From your misshapen head to your splayed feet you signify antediluvian stock — if not pre-Adamite, indeed.” Praisegod seemed to be growing angry. Joshua watched him dully. “The world was cleansed of your kind by the waters of the Flood. But you survive beyond your time in this dismal pit. And now you call on the Lord Himself—”

  Another lash to the shoulders, and Joshua flinched. Then a blow to the back of the legs forced Joshua to his knees.

  Praisegod Michael grabbed Joshua by his hair, making him raise his head. “Look on His merciful face. What can you know of His benison? Do you know what my fathers suffered to bring the Word to this world? When they fell here, they had nothing: nothing but the clothes they wore. They were set upon by beasts like yourself; they starved; they fell prey to diseases. And yet they survived, and built this community, all by the strength of their hands, and their faith.

  “And in all this they remembered the Word. They had no Book with them, not a single copy. But they remembered. They would sit around their fires and recite the verses, one after another, seeking to recall it for their children, for they knew they had no way home.

  “And that is how the Word of the Lord came to this pit. And now you, an animal of the field, with your thunderbolts of stone, you presume to call on Him for help?…”

  Joshua folded over himself, letting the whip fall. He felt his flesh break, and the whip dug deeper into the wounds it had made.

  Shadow:

  The fungal growth now framed her vision, black as night.

  When she heard the roosting calls of the people, she slid through the trees. The people nested, silhouetted high against a cloud-laced earth-blue sky. She recognized One-eye by the grunting snores he made, the stink of a body she had come to know too well.

  She slipped up the trunk of the tree, her long hands and feet gripping. With scarcely a rustle, she clung to branches above One-eye’s rough nest.

  He lay on his back, hands wide, legs splayed, one foot dangling over the edge of his nest. His mouth was open, and a thin stream of drool slid down his chin. He had an erection, dark in the Earthlight.

  She clung to the branches with her feet and legs, and hung upside down over him. She took his penis in her mouth and sucked it gently, rubbing the shaft with her lips. In his sleep, he moaned.

  Then she bit down, as savagely as she could.

  He screamed and thrashed. She could hear answering hoots from surrounding nests.

  She flung herself down on him. His eyes were wide and staring, and she thought she could smell blood on his breath. He was stronger than she was, but he was already in intense agony, and she had the advantage of surprise. He pushed feebly at her face with one hand. She grabbed the hand, pulled a finger into her mouth, and nipped off a joint with a single savage bite. He howled again, and she spat the bloody joint into his open mouth, making him gag.

  Then she raised her shaped cobble and slammed it against the side of his head. />
  Joshua:

  A day and a night, here in this white place, without food or water.

  Men scrubbed him roughly. They mopped away the blood and shit from the floor.

  Praisegod was prone to swings of mood, which Joshua neither understood nor could predict. Sometimes there was coldness, cruelty, heatings. But sometimes Praisegod would gaze at him with bright eyes, and run his hands over his battered body, as a mother might stroke a child. Joshua quickly learned to dread such moments, for they always finished in the most savage heatings of all.

  And yet he longed for Praisegod Michael to stay, rather than leave him alone.

  He lay on his side, staring at the marks on the walls — not the face of Cheesus, but strange angular lines, the loops and whorls. Bewildered by pain and exhaustion, he stared and stared, trying to lose himself in the lines, trying to see the faces there.

  “What is it you see, boy? Can you read? Can you read the Lord’s words? Do you hear what they tell you?” Showing his sporadic, chilling tenderness, Praisegod Michael was kneeling on the floor, with Joshua’s head on his lap.

  His mouth dry, his tongue thick, Joshua whispered, “People.”

  “People?” Praisegod Michael stared at the marks. “These are words, and these are pictures. The words speak to us… Ah, but they do not, do they? Marks on the wall do not speak. They are symbols, of the sounds we make when we speak, which are themselves symbols of the thoughts we concoct… Is that what you mean?” His hands explored Joshua’s body with a rough eagerness. “What lies inside that cavernous head of yours? The words you utter are themselves symbolic — but your kind have no books, no art. Is that why you cannot understand? Would you like me to tell you what those letters say to me?” He pointed at the wall. “After this I looked, and there before me was a door standing open in Heaven. Revelation 4,1.”

  “Heav’n,” Joshua mumbled.

  “The sky, child, where we will pass when we die.”

  Joshua twisted his head to see Praisegod’s face. “Dead.”