1/2986

by Annelie Wendeberg

  He sees my gaze resting on the thing, and says, ‘The weather is growing worse. We need to reach the other side of the reservoir in fifteen minutes.’

  I get the feeling that he thinks faster than he talks. And off he strides, covering more ground with his long legs than I with my shorter ones. I have to run a little to keep up.

  We reach the other side quickly, and he sets his machine on the ground. A capillary is extracted from a hatch on the back, extended to the reservoir’s edge, buttons are pushed, and water is sucked through the opaque tube into the machine.

  ‘It identifies microorganisms,’ he begins. ‘It’s impossible to analyse the hundreds of substances potentially contaminating soil and water. Not without a whole park of HPLCs, FPLCs, GCs, MALDI-TOF-MSs, spectrometers, fluorometers, and a wet-lab.’

  I don’t have the faintest what he’s talking about.

  ‘Hence, we are using a single, but not much less complicated device,’ he continues. ‘It allows us to identify all microbes in a sample. Microbes can adapt to their environment within minutes, and they show us what their environment is made of. Some of them are indicators of harmful substances, some are harmful themselves. Do you know where your drinking water comes from?’

  I nod. Of course I know. Everyone does. It comes from a well that takes groundwater from a few metres below. ‘But why do you test the reservoir?’ I ask.

  ‘Because rainwater flows through the topsoil into deeper soil layers. When it reaches geological formations that make it flow horizontally, then it’s called groundwater and the geological formations are called aquifers. Your reservoir constantly exchanges water with surrounding aquifers. Rainwater and meltwater also flow along the surface into the reservoir. Rivers, streams, and the like. The hills surrounding the reservoir, feeding water into it, are called the catchment area. If the soil or any waterbody in the catchment area has a problem, the reservoir water will acquire the same problem, and soon this problem will show in the aquifer below and, hence, in the water you pump from the valley’s wells to drink, wash, and cook.’

  My head spins. ‘Did you test the well water already?’ But all I really want to ask is, ‘You are a real Sequencer, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, last night.’

  ‘Is it okay?’

  ‘Patience, Micka. My analysis is not complete.’

  The machine is dead quiet and I begin to wonder if it’s broken.

  ‘We can leave,’ he says and rolls the tube back into the hatch. The machine produces small grating sounds. ‘What you hear is the self-cleansing mechanism. It wouldn’t help if I identified microbes growing in the capillary or the machine. Therefore, capillary and machine need to be DNA-free.’

  My mind is overloaded. It feels good, exhilarating. I notice that he didn’t lecture me once and didn’t call me slow or stupid.

  Yet.

  ‘What you don’t want in your drinking water is anything that can harm you. There are several pathogens — microbes that make humans, animals, or plants ill. Vibrio cholerae, for example, is a human pathogen.’

  Every child knows what Vibrio cholerae is. The first words we learn are mama, papa, cholera. In that order. “Pandemic” is a bit too complicated for toddlers, so that word comes later.

  ‘How could this thing kill most of us?’ I interrupt.

  ‘We need to find shelter.’ He points up at the sky. It hangs heavy and low and dark above our heads. Wind pushes against my back as though to urge us forward. ‘I believe you know the area better than I.’

  ‘Is that a test?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course. Everything is.’ His hair stands on end. The air is charged.

  So this is it, then. I’ll have to turn my back to him and lead him into the woods. He can slam that machine on my head and my lights will go out and I’ll know nothing of what comes after. Or nothing of all this will happen and…my life will change. I could be a Sequencer.

  I nod. ‘This way.’ Rushing ahead and into the forest, I seek a low stand of trees. My neck doesn’t even tingle. I’m quite ready for change, whatever it might be.

  When we climb through a dry wash, the first drops hit my shoulders. We reach a small elevation covered with spruce trees. Farther from us are pines, spruces, and the occasional oak. I point at a pine that is short enough as not to attract lightning, yet broad enough to protect us from rain and flying branches.

  We crouch underneath it, our backs against the trunk, our butts poked by spruce needles. Or at least mine is. I have problems focussing on anything. Hope is growing stronger, inhabiting my stomach like a sharp-toothed beast, making it ache, pucker, and lurch.

  ‘What do you know about the Great Pandemic?’ he asks and BLAM! I feel like I’m back at school.

  ‘The Great Pandemic was caused by Vibrio cholerae and ended sixty-eight years ago, leaving only 1/2986th of humanity alive.’ That sentence comes easily because I’ve written it only yesterday, in my history finals.

  ‘How can it be that one small microbe killed most of us?’

  ‘The water…’

  He tilts an eyebrow. My answer doesn’t seem to please him. I look at my shoes. ‘I…don’t know.’

  ‘Question everything, Micka. The Earth is one very large piece of rock that once harboured ten billion humans. Disease is as common as birth and death, and life adapted to it hundreds of millions of years ago. Cholera has been around for thousands of years. That’s a long time for humans to adjust to it, don’t you think? So how can it be possible that close to ten billion people died of this one disease?’

  His stare is intense. I feel myself growing smaller with every silent second that ticks by, while hope is screaming, “This is it, Micka, the real thing! Don’t screw up!” I see myself failing this very first test, not even an hour into my so-called probation period. It pisses me off, big time.

  ‘I don’t have enough information,’ I say. ‘All I’ve ever heard and read about the Great Pandemic was that so-and-so many people died because cholera suddenly and inexplicably swept over us, and that it will never happen again. All we’ve ever learned at school are a few names of cities that were hit first, when they were hit, which way the pandemic spread, and how many died in which year and place — never an answer as to why. Whenever I asked ‘why,’ people told me ‘because I said so.’’

  He smiles. How come he smiled?

  ‘And what does that tell you?’ he asks.

  ‘How would I know? Maybe they don’t know, either.’

  He tips his chin. ‘Historic reports of the Great Pandemic are impossible to count, and it’s impossible to read them all. Interpretations vary. Accounts vary. Whatever knowledge we can extract and whatever conclusions we draw from the breadth of information is openly shared among all Sequencers. However, what the council of each settlement chooses to believe and hence, communicate to its citizens, is often an oversimplification of what we really know.’

  The first CRACK! splits the dark, hitting some poor tree deep in the woods. ‘You picked a good spot,’ he says calmly, probably noticing the tremble that ran through my back.

  But it’s not fear that shakes me. It’s excitement. ‘Why are you called a “Sequencer?”’

  ‘We let people believe that it’s because we sequence genomes of microbes and map their occurrences and capabilities wherever we go. Our…profession…originates from a group of scientists, engineers, and historians who investigated the sequence of events that led to the demise of most of humanity. But if we were only investigating what caused what, we’d still be only a bunch of scientists, engineer, and historians. We call ourselves Sequencers because we create sequences of events.’

  I swallow. ‘What events?’

  ‘We move settlements from one place to another, for example.’

  ‘And…that leads to what?’

  ‘A mixing of beneficial genetic traits. Thinning of unfavourable genetic traits.’

  ‘Are you saying that you guys are lying when you wipe clean a whole village? It’s never really cho
lera but some… some breeding program?’

  ‘A dangerously simplistic view.’ He squints up at the black clouds. ‘Cholera is a serious threat, as are the small and isolated human subpopulations.’

  ‘I want proof of your identity. I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘I haven’t introduced myself yet,’ he shouts over encroaching squall.

  I wait, but he remains silent. The world around us blares with thunder, storm, and rain as if the weather wants to uproot all trees and move the whole forest to some other place.

  The dry wash begins to fill — little at first, not more than a trickling of needles, soil, and water. Then, all of a sudden, a wave gushes down the hill, lapping at the small elevation we sit on, splashing us with muck. I can’t help but think of disease and poison being washed down, spreading into my village, into the lowlands and into the oceans. I’ll never again view water in the simplistic “Oh look, it comes out of the ground!” way. It’s more like… like a networking organism, maybe?

  ‘I’m Runner,’ he says between two thunderclaps. He bends closer and speaks with an urgency that drives goosebumps up my arms. ‘Whatever I ask of you during your probation time — two things are more important than anything else and justify breaking every assignment or order I may give you. One: Your survival. Two: Your own values. That’s it. Never risk your life, never betray yourself. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answer, although I’m not sure what he means by the value thing. ‘But your name isn’t proof of your identity.’

  ‘Do you know how Sequencers are identified?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So how would you know if my identification is valid, should I show it to you?’ He leans back against the tree. ‘Your first assignment is to survive, Micka. One week in the woods. You do not ask anyone for help. You do not contact your parents. If a search party combs the hills, you hide.’

  ‘My parents don’t know I’ll be here for a week?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘They’ll think I’m dead. They’ll be horrified.’ Why does this suddenly bother me?

  ‘Yes. You can abort your probation at any time.’

  How helpful. Thank you very much. When he wipes rain off his face, a thought hits me. ‘You asked Ralph to kiss me.’

  ‘I asked him to distract you. He chose to ask you for a kiss.’

  ‘It was disgusting.’

  ‘That’s your responsibility. You said, “Okay, one kiss, no tongue. Then you go home.” Your choice, Micka. You are of age.’

  I want to kick his balls. Instead, I lower my head and bite down hard on my cheeks.

  He taps on the hood of my rain jacket. ‘Do you have any other questions?’

  Yes, a million, but I want him gone. ‘Where and when do we meet the next time?’

  ‘Here. In precisely one week.’ He’s disappeared before I look up. Next to me on the soaked forest floor lies a book wrapped in clear plastic. A note is stuck on top of it. Find answers while I’m gone.

  I push the note aside and read the title. The Great Pandemic.

  Ugh, I am back in school.

  ———

  With my hood pulled low over my face and the rain jacket wrapped tightly around my shivering frame, I press the volume to my stomach and wait for the storm to pass. The binding of Runner’s book appears weatherproof, but I don’t want to risk soaking it.

  While my body is growing colder by the minute, my mind is racing. Chances are, this isn’t a bad joke after all and my life is about to take a drastic turn. Drastic is an understatement. Once news spreads, people will wonder what I’ve done to deserve such an honour. I’ll be the talk of the village, not because of something I’ve screwed up, but because of something great. Has that ever happened before? I wrack my brain and can come up with only one occasion — I managed to fix the high-pressure turbine at minus twenty-five degrees Celsius outside temperature and ten-centimetre ice buildup on the blades. It took a lot of well-measured whacks and a few new parts on the defroster unit, plus ten bloody fingertips, while my father was busy de-icing the low-pressure turbine up on the hill.

  I was twelve, then, and Mother told me I might make a good turbinehouse keeper if I could improve my grades. I doubt she believed her own words. After all, I’m a girl. Sometimes I think Father only wanted to torture me with all this. Allowing me to fix his precious machines, knowing I enjoyed it, knowing I hoped for more when there was no reason for hope at all.

  Ah, hope. Can one have hope without doubting? I guess not, because if there are no doubts, one would have to say “I know” instead of “I hope.” The stupidity of ungrounded expectations — that’s what optimism is. I’d rather stick to facts. Being noticed by a Sequencer, let alone being considered for an apprenticeship, is absurd. It simply doesn’t happen, and certainly not to the village idiot. Sequencer apprenticeships are so rare that hoping to receive one is like jumping out of a window expecting to fly. Sequencer apprentice… A prickling runs across my palate. I love this term.

  I’m struck by Runner’s weirdness. He rarely answered any of my questions directly, only talked about something totally unrelated and gave an answer much later. He picks a potential apprentice at his very first visit. He’d said the old one suggested me, but why the blind trust? Why not look first and decide later? It would spare him a lot of trouble. Why would he do this?

  I’m still not one hundred percent convinced of his identity. But he must have shown proof of it to the dean, to our physician, and maybe to someone from the council, too. Not to Ralph, though. That boy is such a dork, if anyone waves the authority flag at him (and in Ralph’s case, adulthood is authority enough), he lolls his tongue and wags his tail. He’d been so nervous because he was afraid to disappoint. He didn’t want to kiss me at all, and only used this as an emergency strategy for Runner’s request to distract me. I feel a strange mix of relief and offence. I’m glad Ralph isn’t in love, or whatever one can call it, but I also feel betrayed. Weird.

  My biggest problem with Runner is that he neither looks nor behaves like a Sequencer. But there’s only one comparison: Cacho, the old Sequencer, a quiet man who hummed and smiled a lot. With a pang, I notice that I miss the old guy. I even liked his name. It makes no sense that he’d suggest me for an apprenticeship. I haven’t done anything brilliant, especially not the few times I accompanied him up to the reservoir. I held his box and he called me “sweetie.” It made me suspicious. No one ever calls me sweetie without demanding niceties in return. Only when he left that day did I realise that he’d said it because he wanted to be friendly. He never said it again.

  Runner is different, more…grating. I don’t mind, really.

  My chest produces an involuntary sigh. I want this apprenticeship deal to be real. But I’ll probably pull an epic fail in the next few hours.

  Should I wait for the rain to stop or should I… There, I don’t even have a clue what to do. He didn’t ask for anything heroic or cool or difficult. Stay alive, Micka. Can’t be that hard, can it?

  I check the contents of my pockets, although I know what I packed. A knife for whatever purpose, pieces of an old shirt, wool. How ridiculous! Menstruation hygiene items, of all things. I could use a pullover and food instead. Maybe a sleeping bag, too. Not that I know anyone who possesses such a thing. Okay, what are the first things I need to find? Water, food, a dry place to spend my nights.

  The nearest food supply would be the orchard in the valley with its peach, apple, and pear trees. It might be a bit early for harvest. I could eat rabbits, too. I’ve often hunted them during school holidays using father’s air rifle. I wonder if I should break into our house tonight and get the gun, my woollen pullover, some food, and a blanket. But if anyone sees me, I’m screwed.

  My aching butt reminds me of the clumps of hemp in my pockets. I take them out and I’m about to throw them into the stream when an idea hits me: Traps!

  I comb the fibres with my fingers, twist them into two long threads, then ply th
em tightly and secure them with knots on either end. My hemp yarn is barely the length of my arm, but it’ll have to do.

  Once the rain lessens and the rumbling is far on the other side of the valley, I set off to find a rabbit trail. I install my snare between two sticks and hope that my human-stink will be washed off soon enough and that the rain doesn’t make the hemp so soft the rabbit can rip it apart. Or chew it apart.

  That could be a problem. I decide to observe the snare. A nearby oak provides shelter and an elevated position. I scramble up the trunk along thick branches and pick a spot not too uncomfortable to sit. My legs are drenched and I’m shivering when I remember it’s not even midday. The rabbits won’t come until nightfall. I’m damn nervous. I have to get my brains together.

  I plop off the branch and go for a walk, slowly drifting towards the valley — always careful to remain invisible — before making my way back into the forest. People will be working in the community orchard now. I’ll have to wait until nightfall, but then I can’t keep an eye on the snare and go down to pick fruits.

  Hands in my trouser pockets, I stare at my boots and try to think. This absurd situation makes my brain frizzly.

  What is the most important thing I need?

  Yes! A shelter for the night. Something that keeps the rain outside and my body heat inside, but it must be built so that I can disassemble it fast enough — Runner doesn’t want a search party to find me, so they shouldn’t find my shelter either. The food issue will be tackled later. All is cool.

  With my priorities set, I collect material for my temporary home. The spruce trees provide branches for a roof and twigs for bedding. The construction is finished around noon, or around what I suspect to be noon, because my stomach roars. When was the last time I ate something? I had an apple yesterday morning before my finals, and that’s it — an apple in twenty-four hours because I was too nervous to eat anything. And now I’m trembling with hunger and cold.

  Okay, no problem, I think.

  I trod to the reservoir — no one seems to be looking for me just yet — and get my fill of water. My belly makes sloshing noises when I walk back to my makeshift spruce home. The thing suddenly looks very unprofessional. I was proud of it just after I finished it. Now it seems the pathetic pile will collapse the moment I move in. Carefully, I inch my limbs in, trying not to bump against a weight-bearing branch. It’s too small for me to stretch my legs. From outside, it looks much bigger.