by Paul Beatty
‘I know of twenty all around the coast of Albion and more across the sea on the coast of Bretagne. I live by trading between them. But we are supposed to be talking about you and Anya.’
Francesca sighed. ‘Yes of course. I don’t understand something Anya said: that there was a difference about the relationship she and I had, and the one between her and Jonathan. She said something about the promise of children.’
Tobias scratched his chin. ‘That’s not something I’ve heard put that sort of way before. All partnerships bring companionship, a sharing of life, emotions, memories. But I suppose one might say that in the natural way of things, a partnership between a man and a woman always has the extra dimension of children.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Let me think. A few years ago a pair of wrens made a nest in a pile of rope near the prow of the boat. I was cruising some of the bigger rivers across in Bretagne at the time. I wasn’t ever very far from the shore, so they could come and go when they liked and still find food. One morning on the hold cover there was a line of three bundles of feathers. Their chicks had hatched. Those parents worked their tiny wings off getting grubs for their young. Then one day they took off, followed by the parents and I never saw them again.’
‘And the point is?’
‘Well, the bond between those parents provided a safe environment to bring up their young. Only in Heron Fleet is there a rule that makes same-sex partnerships the standard way of pairing up. Here you substitute the Crèche Mothers for the support a child would have from its parents, and have broken the natural bond between pregnancy and the bringing up of children in an utterly fundamental way. As a father and I know it’s a strong bond, so I wouldn’t be surprised if Anya felt something similar about her relationship with Jonathan because deep down she wants a child of her own. Does that help?’
‘A bit. I thought it was Anya just making excuses.’
‘No this is serious, not just for you, Anya and Jonathan. When the whole thing comes out it will bring a lot of unhappy memories for Peter.’
‘Why?’
‘Peter was my partner. I betrayed him just as Anya has betrayed you.’
Over the next few days Francesca felt she was waiting for a storm to break. She reasoned to herself that it would take at least two months for Anya’s pregnancy to become visible to the community but she wasn’t certain. Mothers were kept in seclusion as much as possible before their babies were born. Only the women who had given birth knew the answers to the questions she would like to have asked but they never spoke about the matter, at least not outside their partnerships. As a result, along with the majority of the community, she knew practically nothing about pregnancy.
She was allowed a few more outings with Tobias to his boat, which helped since he did his best to keep her mind off things. His arm was mending well, and Peter had given him a gang of Apprentices and told him to get on with repairing the boat so that it would be weatherproof before more winter storms came.
But Tobias was far too impatient and easily frustrated with the Apprentices when they didn’t immediately pick up what he wanted them to do. Soon she found herself explaining to them what was needed after Tobias had explained it to her. To her surprise she rather enjoyed this role and how, as the only Gatherer on the project, all the Apprentices did what she told them.
The first big job was to set a new mast. A large pine was felled in the woods to the north of the community, shorn of its branches and smoothed down. One of the group, Timothy, who hoped to be a carpenter, revelled in being in charge of the mast-making. Since the new mast would be too long and heavy to be set in the boat by muscle power alone, Tobias showed them how to make an A-frame to lift it high enough so it could be slotted through the deck and down to its fixing in the keel.
When the mast was ready, the boat was pulled further up the river and beached, prow-on to the shore. Then the A-frame was set so that it could swing the mast inboard. Two long ropes, arranged to raise the A-frame, ran out on to the shore and Timothy organised volunteers into two pulling teams, one on each rope. But before the new mast could be set, the broken stub of the old mast had to be removed.
‘Does everyone know what they’re doing?’ Tobias shouted irritably from the bottom of the boat where he was releasing the final clamps that held the stub.
Francesca went to the prow and waved to Timothy who waved back. ‘Yes, they’re ready,’ she shouted to Tobias.
‘In that case I’ll come up. Signal Timothy to start.’ Francesca picked up a small yellow flag and waved it. Timothy lifted his arms and the pulling teams picked up the ropes and took up the slack. Then the pull started. She saw Timothy rocking from right to left as he set the rhythm of the pull and the song they were singing drifted to her on the breeze.
Gradually the A-frame started to rise. By the time Tobias came on to the deck its apex was nearly over the broken mast.
‘Stop pulling,’ said Tobias from behind her. She picked up a red flag and waved. Timothy stopped the pull, with the teams holding the A-frame steady.
While they waited for him to come aboard, she and Tobias tied ropes from a block and tackle on the A-frame to a metal hoop that had been drilled and bolted into the old mast. Timothy arrived.
‘OK if we pull the broken mast out of the keel now ma’am?’
Francesca looked at Tobias and he nodded. ‘Be careful not to snag the stub as you get it clear,’ he said as Timothy and a small team of Apprentices who had come with him took over the free end of the rope through the block and tackle.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the boy.
‘When did he start calling you “ma’am”?’ said Tobias to Francesca as they watched the team start its work.
‘He’s been doing it for days. I can’t stop him,’ she blushed, looked embarrassed and then grinned. ‘Actually I think it’s rather sweet.’
‘Hum. You’ll be getting power mad if you’re not careful.’
The bottom of the mast was just about to clear the deck and Tobias steadied it so it wouldn’t swing. Though it was now free it needed to be higher if it was to clear the prow. ‘Nearly to the right height,’ Tobias called. ‘Get ready to tie off the lifting rope.’ There was a creaking and the A-frame twisted.
The mast stub was yanked out of Tobias’s grasp and he was knocked across the deck. Before Francesca could do anything to stop him, Timothy let go of the lifting rope and went to help Tobias. The A-frame twisted again, the mast-stub was pulled horizontal and the lifting rope was wrenched from the hands of Timothy’s team before they had any chance of tie it off. The mast swung violently and the metal hoop pulled out of the wood, spraying sharp splinters everywhere.
To Francesca everything seemed to slow down. The mast started to fall, its jagged point downwards. ‘Look out Timothy!’ she yelled but it was too late. All the Apprentice had time to do was to turn. There was a horrible sound of splintering wood as the end of the mast hit the deck. Francesca was aware that he had tried to step aside and hoped the mast had missed him. But even as she thought this, a fountain of blood came from Timothy’s chest and she screamed in horror as the boy staggered and fell on to his back.
Tobias ran forward to the prow, picked up the red flag, and waved and yelled at the teams on shore. Seeing what he was doing the Apprentices woke up from stunned horror and jumped down to the shore and shot off to help secure the long ropes.
Realising he had done as much as he could to stop the A-frame falling on them Tobias dropped the flag and came back to kneel next to Timothy. Three sharp pieces of mast had impaled the boy through his left arm and chest. Blood was pooling under his body and running in small, determined streams down the planking. He was delirious.
‘Did I do it right, ma’am?’ he said.
‘He wants you,’ Tobias said to Francesca. His words pulled her from frozen shock and she kneeled down.
‘What do I say?’ she whispered.
‘Whatever gives him comfort.’
; ‘Did I do it right, ma’am?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You got it just right. Not even a master carpenter could have done better.’ He coughed and she could hear a gargling sound as his breath forced a passage past blood in his throat. His right hand started to meander towards the wounds in his chest. She took it and held it. She couldn’t bare to see it touch the pieces of wood that were killing him.
‘Is Master Tobias there? I can’t seem to see clearly.’
‘I’m here lad.’ Tobias smoothed back the boy’s hair.
‘Did I do a good job?’
‘Yes lad, a fine job.’
‘That’s good. Would you have a word with Peter to make sure I…’ The voice faded and the face took on a subtly stony look. The Outlander gently stroked the boy’s eyelids down so that Timothy would not look emptily at the grey sky.
The Burial Ground was on the low hills on the other side of the valley from the Glasshouses. The site gave a fine view of the Gathering Hall and the other community buildings. They walked the Mourning Path in line behind Timothy’s body sewn into its traditional winding-sheet, carried on a board by the members of his roundhouse. He had no partner, so no one walked in front of the body singing the traditional lament; singing, so many said, to warn the underworld that a son or daughter of the Heron Fleet was on their last journey. So the lament was sung by everyone in the cortège.
The sunlight is falling and the darkness approaches,
The need of the day dying hard on the hill,
For young or for old, the end of their story,
Their last has been gathered before falling still.
Francesca came first behind the body. Since Timothy was an Apprentice, tradition dictated that the Council send a Gatherer as their representative. Feeling responsible, Francesca had begged Peter to be sent. Behind her was Tobias and Timothy‘s Crèche Mother Judith. Then there were several of the members of the Apprentices who had helped on the tragic attempt to repair the mast. Last there were three Carpenters, including their Chief, his presence a measure of the respect for Timothy.
A soil that is fertile will welcome our comrade,
Though his voice may be stilled and not heard in the hall,
But we shall remember and tell tales that keep him
Alive in the memory of many and all.
They arrived at the Burial Ground. A new grave had already been dug next to that of Jacob the Gardener who had died in the spring. The soil on that grave still looked a naked rich brown, though some grass had started to encroach. Ready to be used by the mourners there were two passing-spades stuck into the top of the pile of soil next to Timothy’s grave.
Now gentle earth accept of his offering,
Life that he gave may all celebrate now,
His last longest rest within sight of our haven,
Power to the field and to our gathered food.
They stopped at the edge of the grave and two of those who had carried the body jumped down as the others rested the board and lifted Timothy’s body clear. Then they handed it down to open, kindly arms. When Timothy’s body had been placed gently at the bottom of the grave, his friends were helped out and all the mourners gathered round.
‘Friends,’ said Francesca. She stood up as tall as she could and tried to look as grown up, though she didn’t feel it. But there was a debt of honour to be paid here and she was willing to pay it as best as she could.
‘Friends, we meet to say goodbye to someone who was a comrade. All of you knew him better than me. You played with him in the Crèche, he lived with you in your roundhouse, shared the hardbread with you at table, you trained him in the carpenter’s shop. I admired him for his enthusiasm and dedication in the short time I worked with him. I admired the way he recruited many of you to do a job you were probably unsure of and moulded you into a team that attempted something that has not been done in Heron Fleet in many years. In losing Timothy the Apprentice, we lose Timothy the Gatherer: the buildings he would have designed and built, the many things he would have added to the community. As we bury him let us all resolve in what we do to make up for that loss.’
She took the nearest passing-spade and shovelled the first soil into the grave.
‘Farewell, friend. Rest easy.’ Tears were running down her face but she let them fall as she added a second and then a third spade of soil.
Tobias came next. Then the others in turn, saying their own farewells, spoken aloud or held within a personal silence. Each turned more of the soil into Timothy’s resting place. Last came the Chief Carpenter. When he had spoken of how much he had looked forward to taking Timothy into the Carpenters’ Guild, he joined with Tobias and they finished closing the grave. Then they all stood and repeated the evening blessing together.
Reaping and sowing,
sowing and reaping,
this is the world we have.
All we know is the cycle of life.
Power to the greenwood.
Power to the field.
Power to our gathered food.
As they finished the blessing, Francesca saw a figure running up the Mourning Path towards the graveyard. It was Caleb. They all turned towards him as he entered the Burial Ground. He stopped and spoke to Francesca.
‘You must come quickly. Anya and Jonathan have been taken before a special meeting of the Council. Ruth has told Peter that they have a relationship which is in breach of the Rule.’
The Founder’s Diary V
Day 96
… There was an eerie silence as I fumbled for the keys but they twisted and I couldn’t get the grip I needed to turn them. ‘Come on!’ screamed Miriam. At last they turned. only for the engine to cough and refuse to start. ‘Out Out! Take cover.’ We threw ourselves out of the doors and crawled round to the back of the pickup. Bill grabbed his automatic rifle and jumped down to join us. We ducked down expecting a volley of shots.
‘What are they waiting for?’ said Miriam.
‘Perhaps we surprised them,’ I said.
‘Can’t be, they must have heard us coming,’ said Bill but there was still no return of fire.
‘Could you have killed them all?’ asked Miriam.
‘Doubt it.’ Bill popped his head out and then ducked back. He took off his hat and put it on the barrel of the rifle. Then he poked it just a bit above the tailgate; not so far as to be obviously fake but enough to give a clear target to anyone on the barricade. I giggled with nerves as we played out a deadly parody of Cowboys and Indians; still nothing from the barricade.
‘Miriam, there’s a pillar to our right at about twenty metres. It gives good cover. Can you make it, gal?’ She nodded. ‘I’ll bob up and fire a burst. Run like hell. Ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go!’ The automatic rifle chattered. Miriam pelted for the cover and made it.
‘Safe,’ came Miriam’s voice. Bill turned to me.
‘Now you. Same routine.’ I leant over to him and kissed him.
‘You take care.’ I stroked his cheek and he smiled.
‘I will pet. I will.’
My heart raced and the blood hammered in my ears. Then I ran for it, trying not to take exactly the same line as Miriam, reasoning that any watchers would be ready for me. The rifle rattled behind me and then I was with Miriam behind the column. ‘Safe,’ I yelled back.
‘What’s he going to do?’ said Miriam.
‘I think he’s going to charge the barricade,’ I said.
We pulled out the two pistols that we had for personal protection and watched as Bill came out from behind the pickup, the rifle at his hip, firing continuously. He had a fixed bayonet which reflected the light and he was screaming at them. In his anger and wild courage he was like my man. I realised I could love him, that the kiss was not just a matter of the moment’s emotion. We fired wildly round opposite sides of the pillar. He reached the barricade and in two strides was at the top, his figure a clear target. The barrel of the rifle started to fall and for a fraction of a second I tho
ught he had been hit. His body turned and then he waved us over. We put away our pistols and walked across to him.
There was not a soul there. We started to laugh hysterically as relief mingled with stupidity and we hugged each other. After a few minutes, we pulled ourselves together. ‘We better check properly,’ said Bill.
There was a shelter hidden away at the back, deeper under the bridge. Inside there was the corpse of a man who might have been about thirty, fair-haired, with an old-fashioned rifle. On a couple of stacked-up packing cases there was a telephone. ‘A guard post,’ said Bill. He went over to the phone and picked it up. ‘It’s not connected,’ he said. I knelt down by the body. The man was face down and I rolled him over. He’d been dead a long time and the skin has shrunk back from his lips. There was still dried blood on them, a smear on his cheek and a dark shadow I had seen once before. Miriam came over. ‘Oh God.’ There was a set of black swellings rising from his exposed collar bone up his neck, behind the ear and on into the hairline.
From the barricade down to the hospital we were quiet. We found the turn-off from the ring-road easily and from there the hospital was obvious, a set of low buildings with a couple of tall four-storey central blocks. The streets were empty. There was no one to stop us. We hid the pickup near a back door to one of the main blocks and broke in near some laboratories. We looked in a few but all were broken glass and dusty machines. We moved on.
A short corridor led us to the waiting room in the central atrium. It was a chaos of mattresses and makeshift beds. There were bodies in strange, stiffened poses with arms and legs at twisted, writhing angles. All had the swellings or other bruise-like marks on their skins. It was the same story in A & E, with dead bodies behind all the screens. Some showed signs of having died while being treated; empty drips, hanging from metal stands, connected to needles in desiccated arms.
Off a corridor, near some examination rooms, we found a store room. Its door was locked and so we forced it. The drugs were well-ordered and Miriam sorted out those she needed while we packed them into our backpacks. ‘There aren’t many phagocitics left,’ she said. ‘They must have used a lot of them in trying to treat the disease.’ We moved on. Not far away there was another intact store with supplies of bandages, dressings and instruments. ‘What’s left on the shopping list?’ said Bill.