by Martin Dukes
“Ganymede gets to know somehow, and goes and lets them out,” said Kelly, when Alex asked her about this. “He calls them ‘cagebirds’. I never saw anyone trapped myself but Mrs Patterson says she was banged up like that when she first came here. I guess quite a few of us must have been.”
Stacey and Sarah were a little way in front of Kelly and Alex as they made their way along a steep track by the side of a field. They were talking loudly but not quite loudly enough to be overheard, laughing and occasionally directing humorous glances over their shoulders. It was quite clear who they were talking about, however. Abruptly, they stopped, and after a brief but earnest exchange, turned and came back towards them.
“Sarah’s lost her ring,” Stacey announced, as they halted. “You ‘aint seen it ‘ave yer?”
Whoever it was that made the rules for ‘Sticia had decreed that although items of clothing were generally fixed permanently to the body of the wearer, smaller items like glasses, watches and rings could be removed and replaced.
“No,” said Alex, shaking his head emphatically and resenting the accusative tinge in Stacey’s tone. “What’s it like?”
“Gold one,” supplied Sarah. “Little heart on it, with a tiny diamond. I saw you was picking somethin’ up, when I looked back just now?”
Alex blushed.
“You’ve got a cheek,” said Kelly, glowering at her. “What are you tryin’ to say, exactly?”
“Yeah, why don’t you push off,” proposed Will, coming up behind them with Tanya.
“I was just bending down to have a look at a Statical stag beetle that was crossing the path,” said Alex coldly. “That’s all. Come down here and I’ll show you if you like.”
“What have you got in your pockets then?” insisted Stacey, with a steely glare, ignoring this suggestion.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Kelly, folding her arms and rolling her eyes in disgust. “What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”
“Here. Look,” said Alex turning out his pockets. They were entirely empty except for a wad of crumpled tissues. “There. Satisfied?”
Stacey sniffed. “Well, it must be round here somewhere.”
Both of them pushed past and trudged on down the path in silence.
“An apology’d be nice,” called Kelly after them, receiving only a rude gesture for reply.
Within a little while the population of ‘Sticia was gathering in the orchard behind the cottage. Here, a white painted gate in a wall led through to the long green shoulder of Micklebury Hill. After a few words of encouragement from Ganymede, the ‘Sticians passed through. They straggled along a steep path that presently emerged onto a grassy flat platform that offered splendid clear views back towards Cardenbridge. Here there was a rickety wooden structure, perhaps twelve feet tall, made from the dry branches of trees, carefully woven together.
“It looks like an anorexic bonfire,” said Kelly, with a snort of laughter.
Several of what might have been Sylvia’s friends immediately turned upon Kelly and fixed her with withering stares. Kelly beamed back at them. “Well,” she said unapologetically. “It does.”
“Sylvia DiStefano made it,” said the runner, who Alex had learned was called David Hemmings. He had run up and down the hill twice whilst everyone was walking up it, and thereby worked up a light sweat. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “It’s sculpture.”
“If you say so,” said Will dubiously.
“How come she can move Statical stuff,” said Alex, spotting a logical inconsistency.
“It isn’t Statical anymore,” said Tanya, pleased to demonstrate insider information. “Ganymede made a whole pile of wood into ‘Stician wood for her so’s she could do her sculptin’ with it.” She sniffed, looking from sceptical face to face and concluded, “Waste of time if you ask me.”
Ganymede was preparing to speak. He clapped his hands and hush descended on the assembled populace. A tall bespectacled woman with unabundant brown hair stood at Ganymede’s side, wearing dungarees and an expression of smug self-satisfaction. This was presumably Sylvia DiStefano, a fact confirmed when Ganymede started speaking.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of Intersticia,” he began. “We are privileged to have amongst us an artist of national repute in the person of Sylvia here. Sylvia is best known for her installation works, one of which, some of you may know, was nominated for the Turner Prize short list last year. She is also celebrated as a sculptor, and her ephemeral works using natural materials in natural situations have won her international acclaim.”
He indicated the anorexic bonfire. “What you see before you is her latest creation, Intersticia’s first. I have been to some trouble to make the materials available to her and the results, as you can see, are extraordinary. Perhaps Miss DiStefano would be good enough to say a few words about it.”
The only thing that Alex could see was extraordinary was how anyone could think a slender pile of sticks was a work of art. There was a polite ripple of applause as Sylvia DiStefano took centre stage, a few of what must have been her friends giving her an enthusiastic hand.
Sylvia had lots to say about her work, much of it couched in language that left Alex feeling baffled and frustrated. It seemed that what Sylvia mainly wanted to convey was that she was a lot cleverer than everyone there.
“..challenges our preconceptions about the relationship between observer and observed,” Alex picked out. “A synthesis of mind and matter through the medium of the natural environment,” he heard. After a while he stopped listening. His eye, wandering from the edifying prospect of Sylvia DiStefano in full self-congratulatory flow, came to rest upon the edge of the forest behind her. Here he detected movement in the shadows amongst the trees. He nudged Kelly.
“What’s that?” he asked, under his breath.
“What’s what?” hissed Kelly. Alex fancied he saw her blush a little.
“In the trees,” he whispered helpfully.
“I didn’t see anything,” she said, before Sylvia’s friends shushed them.
But Alex had an idea she was lying. So did Tanya.
“I bet that was Paulo,” she hissed into Alex’s ear as they made their slow way back into Cardenbridge.
“How long d’you reckon you’ve been here?” Alex asked Will, that night, as they sat finishing a manna roll, in the yellow glow of a lightstick. “In ‘Sticia, I mean. You must have some idea.”
Will shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. That’s another thing about ‘Sticia. It does something to your memory. I don’t know whether it’s the boredom, or the fact that nothing moves and the sky looks exactly the same all day; it just seems impossible to remember more than a couple of days. A few events kind of stick out in my memory but basically it’s just a blur. That’s why I’ve been trying to keep a diary.”
“Well it’s an obvious way of keeping a track of things,” said Alex reasonably. “A permanent record, I guess.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you,” said Will, reaching for a sheaf of papers. “But take a look at that.”
Alex found that he was looking at the pages of Will’s diary. Traversed by Will’s untidy handwriting the top sheets were crisp and white. As Alex leafed through the pile the sheets became increasingly yellowed and fragile. The bottom sheets crumbled into fine dust even as he handled them.
“Oops, sorry,” he said, carefully laying them down.
“Don’t worry,” said Will. “That’s what I mean. ‘Stician paper crumbles after a couple of weeks.”
“But there must be other ways of recording stuff,” objected Alex.
“I’d like to know how,” said Will. “Everything ‘Stician wears out after a short while. I tried marking my jug once with a coin I had in my pocket when I got here. I couldn’t make a mark on it. It’s like ‘Stician stuff has no effect on Statical.” He shrugged, suddenly defeated. “Anyway, what’s the point, huh? May as well just go with the flow.”
There was something rather sad, rather weary in
the set of Will’s plump features as he gathered up his crumbling papers. Alex felt suddenly sorry for him.
“There’s got to be an end to it,” he said.
“Has there?” Will pushed his glasses up his nose and stared at him. “Maybe there is. But there’s no way of telling when it’s going to happen. You just get sucked back in, supposedly, when your number’s up.” He sniffed and crossed to the window, peering out into the dark street. “Unless you’re dead that is. And then, well then there’s … Cactus Jack. I’d rather take care of it myself.”
A strange prickle of dread crept across Alex’s scalp at the mention of this name. He had seen Cactus Jack. He didn’t say so though. Not now.
“What, d’you mean? Like….topping yourself?” asked Alex hesitantly.
“Well, it isn’t much of a life is it?” said Will, with a bitter laugh. “’Limbo’, that’s what Margaret Owen calls it. She says we must endure it patiently. But sometimes I reckon my patience is pretty much used up.”
“You don’t have to die to get out of here,” said Alex, making his mind up to tell Will what he had never told anyone in ‘Sticia yet. “I’ve been in ‘Sticia quite a few times.”
“That’s impossible!” Will eyed him warily.
“I promise you it’s not,” said Alex, eyes blazing with sincerity.
He told Will about the first time he had daydreamed himself into 'Sticia, when he was at school. (Already it seemed a lifetime ago.) And then his subsequent, brief visitations before his final stranding here. Will listened in silence, polishing his glasses on his sleeve.
“There’s something really, really odd about you,” he said, when Alex had finished. “I thought there was the first time I saw you. I never heard of anyone who could get in and out of 'Sticia. How did you say you did it?”
Alex told him. They both spent the next few minutes shaking their heads, gritting their teeth and scrunching up their eyes. It was no use, of course. Alex had almost given up hope that it ever would be.
The next day Alex was to help Mrs Patterson. He found her easily enough, in a quiet suburban street with blossom trees set at intervals along the grass verges of the pavement. The day’s tenth manatee had already drifted overhead by the time Alex arrived. It had a little notch in its tail that Alex thought he might recognise in future, even had he not been counting.
There was a large pile of sand at one end of the street and by it stood Mrs Patterson, mopping her brow with a tiny lacy handkerchief. Next to her were a large galvanised bucket and a shovel, leaning against a wall. She set to with the shovel again, laboriously driving it into the sand and then emptying the contents carefully into the bucket, her thin arms quivering with the effort of it.
“Good morning, Mrs Patterson,” called Alex, as he approached.
Mrs Patterson, laid aside the shovel once more and cautiously straightened her narrow back as she turned to greet him.
“Good morning, Alex,” she said. “It is Alex, isn’t it? Oh, yes. Of course. Hang on. Let me get my breath.” She laughed, a surprisingly shrill musical laugh. “You’d have thought I’d have got used to this by now. I’ve been doing it long enough. But today, at least it has pleased my good friend Mr Ganymede to lighten my burden.”
Alex found himself wondering whether people could actually keel over through exhaustion here. Could you actually die here by ordinary means; heart attack, stroke, cancer and so on? Mrs Patterson indicated the other end of the street, where there was a smaller pile of sand.
“I have to move the rest of this sand up yonder, d’you see. Do you think you could help me with that? It would be nice to have a little break. I’ve been at it since seventh already.”
Mrs Patterson looked so thin and pale and weary; it seemed certain that she must topple over at any moment. Alex was very glad when she was firmly established, sitting on a low wall and he could get on with shifting the sand. The first few buckets were hardly any effort at all, but a dugong later he was beginning to ache around the shoulders and the palms of his hands were already red and raw. The pile of sand seemed hardly to have diminished. It was going to be a long day.
Around about twelfth Alex had had enough. His arms and shoulders were on fire. His knees felt like they would buckle at any instant. He sat on the wall next to Mrs Patterson, who poured him a drink of water from her jug. They had lunch, or at least each of them unwrapped their cloths and ate a couple of manna rolls, which was about as close to the experience of lunch as you were ever likely to get in 'Sticia.
“You’ve done very well,” said Mrs Patterson, encouragingly. “And it’s meant that I’ve been able to get on with a bit of knitting for Mrs Dubcek. She’s absolutely hopeless at it, poor dear.”
“Which would be why Ganymede makes her do it,” observed Alex, around a mouthful of manna.
She nodded sadly. “Yes. I suppose so. Still, we must all make the best of it and help each other where we can.”
“What’s Ganymede’s problem anyway?” asked Alex. “He’s pretty odd isn’t he? Is he, well…you know?..Like us?”
Mrs Patterson smiled vaguely. “Who can say? He certainly looks and talks like a human being. Supposedly, the Angels chose him to run the sector at some point. It’s as though he’s Lord of the Manor, you see, master of all he surveys.”
“Can’t we get rid of him?” suggested Alex, looking gloomily at his bucket and shovel.
Mrs Patterson laughed, a ripple of high cheerful notes. “It sounds like you’ve been talking to that Major Trubshaw. He’d like to do just that. You wait ‘til next Gathering, then we’ll see some fireworks. I can’t see anything coming of it myself, except a whole lot of trouble for the poor Major.”
Mrs Patterson told Alex that the Major was circulating a petition around ‘Sticia. Amongst other things the petition demanded that the people of 'Sticia should be allowed to assert their democratic rights to elect a leader for themselves. It also called for better living conditions and the chance to negotiate directly with the Angels.
“Did you sign it?” asked Alex.
The old lady nodded. “I did. I think he deserves our support. At least he’s trying to do something, although I doubt his motives are entirely altruistic. Still, I daresay nothing will come of it.”
Alex looked up, his attention caught by movement on the periphery of his vision. What he saw almost caused him to fall backwards off the wall. Standing in the middle of the road was a creature nearly eight feet tall. Dressed all in black, like an undertaker, it had hugely long arms and legs and a small head thrust forward on a long, scrawny neck. There was a broad slash of a mouth beneath a huge beak of a nose, but where its eyes should have been there were only two tiny black specks, like the eyes of a sparrow. These were peering up and down the road, first at one pile of sand, then at the other.
“Good day, Mr Morlock,” called Mrs Patterson, calmly. “I suppose we are allowed a break for luncheon.”
Morlock turned to her and stroked a few lank black hairs across his shiny pate with a long and bony hand. He did not speak, although his mouth twitched into what might have been the faintest of smiles.
“And where is your companion, Mr Minion?” continued the old lady. “I trust he is well.”
Morlock made no reply. With a last glance at Alex, he wiped his nose with the back of his hand and strode off along the street, his long legs covering ground with impressive speed.
“Who was that?” Alex found to his surprise that he was whispering. “Or what?”
“Oh, that’s just Mr Morlock, checking up on us for Mr Ganymede,” said Mrs Patterson matter-of-factly, getting on with her knitting. “Don’t let it bother you. I know he’s a bit odd to look at. He and Mr Minion keep an eye on things in 'Sticia for their master,” she laughed once more. “Which is odd really, since the pair of them haven’t what you or I would call a proper eye between them.”
Mrs Paterson told Alex more about Morlock and Minion whilst Alex got on with shovelling sand. It appeared they were Ganymede’s spi
es and police. Morlock was huge and gangling, Minion short and plump. Together they patrolled the streets of ‘Sticia, making sure that Ganymede’s will was enforced. Anyone who crossed Ganymede could find themselves dragged before him by the gruesome twosome. Anyone who Ganymede wished to punish would find themselves carted off to the House of Correction, a kind of 'Stician prison behind the aviary next to the park buildings.
“You’ve done very well,” Mrs Patterson told him at the end of the day, when they stood surveying the two piles of sand. “I never move half as much as that.”
Alex reckoned he had shifted about two thirds of the pile. He should easily finish it the following day; if he survived that long. His whole body was one big ache. His breaks for rest and water had become increasingly long and frequent as the day wore on. Mrs Patterson had taken a turn herself between nineteenth and twentieth whilst Alex went to fetch more water from the stream. Watching her feebly driving the shovel into the pile was painful to behold. Alex’s existing dislike of Ganymede began to harden into something approaching detestation.
Aching from his day’s exertions Alex didn’t feel particularly sociable that night. He groaned inwardly when Kelly came to visit, along with Tanya, of course, who seemed pretty much inseparable from her. Alex found that he very much wanted to roll himself in his blankets and go to sleep. With Kelly there he didn’t feel that he could, although it was all he could do to stifle a succession of jaw bending yawns. She was begging manna as usual and Alex soon found himself parting with two of his rolls.