by Gavin Chait
Joshua, Daniel and David push the boats apart to create space. Tipping theirs, they empty the water out where it seeps back towards the river.
A dog begins to bark somewhere in the midst of the shacks in the shadows beneath Henshaw Town. The guards look watchful, looking back towards the village and up and down the beach.
The carriers walk each side of Samara’s boat, gently lowering their cargo until the poles rest across the boat’s gunwales. They untie the ropes.
Samara stands with one foot in the boat and one in the mud and lifts the battery so that the men can roll the poles out from underneath. He lowers it carefully on to the cellulosic grid they have brought with them to raise it above any water that may collect in the bottom. The unit is sealed, the terminals coated in hardened resin, but there is no need to wet it more than necessary.
Not a word is said.
The carriers withdraw, their poles resting on their shoulders as they go. Faysal indicates with his head and more guards walk down the beach. They are carrying the group’s weapons, as well as their possessions and supplies.
These are quickly stowed, pistols holstered and rifles rested against the boat seats.
Joshua shakes Faysal’s hand, clasping his elbow with his other.
‘I will see you in Ewuru before the rains. Safe journey,’ says Faysal.
‘Thank you, I look forward to that.’
The men touch their hearts, bowing slightly, and then Faysal turns. His men withdraw without a sound.
They are on their own.
The boats are pushed out into the water. Knee-deep, they clamber on board. Settled, they row quietly towards the sea, going with the current past 7-Fathom Point.
Across the river, between a long tongue of land and Parrot Island, a thick black lake is restrained by an oil barrier. The yellow floats have been bleached almost white. Here and there, an oil sheen tapers out of the barrier from small breaks in the retaining curtain.
At the far end of Parrot Island, another floating barrier cuts across the river to the mainland. It, too, holds back a deep and endless expanse of oil. The water here is, in spite of the barricades, thick with oil, and they must strain against the clinging, filthy mess.
They go slowly, taking care not to get any of the oil inside the boats.
Sarah, looking at the island as they pass, thinks about all the children who have been sacrificed on that small patch of land, superstitious offerings to the slave trade, and shivers.
The coast is blackened and dead, caked in a century of the oil still bubbling up from the Bight of Bonny. There are no dead seabirds, no dead fish, only the stumps of old trees as black as the beach. There is nothing left to kill.
There is no access to the sea here.
To their left, and before the oil barrier, the entrance to Qua River, and they turn into it, going upstream and into the network of rivers and canals that will lead to Ewuru.
They are watchful. Every sound causes them to freeze, before continuing again.
The water freshens but still the lingering smell of oil.
Gradually, the sun rises, bringing with it the heat of the day. Jason leans over the side, catching water and wetting his face.
They paddle onwards. There are termite mounds on islands they pass. A skull, perhaps human, on one of them. Others are covered in bits of fur or plastic sheets. Old superstitions that the hills are filled with evil which must be blocked.
For all the web of canals, there is still only one route through the lower part of the swamp. There could be an ambush anywhere along it.
The water remains oily, and their boats are sticky with residue. They say nothing, hunting for anything, any movement.
The day passes. They do not stop for lunch. They do not speak. They dip their oars with care.
Raffia trees and oil palm cluster on these islands. It is harder to see through them, amongst them.
Still they row, the day drifting past.
Two shots.
Samara is flung backwards, disappears into the water. He vanishes.
‘You are ours,’ says Uberti, emerging from the trees. All along the banks, men appear from hiding. There could be sixty of them. Some are shirtless, their torsos smeared in glistening blood-red palm oil. All are armed, all wary, pointing their rifles directly at the remaining six. A few draw their lips back to expose teeth sharpened to points.
Joshua gently lowers his oar, setting it inside the boat, and raises his hands. The others follow. The boats coast.
Seven of the militia walk out into the water and bring the boats to a halt.
‘Get out,’ says Uberti. ‘You will come here.’
Carefully, slowly, Joshua, Daniel, Sarah, Abishai, Jason and David climb out of the boats, dropping into the water. They wade up on to the beach. The men in the trees behind them follow, crossing the river.
Everything is very quiet. Uberti laughs to himself, looking pleased.
Between the oil palms is a clearing. Uberti indicates seven trees that have been prepared. There are ropes laid down around them. A knife buried in each trunk. On the sand is a symbol: two parallel arcs, one broken off-centre, and a dot between them.
‘You know my sign,’ says Uberti. It is a statement, not a question. They nod anyway.
‘Search them,’ he says.
Rough hands rip at their clothes, removing their pistols. One of the militia shoves his right hand inside Abishai’s trousers, driving his fingers into her vagina. He smells of lust, sour beer and cigarette smoke. His breath stinks, and his bloodshot eyes glare at her. She says nothing.
Uberti smashes the man in the head with the butt of his rifle. He falls to his knees, clutching at his head as blood flows between his fingers and drips on to the sand.
‘She is mine first,’ Uberti says, rotating his rifle and shooting the fallen militiaman in the face.
Abishai spits on the body. Uberti slaps her, drawing blood. She staggers but remains standing.
‘We will have you,’ he says to her. ‘All of us. And your men will watch.’
David flinches. Sarah, imperceptibly, shifts in his direction.
‘You will be first,’ says Uberti, grabbing Sarah’s face, throttling her about the cheeks. ‘We will tie your men to the trees, break their knees and elbows. Rip off their jaws. I will cut off their eyelids so that they cannot shut out what we will do to you. Their screams will sound as nothing. When we are finished with you and the other one, we will break you too. We will leave you all to the trees.’
Many of the militia snigger.
‘You have embarrassed me before Egbo. That is not acceptable.’
Uberti walks up to Joshua. Looks at him, eye to eye. He turns.
‘Pazzo. Take them.’
Pazzo grins. He knows he will be second.
‘Wait,’ says Joshua. His voice is a command.
‘What?’ says Uberti, his face outraged.
‘You have only one chance to surrender,’ says Joshua. His voice is firm, steady.
The militia laugh. Many can barely contain themselves.
Uberti, his mouth open in a slack-jawed grin, asks, ‘And who will save you? The ndem of the trees?’
Joshua shakes his head. ‘There is no ndem, but you have forgotten. Our party consists of seven.’
Again, the militia laugh.
‘We killed him first on purpose. He will not save you,’ says Uberti. ‘There is space here for him –’ indicating the seventh post ‘– if he should choose.’
‘You cannot kill him,’ says Joshua, and something about his voice causes a few of the militia to hesitate. They look about them, pointing their rifles at the spaces between the trees.
‘You cannot kill him,’ repeats Joshua. ‘But you might have awoken the other. The one inside him who kills without mercy. All he wants – all he has ever wanted – is to go home to his people, and you are keeping him from them.’
Some of the militia are panting, their eyes wide. Their heads swing left, right. Their rifles
tremble.
‘You are the only ones standing between him and those he loves. You will not stop him.’
A kingfisher, with dagger-sharp beak, impales itself into the eye of a man standing near the fringe of the clearing. He howls as more birds erupt from the bushes around him and fling themselves at the militia.
A man to Uberti’s left is wrenched in half. His guts spill on to the ground. His shrieks are cut off as quickly as they begin.
Another, to the right, behind Daniel, explodes. His heart is flung, hitting Pazzo in the chest. Pazzo begins to scream hysterically, his voice high and shrill.
A head flicks into the trees, the body, behind Pazzo, falling to the ground, spasming in the sand.
Now the militia are howling. They start shooting at anything and everything around them. A bullet grazes the outer edge of Joshua’s left hand, leaving a bloody groove.
David grabs Sarah and hurls them both to the hardened sand. Joshua, Abishai, Jason and Daniel landing alongside them. Joshua is staring intently at Uberti. He knows he has to be a target soon. He is looking for something, anything, that indicates where Samara is.
He thinks he might see a flicker, a patch in the air. Then it is gone.
Bullets splinter through the fibre of the trees. More men’s bodies lie twitching. Some have been shot by the others in their terror.
Pazzo lifts up off the ground and is catapulted, his back snapping against the tree where he lands. His agonized howling adding to the horror. Uberti cowers in the chaos. He is sobbing, terrified of the demon he has unleashed. He looks around him frantically, Joshua staring at him, unblinking.
‘Not me,’ Uberti wails and then gasps, once. A blade protrudes through his chest and he falls forward.
There are only fourteen of Uberti’s men left, herded into a bundle, back to back. Their screaming stops as they watch Uberti fall. Then they fling their weapons down and throw themselves to the earth, moaning their surrender.
Symon is invisible. His body mirroring his surroundings. He has no pity. He has only instinct. He lunges at one of the prostrate men.
‘No,’ says Joshua. He is holding a rifle directly against Symon’s head. His left hand supporting the forestock, blood trickling out and on to the ground. ‘They have surrendered.’
Symon is still. His skin returns to matt titanium. He is naked, crouched over the stricken militiaman.
‘How did you see me?’ he asks, his voice metallic. He does not move his gaze from his prey.
‘You are not at full strength. Your injuries have not healed. I was looking for your wounds.’
Symon looks down at the holes in his chest. One through his left shoulder, one below his heart. They are not bleeding, but neither have they closed up.
‘They are bad men,’ he says. ‘They will not change.’
‘But we are not bad people,’ says Joshua, ‘and they have surrendered.’
Symon is holding the man around the arm and around the neck. The skin is stretched tight, bruised and bleeding under Symon’s fingers. The joint will tear with only a fraction more effort. The arm and head will separate. Symon has not moved. The man whimpers in terror. The others are silent, their eyes wide and fearful.
‘Symon, I have no wish to shoot you, but you must let these men go. They have surrendered.’
Symon does not move. ‘They must answer for their crimes.’
‘Yes,’ says Joshua. ‘They should, but we have not the ability to try them. They will return to their people. They will carry a message. Not all villagers are so helpless. That is enough.’
‘We must purge these men. End the reign of the warlords.’
‘Symon,’ Joshua is patient. ‘Killing will not remove the warlords. Where there is no expectation of justice, there will always be those who prey on the weak.’
His voice is firm. ‘For the sake of our own honour, do not kill these men.’
Behind Joshua, the others have risen. They have retrieved their weapons. Everyone is red drenched. The clearing is a murky, slippery mass of blood and shredded body parts.
‘Symon,’ says Daniel. ‘We are armed, they are not. They are no threat to us.’ His voice is a balm, soothing.
Symon does not move.
‘Please, Symon,’ says Abishai. ‘This is not our way.’ She is weeping.
‘Symon, you are an upholder of laws. Not an executioner,’ says Jason.
‘I?’ says Symon, ‘I –’ and wrenches, the man screams, and Joshua pulls the trigger.
Symon does not move.
His hands loosen. The militiaman slumps; he has fainted.
Symon closes his eyes very, very slowly. He releases a breath, like a sigh. Then he topples, ever so gently, to the sand.
Sarah places a hand over her mouth, stifling a sob. David places his arm over her shoulder, pulling her towards him, holding her tightly.
Joshua crouches down, but he has no way of knowing how to tell if Samara is still alive. Oh, please, he begs, would that you are still alive.
The militiamen start to whimper. The others gather round them.
Joshua’s face is haggard. He looks drained, exhausted. He drops the rifle. Daniel hands him his pistol. He holsters it, leaving his hands free.
‘Get up,’ he says to the militiamen.
‘I have had to shoot one of the bravest men I have ever known to protect you,’ he says. ‘Do not think me weak.’
They rise, their hands above their heads, remaining in a half-crouch. They shake their heads. They are still traumatized, relieved that they have survived the carnage.
‘You will live, but you will remember. You will never know if there is something invisible coming for you even in the brightest places. You are broken.’
Joshua is speaking calmly. He can see their eyes. He is describing what he can read there. There is no need for threats.
‘Take this warning to all the Awbong. You are not welcome. You will not survive. We will take back our place. Even if it takes one hundred years.’
He motions towards the river. ‘Go. Do not take your boats. You will walk. You will swim. You will crawl. You are not men.’
They stumble, trip over themselves in their haste to leave this slaughter. One giggles and is dragged by the others; his mind has shattered. They do not look back.
Daniel is seated, cradling Samara’s head. ‘He is not breathing. I can find no pulse. How do we know if he is still alive?’ he asks, grief on his face.
‘We do not. But we will take him home.’
Daniel and Jason carefully lift Samara, so much lighter than when he first crashed near their village, so much of Symon’s essence lost. They carry him and compassionately settle him into his boat. They cover him with a sheet from one of the bed-rolls and fasten him to the stanchions so that he cannot move.
Abishai ties a strip cut from a shirt and wraps it around Joshua’s hand. He looks carefully into her eyes as she does so, then embraces her. She stiffens, relaxes and sobs into his shoulder. The others gather round her. Each embracing her in turn.
Joshua ties a rope from his boat to Samara’s so that it can be towed.
They wash themselves clean and change clothes, abandoning their old ones on the beach.
Then they begin to row, quietly and steadily, towards Ewuru.
III
A SONG FOR THE LEAVING
We do not choose to leave because we are unmoved by suffering; nor do we go because we flee responsibility. We depart this Earth as a child departs home, with the bittersweet tears of the new adult. We set out in the same spirit as of the first explorers of our own planet: because out there is the great unknown and not to go would be as impossible as ignoring our own souls.
Dr Ullianne Vijayarao, technician on Allegro quantum navigation team, 2053, formal comment responding to UN Secretary General on Security Council Resolution 2731
When the first great migrations took place to the new world colonies, nations couldn’t wait to purge themselves of their citizens. Getting rid of the
ir tired and poor had never seemed so easy. Centuries later, when the best and brightest started to go into orbit, nations realized they had a problem. Instead of recognizing the source of that departure, our leaders have acted as if it is a personal betrayal: self-interest gone wrong. I fear that, in the coming decades, our politicians will realize how badly they have miscalculated, how badly they have managed, the noble quest for exploration – our highest ideal – expressed by our brothers and sisters in the orbital cities.
Doug Shetland, US political analyst, 2108, In Other Worlds, posthumously published autobiography
When we, with humility, requested the freedom to represent ourselves, they answered with hatred and torture. When we were unafraid and we once more, with humility, requested what should be ours, they butchered our children. I dread that when at last they change their hearts and are done with hating, we will have no compassion left to give.
Liao Zhi, pro-independence activist on Yuèliàng, 2113, memorial for the deaths of 845 student protestors following a massacre in Tiangong Square
38
‘My husband,’ says Esther, her voice a caress.
Joshua is sitting at the far end of the Ekpe House, his feet over the edge of the cliff, looking across the river and into the forest beyond. He has been there since early morning, watching the sun rise through the trees.
‘My husband,’ her voice intimate and knowing.
He takes her hand resting on his shoulder, raises it to his face, feeling the life and hope in it. He kisses her palm and holds it to his lips, his breath warm through her fingers.
She crouches behind him, holding him in her arms, feeling the intensity of his emotions through the silence.
‘It is well, my husband.’
He looks up and into her eyes; their noses caress in a gentle embrace.
‘My wife. I am worried he is not with us,’ he says.