At first she could see nothing. Ahead, the sea seemed relatively flat, unbroken. And then she saw it, tiny at first, a vague shape of green and grey, melding and merging with the surrounding sea, as if overrun. Then, slowly, it grew, rising out of the sea to meet her, growing more definite by the moment, its basalt cliffs looming up, waves swelling, washing against their base.
Jelka looked across at her father. He sat there stiffly, one hand clenched and covered by the other, his neck muscles tensed; yet there was a vague, almost dreamy expression in his eyes. He was facing the island, but his eyes looked inward. Jelka watched him a moment, then looked away, knowing he was thinking of her mother.
As the boat slowed, drifting in towards the jetty, she looked past the harbour at the land beyond. A scattering of old stone houses surrounded the quayside, low, grey-green buildings with slate roofs of a dull orange. To the far right of the jetty a white crescent of shingle ended in rocks. But her eyes were drawn upward, beyond the beach and the strange shapes of the houses, to the hillside beyond. Pines crowded the steep slope, broken here and there by huge, iron-grey outcrops of rock. She shivered, looking up at it. It was all so raw, so primitive. Like nothing she had ever imagined.
She felt something wake deep within her and raised her head, sniffing the air, the strong scent of pine merging with the smell of brine and leather and engine oil, filling her senses, forming a single distinctive odour. The smell of the island.
Her father helped her up on to the stone jetty. She turned, looking back across the water at the mainland. It was hazed in a light mist, its walls of ice still visible yet somehow less impressive from this distance. It was all another world from this.
Sea birds called overhead, their cries an echoing, melancholy sound. She looked up, her eyes following their wheeling forms, then looked down again as a wave broke heavily against the beach, drawing the shingle with it as it ebbed.
‘Well...’ her father said softly. ‘Here we are. What do you think?’
She shivered. It was like coming home.
Jelka looked across at the houses, her eyes moving from one to another, searching for signs of life.
‘Which one?’ she asked, looking back at him.
Her father laughed. ‘Oh, none of those.’ He turned, giving orders to the men in the boat, then looked back at her. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’
Where the cobbles of the jetty ended they turned left, on to an old dirt track. It led up through the trees, away from the houses and the waterfront.
The track led up on to a broad ledge of smooth, grey rock. There was a gap in the screen of trees and a view across the water.
‘Careful,’ he said, his grip on her hand tightening as she moved closer to the edge. ‘It can be slippery.’ Then she saw it.
Below her was a tiny bay, enclosed on three sides by the dense growth of pines. But at one point the tree cover was broken. Directly across from her a great spur of rock rose abruptly from the water, and on its summit – so like the rock in colour and texture that at first she had not recognized it – was the house.
It was astonishing. Huge walls of solid stone rose sheer from the rock, ending in narrow turrets and castellated battlements. A steep roof, grey and lichen-stained, ran almost the length of the house. Only at its far end, where the sea surrounded it on three sides, was its steep pitch broken. There a tower rose, two storeys higher than the rest of the house, capped with a spire that shone darkly in the sunlight.
She stared at it open-mouthed, then looked back at her father.
‘I thought it was a house.’
He laughed. ‘It is. It was my great-grandfather’s house. And his grandfather’s before that. It has been in our family nine generations.’
She narrowed her eyes, not understanding. ‘You mean, it’s ours?’
‘It was. I guess it still is. But it is for Li Shai Tung to say whether or not we might use it.’
‘It seems so unfair.’
He stared at her, surprised, then answered her. ‘No. It has to be like this. The peasants must work the land. They must be outside. And the Seven, they carry a heavy burden, they need their estates. But there is not land enough for all those who wish to live outside. There would be much resentment if we had this and others didn’t.’
‘But, surely, if it’s ours...’
He shook his head firmly. ‘No. The world has grown too small for such luxuries. It’s a small price to pay for peace and stability.’
They walked on, still climbing. Then he turned back, pointing downward. ‘We have to go down here. There are some steps, cut into the rock. They’re tricky, so you’d better take my hand again.’
She let him help her down. It was cooler, more shaded beneath the ridge, the ground rockier, the long, straight trunks of the pines more spaced.
‘There,’ he said, pointing between the trees.
She looked. About fifty ch’i distant was a grey stone wall. It was hard to tell how high it was from where she stood, but it seemed massive – twice her father’s height at least. To the left it turned back on itself, hugging the cliff’s edge, to the right it vanished among the trees. Partway along was a huge gate, flanked by pillars, and beyond that – still, silent in the late morning sunlight – the tower.
She turned to find him looking past her at the house, a distant smile on his face. Then he looked down at her.
‘Kalevala,’ he said softly. ‘We’re home, Jelka. Home.’
‘Do you know the thing I miss most?’
T’ai Cho looked up. Kim was standing in the doorway, looking past him. T’ai Cho smiled. ‘What’s that?’
‘The pool. I used to do all my best thinking in the pool.’
He laughed. ‘Well, can’t we do something about that?’
Kim made a small movement of his head, indicating the overhead camera. ‘Only if Shih Spatz wills it.’
T’ai Cho stared at Kim a moment longer, then returned to his unpacking.
‘I’ll put in a request,’ he said, taking the last few things from the bag, then stowed it beneath the pull-down bed. ‘He can only say no, after all.’ He looked up again, meeting Kim’s eyes with a smile. ‘Anyway, how have things been? Is the work interesting?’
Kim looked away. ‘No,’ he answered quietly.
T’ai Cho straightened up, surprised. ‘Really? But I thought you said the research would be challenging?’
‘It is. But Spatz is not letting me get anywhere near it.’
T’ai Cho stiffened. ‘But he can’t do that! I won’t let him do that to you, Kim. I’ll contact the Prince.’
‘No. I don’t want to go running to Prince Yuan every time I’ve a problem.’
T’ai Cho turned angrily. ‘But you must. The Prince will have Spatz removed. He’ll—’
‘You don’t see it, do you, T’ai Cho? You think this is just a piece of pure science research, but it’s not. I saw that at once. This is political. And very sensitive. Practically all of the men they’ve recruited for it are vulnerable. They were on the wrong side in the War and now they’ve no choice but to work on this. All except for Spatz, and he’s no scientist. At least, not a good enough scientist to be on a project of this nature. He’s here to keep a lid on things.’
‘But that’s outrageous.’
‘Not at all. You see, someone wants this project to fail. That’s why Spatz was made Administrator. Why Tolonen was appointed overall Head.’
‘And you’ll allow that to happen?’
‘It’s not up to me, T’ai Cho. I’ve no choice in the matter. I do as I’m told. As I’ve always done. But that’s all right. There are plenty of things we can do. All that’s asked of us is that we don’t rock the boat.’
T’ai Cho was staring at him, his eyes narrowed. ‘That’s not like you, Kim. To lie down and do nothing.’
Kim looked down. ‘Maybe it wasn’t, in the past. But where did it ever get me?’ He looked up again, his dark eyes searing T’ai Cho. ‘Five years of Socialization. Of brutal recond
itioning. That was my reward for standing up for myself. But next time they won’t bother. They’ll just write me off.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘I’m not even a citizen. I exist only because Li Yuan wills my existence. You heard him yourself, T’ai Cho. That’s the fact of the matter. So don’t lecture me about doing something. Things are easy here. Why make trouble for ourselves?’
T’ai Cho stared back at him, open-mouthed, hardly believing what he was hearing. ‘Well, you’d better go,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ve things to do.’
‘I’m sorry, T’ai Cho. I...’
But T’ai Cho was busying himself, putting clothes into a drawer.
‘I’ll see you later, then?’ Kim asked, but T’ai Cho made no sign that he had even heard.
Back in his room Kim went to the desk and sat there, the first of the poems Hammond had written on the screen in front of him.
It had not been easy, making T’ai Cho believe he had given up. It had hurt to disillusion his old tutor, but it was necessary. If he was to function at all in this set-up, he had to allay Spatz’s suspicions. Had to make Spatz believe he was behaving himself. And what better way of convincing Spatz than by manipulating the reactions of the man supposedly closest to him? T’ai Cho’s indignation – his angry disappointment in Kim – would throw Spatz off the scent. Would give Kim that tiny bit of room he needed.
Even so, it hurt. And that surprised Kim, because he had begun to question whether he had any feelings left after what they had done to him in Socialization. He recalled all the times he had met T’ai Cho since then, knowing what the man had once been to him, yet feeling nothing. Nothing at all. He had lain awake at nights, worried about that absence in himself, fearing that the ability to love had been taken from him, perhaps for good. So this – this hurt he felt at hurting another – was a sign of hope. Of a change in him.
He looked down at the poem on the desk, then sighed. What made it worse was that there was an element of truth in what he’d said. Remove Spatz and another Spatz would be appointed in his place. So it was in this life. Moreover, it was true what he had said about himself. Truer, perhaps, than he had intended.
All his life he had been owned. Possessed, not for himself, but for the thing within him – his ‘talent’. They used him, as they would a machine. And, like a machine, if he malfunctioned he was to be repaired, or junked.
He laughed softly, suddenly amused. Yes, he asked, but what makes me different from the machines? What qualities distinguish me from them? And are those qualities imperfections – weaknesses – or are they strengths? Should I be more like them or less?
They had conditioned him; walled off his past, taught him to mistrust his darker self; yet it was the very part of him from which it all emanated – the wellspring of his being.
The thinking part... they overvalued it. It was only the processor. The insights came from a deeper well than that. The upper mind merely refined it.
He smiled, knowing they were watching him, listening to his words. Well, let them watch and listen. He was better at this game than they. Much better.
He leaned forward, studying the poem.
To the watching eyes it would mean nothing. To them it seemed a meaningless string of chemical formulae; the mathematical expression of a complex chain of molecules. But Kim could see through the surface of the page and glimpse the Mandarin characters each formula represented. He smiled to himself, wondering what Spatz would make of it. Beyond the simple one-for-one code Kim had devised to print out the information taken from Hammond’s personal files was a second code he had agreed upon with Hammond. That, too, was quite simple – providing you had the key to how it worked and a fluent understanding of Mandarin.
The poem itself was clumsy, its images awkward, clichéd – but that was understandable. Hammond was a scientist, not a poet. And whilst the examination system insisted upon the study of ancient poetry, it was something that most men of a scientific bias put behind them as quickly as possible. What was important, however, was the information contained within the central images. Three white swans represented how Spatz had divided the research into three teams. Then, in each of the next three lines, Hammond detailed – by use of other images – the area of study each team was undertaking.
It was a crude beginning – no more than a foundation – yet it showed it could be done. As Hammond gained confidence he would develop subtlety: a necessity in the days to come, for the information would be of a degree of complexity that would tax their inventiveness to the limit.
That said, the most difficult part was already resolved. Kim had devised a means by which he could respond to Hammond. His co-conspirator had only to touch a certain key on his computer keyboard and Kim’s input would automatically load into his personal files. That same instruction would effectively shut down Hammond’s keyboard – render it useless, its individual keys unconnected to its regular program. Whichever key Hammond subsequently pressed would bring up one character of Kim’s reply, until his message was complete.
It was a trick he had learned in Socialization. A game he’d played, haunting the files of others with his cryptic messages. And no one had dreamed it was possible.
He typed his queries out quickly, keeping this first response simple, modelling his poem on one by the fourth-century poet, T’ao Ch’ien. It printed up on the screen as further chains of molecules. Then, happy with what he had done, he punched the code to send it to Hammond’s file.
He switched off the set and sat back, stretching, suddenly tired. Then, unexpectedly, the comset came alive again, the printer at the side of the desk beginning to chatter. He caught his breath, watching the printout slowly emerge. A moment later it fell silent. He leaned forward and tore the printout off, then sat back, reading it through.
It was from Spatz, informing him that he had been given permission to use the recreational facilities of the local Security forces.
He studied it a moment and then laughed. A pool! Spatz had given him a pool!
Her Uncle Jon had set and lit a fire in the huge hearth. Its flickering light filled the big, tall-ceilinged room, making it seem mysterious and half-formed, as if, at any moment, the walls would melt and run. Her father was sitting in a big, upright armchair by the window, staring out at the sea. Standing in the doorway, she looked across at him then back at the fire, entranced. It was something she had never seen before. Something she had never thought to see. Outside, beyond the latticed windows, evening was falling, dark clouds gathering over the sea, but here, inside, the firelight filled the room with warmth.
She knelt beside the fire, putting her hands out to it, shivering suddenly, not from the cold but from a feeling of familiarity; from a strange sense of having made the gesture before, in another life than this.
‘Careful,’ her father said, almost lazily. ‘It’s hot. Much hotter than you’d think.’
She knelt there in the half-shadow, mesmerized by the flickering pattern of the firelight, its fierce heat, its ever-changing dance of forms, then looked back at her father. His face was changed by the fire’s light; had become a mask of black and gold, his eyes living, liquid jewels. For some reason it moved her deeply. At that moment her love for him was like something solid: she could touch it and smell it; could feel its very texture.
She looked about her. There were shelves on the walls, and books. Real books, like those she had seen in the museum once – leather-bound. She turned, hearing the door creak open, and looked up, smiling, at her uncle. Behind him came her aunt, carrying a tray of drinks.
‘What are all the books?’
She saw how her uncle looked to her father before he answered her; as if seeking his permission.
‘They’re old things. History books and myth.’
‘Myth?’
Her Aunt Helga looked up, a strange expression in her eyes, then looked down again, busying herself with the drinks.
Again her Uncle Jon looked to his brother uncertainly. ‘They’re stories, Jelka. Old legends. Things
from before the City.’
He was about to say more, but her father interrupted him. ‘There are things that belong here only. You must not take them back with you, understand me, child? You must not even mention them. Not to anyone.’
She looked down. ‘Why?’
‘Content yourself that they are.’
She looked across at him again. His voice had been harsh, almost angry, but his eyes seemed troubled. He looked away, then back at her, relenting. ‘While you’re here you may look at them, if that’s what you want. But remember, these things are forbidden back in the City. If anyone knew...’
She frowned. Forbidden? Why forbidden?
‘Jelka?’
She looked up, then quickly took the glass her Aunt Helga was holding out to her. ‘Thanks...’
She was silent a moment, then looked across at her uncle. ‘Daddy said this place had a name. Kalevala. Why is it called that?’
Jon laughed, then took a glass from his wife and came across, sitting in the chair nearest Jelka.
‘You want to know why this house is called Kalevala? Well’ – he looked across at her father then back at Jelka – ‘it’s like this...’
She listened, entranced, as her uncle talked of a distant past and a land of heroes, and of a people – her people – who had lived in that land. Of a time before the Han and their great City, when vast forests filled the land and the people were few. Her mind opened up to the freedom of such a past – to a world so much bigger than the world she knew. A vast, limitless world, bounded by mist and built upon nothingness. Kalevala, the land of heroes.
When he was finished, she sat there, astonished, her drink untouched.
‘Well?’ her father said over the crackle of the fire, his voice strangely heavy. ‘Do you understand now why we are forbidden this? Can’t you see what restlessness there would be if this were known to all?’
She stared at him, not recognizing him for a moment, the vision filling her mind, consuming her. Then she lowered her eyes and nodded. ‘I think so. And yet...’
An Inch of Ashes (CHUNG KUO SERIES) Page 14