by Neil Clarke
“Let’s go and see what we can find,” I say to Saga. I have no clock of my own—clocks without plastic and batteries are difficult to find—but I estimate the hike took five or so minutes.
“Anything you’d need?” Saga asks.
Another human being. Preferably a boy of my age. Give or take a decade or two. Barring that, a life far away from the governess would be nice. And if that isn’t possible, something to make me forget everything. However, my little sister doesn’t need to know about the things I yearn even though I know I can never have them.
“Books,” I reply. It’s better to give her something to hunt, to keep her out of my way. And besides, it’s about time I teach her how to read.
I hold my breath as I push the front door open. I know to expect the jarring sense of unease, and yet it turns my limbs leaden. Though we’ve never seen anyone during our visits, that doesn’t mean this house’s owners couldn’t return at any moment.
“I’ll be fast,” Saga promises as she dashes past me toward the stairs. It’s late summer in this time. Winter clothes are most likely kept stored in the attic.
I pop into the toilet under the stairs, not that I would ever dare to use it, just as I don’t dare to turn on the lights. With arms extended before me, I shuffle my way to the cupboard above the sink. I search blindly.
By chance, I come across a small brown bottle. I squint at the label. The big red triangle tells me everything I need to know. I unscrew the cap and swallow two gulps of the cough medicine. I’ve done this more times than I care to admit. But the governess seems to be blind to the wonderful drowsiness that’s bound to follow.
I return the bottle in the cupboard and continue my hunt. I find a box of tampons. Praised be whichever god still exists! Though, I’ll either have to remove the plastic wrappings or risk the governess confiscating the box.
Feeling pleasantly lightheaded, I stuff the box into my backpack. It feels good to defy the rules for even a moment. To celebrate my decision, on my way out, I snatch two rolls of the luxurious, triple-ply toilet paper. Those can’t possibly count as high-tech!
I ignore the kitchen—the governess doesn’t approve us taking food unless we’re starving. I drift through the spacious living room occupied only by a massive white sofa and a huge tv. On the far side, two doors whisper promises of a better life led by luckier people. I open the door on the left.
The room isn’t particularly big. A teddy bear, sitting on the pink duvet with limbs askew in all directions, guards the bed at the back of the room. Ill-tended books, notebooks, and piles of paper cover the desk to my right. Jeans, t-shirts, and various accessories litter the floor. The posters on the wall proclaim ownership. Skinny men and women in scant clothing scream, sweat dripping down their faces.
No, I realize, they aren’t screaming but singing.
I close my eyes as my heart pangs with envy. This room belongs to a teenage girl. In another time and place, it could have been mine. The concerts, heartbreaks, and fashion disasters. The heartbreaks . . .
It would be so easy to get lost in sorrow. But the drowsiness dulls even the strongest of emotions, and I manage to push self-pity aside for a moment more.
I wade to the table. This girl from the past is of my age. The books might be schoolbooks. I need to check if I can take any of them with me. I need to learn whatever there is to learn. Perhaps one day I’ll figure out what happened to my world, why the Victorians came, and how I can best protect Saga from their arbitrariness.
But every single one of the books contains plastic in one form or another. I can’t take them with me. I force myself to fumble through the clothing, to get something else to think about. As my luck has it, the clothes are made of polyester and acrylic. I run my fingers along the paisley print of a particularly pretty sleeveless top. Even if I could take it with me, I would never have any use for it. I need warm and durable clothes that can stand the elements and mangling by washboard. I toss the top aside.
My vision is already blurry around the edges when I come across a pair of snowflake patterned woolen socks, no doubt knit by the girl’s grandmother. I clench my teeth as my hands curl into fists. I sway to the bed and sink down so heavily that the teddy bear keels over. It’s not fair! I’ve never seen and will never see my grandmother!
Tears well in my eyes, and I can’t hold them back. I snatch the teddy bear and clutch it against my heart. The Victorians have denied me everything. Family, friends, the chance of ever meeting someone I might fall in love with.
“What is it, Agneta?” Saga has appeared into the doorway without me noticing. A slightly too large fur cap lines her delicate face. The lamb fur coat she’s donned looks old, but warm, the winter boots three sizes too large.
The teddy bear drops from my numb fingers. I can’t allow Saga to see me this weak. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Saga parrots me. She picks her way through the mess to the bed, sits down next to me, wraps her arm around me, and leans her chin against my shoulder. “I thought that lying was a bad thing.”
As Saga grows older, it’s getting more and more difficult to mislead her. Perhaps the time has come to stop even trying. I wipe my eyes dry with the back of my hand. “I found something I really want, but can’t take with us.”
Saga squeezes her arms tighter around me. It’s as if she were my big sister, not the other way around.
“Now, did you indeed?” The governess rolls into the room, the black hem of her gown swallowing everything like a monstrous wave.
I freeze, but my heart pounds unsteadily. My careless comment has placed both Saga and me in grave danger. What can I say and do to remedy the situation? It’s difficult to think straight, with the cough medicine clouding my mind.
“Well?” The governess seems to float before us, over the clothes and magazines. She motions toward my bag. I demurely hand it over.
Despite all the winter clothes, Saga shivers as the governess rummages through my bag. She thinks I’ve decided to snatch something forbidden. I second-guess myself. Have I?
The governess tosses out the toilet paper rolls. She pouts her lips as she notices the box of tampons. She turns it in her hands, opens the package, and pulls out one plastic-wrapped tampon. “What is this?”
Saga stares at me, still silent. I haven’t yet talked with her about the inconveniences of growing up. I want her to lead a carefree life as long as she can.
“Something to make my life a little easier,” I finally reply. How victorious I felt just a while back! Now defeat tastes bitter and sharp.
“I can’t let you have them,” the governess says, placing the box on the table.
I boil inside. And despite knowing the danger in debating with a Victorian, I spring up and retrieve the box. I pull out a tampon and brandish it at her. “The wrapping comes off.”
“Is that so?” the governess asks.
Glowering with fury, I unpeel the tampons, one after another.
Pa believed the Victorians could access cached moments. To prove his theory, he followed a convert through a portal once and brought back newspapers that Ma promptly used to start a fire. Though he and Ma could have received supplies from the Victorians, they preferred to scavenge the cottages scattered across the abandoned valleys.
Ma and Pa spoke only rarely of the world before the Victorians. I gathered from the clues left behind—magazines full of pictures of impossibly beautiful women, exotic cities of architectural wonder, and delicacies I’d never get to taste—that their parents must have led a life of abundance and extravaganza. Though at the time I blamed them for not telling me everything, later I understood how much it must have pained them to almost have it all.
Saga, you must understand, Ma and Pa did their best to provide for us. We farmed beetroot, potatoes, and onions. We fished for trout and pike. Sometimes one of them would jump on their bicycle and pedal away, while the other stayed with you and me.
Back when Sodankylä still existed, it harbored an underground m
arketplace. There, behind the Victorians’ backs, people bartered with what they’d found from the ruins or on their trips through the portals. They exchanged alcohol for food, medicines for clothes, luxuries of olden days for everyday amenities.
I remember always feeling anxious and restless until the parent who’d braved the journey returned. On that happy day, we’d cook a celebratory meal, no matter how meager their loot. We’d pop open tin cans and rip open plastic containers. We’d laugh, though sometimes the food left an ashen aftertaste.
I realized only later why.
Frost has bitten the landscape bloody. I chop logs in the small opening by the woodshed, but my mind is elsewhere. Saga is gathering the nets. The governess went with her, but rather to keep an eye on her than to help. She never participates in household duties.
My stomach aches and will ache for days still. I’m afraid of many things, but not of my periods. I know now that I won’t die of the bleeding. When the time comes, I’ll explain how a woman’s body works to Saga, but not a day sooner.
I swing the ax to split another log. The wood parts with a satisfying crack. If I hate something almost as much as the Victorians, it’s the damned inconvenience of having a womb. Why do I have to bleed, when there’s a decent chance that I’ll never meet another human being beside Saga, let alone a boy to knock me up?
I yank the ax free from the log. It’s getting late. Hopefully, come next summer, Saga can already fend for herself, and I can pedal to discover what remains of Sodankylä. Perhaps my fears will prove unfounded. Perhaps . . .
Enough with wistful thinking.
I return the ax in the woodshed and pile the chopped wood to dry. Then I stride down the rocky path to the narrow jetty that age and elements have turned gray. The jetty squeaks under my boots long after I’ve halted to survey the lake.
Saga and the governess are still at the north end of the lake, perhaps a half-kilometer away. My sister is hauling the net into the boat all by herself, while the governess knits mittens no one will ever use. Just as I expected.
“No, I don’t buy it.” Saga’s voice carries over the open water. “You can’t have always been a governess.”
I flinch despite myself. I avoid addressing the governess when I can get away with it, but my bold, six-year-old sister has just asked the very question that has always puzzled me. What was our governess like before she chose to convert? Why did she choose to welcome alien machinery into her body rather than remain a human? For isn’t that the ultimate betrayal one can commit against one’s species?
“No.” The governess straightens her back. Her reply sounds mechanical. “That I was not.”
“Why become one then?” Saga leans over the boat’s edge to better grasp the net. The boat tilts to a threatening angle. I’m about to call out a warning, but before I can do so, the governess shifts to balance the boat.
“The children must be looked after,” the governess says.
Saga sniffs as she heaves the last of the net and day’s catch over the boat’s rim. She dislikes being called a child. Even though that’s what she is. “You were a child, then?”
“A child is a boy or a girl,” the governess replies.
“A girl.” Saga nods, self-satisfied. “You were a girl.”
For a long while, neither of them speaks more. The gray clouds thicken, and shadows grow taller. On the shore, blood-red birches shiver. I can’t see any birds flying, but I can hear faded cries of terns.
Eventually, Saga picks up the oars and expertly maneuvers the boat around. She rows toward the jetty, but still doesn’t notice me. It really is getting dark and colder, too.
“You are a girl,” the governess muses as if she’s realized this for the very first time.
“You’re funny.” Saga giggles. She splashes water with the oars. The governess ducks to avoid the sprays. My sister laughs. “You know, we have something in common after all!”
I spit in the water, shattering the surface. Saga and I have nothing whatsoever in common with the converts. I’ll need to make sure she remembers that.
But I can’t bear to face my sister now, not with the governess present. I flee up the path to the farmhouse, kicking every pebble on the way. Saga and I belong to the second post-invasion generation, but it seems to me she’s forgot what the Victorians did.
I haven’t, and I harbor enough hate in my heart for two.
Ma was visiting Sodankylä when the town got obliterated. I was playing with you in the orchard when the beam of light split the sky, so bright I couldn’t see for hours afterwards. Pa found us crying, curled under an apple tree. He didn’t need to tell us that Ma wouldn’t return.
Pa changed after Ma died. He sat on the porch, staring in turns into the distance and at his hands. He hunched there, muttering about electricity and how people should have already known better, for so long that even the mosquitos grew bored of his taste.
That autumn, the fields went untended, the apples unpicked. You were two and half years old at the time. Between looking after you and Pa, I had no chance to go and scrounge for myself.
We ran out of tin cans when the first snow fell. On the third day that we had nothing left to eat, the Victorians came to pay us a visit. Pa pretended he’d invited the serious men and women and thanked them for the provisions they brought.
I think that if there had been any alcohol to be had, he would have emptied every single bottle and flask.
Every Saturday—that is, every seventh day, since there’s no way to be sure of time and date anymore—Saga and I heat up our little sauna, wash the laundry, and scrub ourselves clean. The governess never joins us; rather she often leaves via portal to a different time and place, perhaps to visit her own kind. I’m unashamedly glad of that.
“More?” Saga asks as we sit naked on the wet pine bench, knees pressed against chests, arms wrapped around shins. She twirls the copper ladle absent-mindedly as she stares out of the soot-laced window.
It’s dark and cold outside. It should have snowed weeks ago, but it hasn’t. The new world follows different rules, and amidst the change, Saga and I are alone. I seek solace from what little tradition remains, from the scent of burning wood, the warm comfort of the tiny sauna, the closeness never shared in any place else. Saga and I were both born in this very room. Here we’re safe.
“Sure,” I reply just as the sonic boom tears through the windowpanes. Glass hums. I fear it will crack. “Shit.”
We’ll never be safe anywhere.
“Agneta!” Saga hits me with the ladle, not particularly hard, but hard enough for it to sting. “Don’t curse in the sauna!”
I should stay stronger before my little sister, show her example by being unafraid, but . . . I can’t. Not anymore.
Saga tosses a scoop of water on the stove’s stones, but the soft hiss does nothing to set me at ease. She notices that. “That’s just our governess returning.”
I bury my head in my hands as if I were protecting my ears from the steam, not trying to hide my shame. My stomach clenches, cold fingers squeeze my heart. This fear, it’s impossible to live with, too embarrassing to admit.
“Agneta?” Saga brushes my shoulder, her skin clammy against mine. That’s it then. She’s seen what I’ve tried so hard to hide. There’s no point in continuing to lie.
“Sometimes . . . ” The words, I don’t want to say them. But I have to. “I grow so tired of being ever so afraid of the Victorians.”
“I’m not afraid.” Saga’s reply is the last thing I expected to hear. “Got no reason to be. I’ve broken no rules.”
Anger surges inside me. Sure, Saga is young and ignorant. But to dismiss my words, to accept the situation as it is, that’s unacceptable!
“Who knows what rules they follow?” I whisper hoarsely. Does Saga really think that she understands how the Victorians think? Does she think she’s safe because she plays best friends with the governess? Does she? And I shouldn’t have to remind her that . . . “They killed Ma and Pa
.”
Saga flinches. No, she hasn’t forgot Ma and Pa. That’s good, but I feel ever so slightly ashamed that I thought so even in passing.
For a long while, neither of us speaks. Saga stares at the stove, the logs in the firebox succumbing to flames. I rivet my attention at the stones. As the water evaporates, the dry patches on them grow larger. Gradually, the sauna cools. The air should have become easier to breathe, and yet it doesn’t feel that way.
At last, Saga says in a barely audible voice, “So you’ve told me, but what if . . . ”
I glare at her sideways. What is she after now? “What if what?”
I’ve told her what came to pass many times, and there’s no way she could have misunderstood. Pa acquired and hid the gun to protect Saga and me.
“Nothing.” Saga wraps her arms tighter around herself as if she wanted to close the whole word, me included, outside.
I’m about to chastise her when a dreadful thought occurs to me. I fight to deny it even as a shiver runs down my back, sinking claws under my skin, all the way to my bones.
“Give me that.” I yank the ladle from Saga’s numb hold. I pour water on the stones. I pour and pour until both of us wriggle in steam.
And yet I can’t chase away the awful thought. What if Pa thought to protect us by putting a bullet through our heads?
We lived through the endless night of the winter only thanks to the Victorians. The somber men and women paid us a visit every single time we ran out of food. However, it was neither kindness nor any sort of regret that drove them. When Pa thought I couldn’t hear, he questioned them about their motives. They spoke of the survival of the species, of all things!
When the spring finally came, Pa left me in charge of the house and went foraging. You and I fished the best we could, but one can’t live solely on pike and trout. The Victorians must have been spying on us, because they sent us more tin cans and dried rye bread.
For two long weeks, I feared Pa would never return, that the Victorians had killed him too. Then he did return, though later I wished he hadn’t.