With those words, Stick became stick—a bit of wood slashed in a few places to make something like a face, worn from endless handling, tips softened where an infant had suckled on the wood in her hunger, split where a toddler had grown her teeth, worn where a child carried it everywhere. Little Pig looked at the bare and damaged wood and wondered what gifts of her mother’s remained to her.
*~*~*~*
Oldest Woman gave Little Pig her new name, to help her take her mother’s place among their little clan. Trembling hands blessed her before the fire, Oldest Woman speaking of the mothers who had birthed the People just as the mountain streams birthed the Biggest River. Little Pig was set upon her own journey toward motherhood, following Berry Brown’s path.
Now Youngest Woman, she held Brother Spear close as he wept his sorrow. The tears helped her mother’s spirit move onward. In his turn, Brother Spear dug a grave, that Berry Brown might sleep deep enough to stay out of the claws of cat or wolf during the Ice Moon and the Dying Moon to come.
“I will work alone to set the rocks,” she said. Three days later, Youngest Woman laid the last of the stones upon the cairn. Berry Brown and the old, chewed stick now rested beneath. Youngest Woman spread leaves and soil between the rocks, and found the secret seeds of flowers for the days of the Bright Moon to come, even though the People would not be camped here then.
She stood silent beneath the pale sun, the ice wind plucking sweat from her head and hands. In that quiet moment, her mother came to her, carrying Stick. “I did not think it would be so beautiful,” said Berry Brown in a voice made of the wind sighing in the grass, the buzz of insect wings, the creak of trees on the distant hills.
Stick nodded.
Youngest Woman returned the nod. “The toy you made for me carried me through my years of need, mother. May it carry you through yours.”
Berry Brown smiled, her mouth a glimmer of beetles’ wings and shiny pebbles and light on water. “As you will carry me onward through the journey of your heart.”
“Always,” said Youngest Woman, but she was speaking only to herself and the uncaring sky.
There was time before she had to lay the evening fire for Oldest Woman, and the rest of the People were out gathering garlic and onions. This was what she knew that day: just as the streams become rivers, daughters become their mothers, and in turn make more daughters to spread like rain upon the land. She owed her daughters-to-come the memory of Berry Brown, the wisdom of her mother, and whatever more she might glean from her own life.
And so Youngest Woman went looking for a stick. With Stick had come stories, comfort, safety. Love. She might as well start practicing to carve now. Then she would be skilled enough when her time came to make a toy to carry her own daughters through the years.
The Times once called MICHAEL MOORCOCK one of “The 50 greatest British writers since 1945”. This legendary writer and editor has thrilled fans for decades with tales of Elric, Corum, Hawkmoon, Jerry Cornelius and even Doctor Who!
Visit Moorcock’s Miscellany: www.multiverse.org
The Grenade Garden
A Jerry Cornelius Story
Michael Moorcock
I
In his padded jerkin and Mongol helmet Jerry might have been part of some 19th century horde were it not for the bandoliers of 9mm cartridges criss-crossing his body, the AK-47 with its well polished stock carried on his back, the belt of magazines around his waist. His other weapons, a GTA lance and a curved scimitar, were at his side.
Jerry had, like the Cossacks before him, adopted the costume and customs of his traditional enemies. Even his style of riding his energetic little horse was borrowed from the Uzbeks. That was the secret of survival in this age of split-second branding. He who shifted his identity first won the fight.
“Oh, bugger. Look at that!” His sister Cathy, almost identically dressed and mounted, pointed ahead. Four Chinese main battle tanks had appeared in the Everest foothills. They had been hoping for a lift up the mountain.
Behind Jerry his band, stinking of gun oil and wet down, stirred uncomfortably, scanning the skies.
“These days you’re no more than a pawn in a V-game.” Shaky Mo Collier stroked his long mustachios and lifted big brown eyes to the info flickering across the inside of his smart shades. “Don’t you think your destiny depends on a roll or two of dice thrown by some isolated nerd in Sacremento?”
“We’ve got the world they always dreamed of.” Seated sideways on her uncomfortable wooden saddle, Miss Brunner switched her own helmet to info-mode, then to kindle. She wanted to finish ‘The Heat of the Day’ before they started mixing it up. The Uzbeks had perfected the art of the cavalry charge against armoured vehicles and mobile guns. “We’re making it real for them again.”
Catherine Cornelius removed her cap and shook out her golden curls. “Is your saddle giving you piles? Frankly, I don’t think Kashmir’s worth it. I’m tired of these primitive sepia landscapes and the smoke of war. Couldn’t we put in for Hollywood Omelette?”
“Red tape, darling.” Miss B touched up her lipstick. “We were due to transfer a month ago. But I must say I’m getting suspicious of your brother’s motives.” She regarded Jerry’s back with a certain coolness. Maybe he’s enjoying himself?”
“Oh, he’s always done that,” said Catherine indulgently. “He knows how to make the most of a situation. I wish Una were here.”
Miss Brunner closed her compact with a jealous snap. She would never understand their love.
II
From a fairly safe slope of Windermere Shaky Mo Collier gave a sigh of relief as he looked down at the flat, black surface of the lake. No wonder Wordsworth had never captured the profound bleakness of the place. Only Coleridge had come close. Romantic poets simply couldn’t help themselves when it came to cold reality.
Mo looked over at Frank Cornelius who had grown horribly depressed since Windsor. Frank’s skin had taken on the colour of old lard. He had always been the weak link in the group. What was the point in bringing his bloody Humvee with them? Hauling it had exhausted the drays and made the Scots irritable. They had no patience with horses, let alone armoured vehicles. If you couldn’t walk it or run it, it wasn’t worth going. Trixiebell Beesley thought it had to do with vanity and their knees revealed by their kilts.
“Well,” thought Mo, “all that showy tartan won’t do them any good in Northumberland. Here, they made a virtue of khaki. Dragging a Blackberry from his tunic pocket he dialed London but they were engaged.
He looked up at the ridge. Ranks of highlanders with plaids, shields, basket-hilted longswords and AK-47s came marching down towards the lake where boats were to take them across. After that it was only a short march to Liverpool where the American marines waited to join them.
III
Bashi Mahmoud rolled himself a massive spliff. His tiny sparkling green eyes regarded Jerry with amused relish.
“You’ve seen the Egyptian pyramids, eh? And the Empire State Building and all those other great monuments? My friend, you are a cultural monster!” The Bashi handed over the joint. “What is your best memory?”
Jerry was bound to admit his fondness for Derry and Thoms’ Famous Roof Garden. It had survived many incarnations since the late 1930s. He had loved those moments above the Kensington traffic drinking a cup of Darjeeling while the children played in the Tudor Garden and looked for flamingoes.
“Maybe Holland Park on a summer afternoon in the years before we had to simplify our history in order to sell it.”
“Long ago?”
“It doesn’t seem like it.” Jerry had lost track of his ages. His father’s memories had married so quickly with his own. One chip and it was all over for identity as he knew it. He wondered if everyone experienced it the same way. Especially when siblings shared the same parental information. The end of the generation gap.
General Mahmoud was relaxed and ready for battle. He had only bonded successfully with Mo Collier and remained a little wary of J
erry and the others who did not share his joy of battle. Having split from the original horde during the second siege of Vienna, he still wondered if he had made the right decision, especially since Bishop Beesley, who had persuaded him, was now leading a group of his own ex-churchmen on a raid of the Cadbury’s factory in the Wirrel and was no longer even in radio contact.
Miss Brunner had quickly tired of the Mongol’s love-making which was conservative and only conventionally cruel. Her evident cooling interest had depressed him and made him more than a little self-conscious until he had smoked at least one spliff. Frank Cornelius was sympathetic but all his attempts to bond had struck the Bashi as creepy and insincere. Of old Cornelius’s children, he was the only one unwilling to marry his parent.
“OK.” Jerry unrolled the big Ordnance Survey map on the camp table. “Shall we go over this again?”
IV
With the walls of York successfully breached and the city looted of its valuables, Jerry and the others decided to make for Harrogate. “I could do with a bath.” Jerry shot a fastidious cuff. “And what’s happening to people? Any ideas?”
He and his sister rode stirrup to stirrup and side by side in affectionate companionship. Behind them, against a pearly blue sky, black smoke made lazy shapes, reminding him of the landscapes of some previous youth.
“Do you have any regrets?” Catherine wanted to know.
“I’m not really sure. Maybe we should have given Kashmir a bit longer. What do you think?”
She shrugged her lovely shoulders. “I’m still a little shocked at the Dali Lama. Who could have believed him? I suppose I’m getting too old and tired.” She had been in severe pain since a couple of days earlier when she discovered Frank had smoked her supply of Fentonyl patches. The expedition was proving far less fun than expected.
She couldn’t believe it. It was like Paris all over again. She had no chance of finding a decent supply of pharmaceuticals until they got to Rugby. There, too, at any rate they would at least be able to change horses.
For his part, Frank knew he had fucked up. Usually he was able to rely on his sister for her sympathy. Now, if Jerry decided to let him suffer, he would have no chance of ending it except for a bullet in the head. Frank felt profoundly sorry for himself. So far he had failed to transfer the blame to any other member of his family.
Sulking, he dismounted and walked behind them. “I need a holiday. Can’t anyone see that?”
V
Mo was the first to spot the drone squadron come darting and dancing over the horizon. Seven of them in elegant formation, leaving neat, white vapour trails as if grazing the fabric of the sky.
The Uzbeks began to whoop and cheer, unshipping their ATM lances and priming the big grenades. Somewhere in the mountains of Colorado a pilot was beginning to wonder what he was up against. Mo was glad to have the chance to show him.
Behind the drones bounced a bunch of PJ40 Main Battle Tanks, their caterpillar tracks moaning and clanking. Coordinated from nine thousand miles away the drivers’ helmeted heads dropped down in unison beneath the heavy steel hatches.
“This is where we show those bastards what they’re up against.” Mo unlimbered his RPG launchers and got his twin Ak-47s into position before popping a toffee into his mouth. He had the vague idea that this action would redeem him in the eyes of his brother and sister back in Derby. He began to whistle through his teeth.
By tomorrow it would be all over. Already he could smell the cordite smoke. Better than Viagra, he thought.
Was anyone catching this on social media?
VI
Major Nye looked up from his desk. His was a temporary rank assigned by Whitehall until something better could be found for him. He recognized Jerry and his expression grew immediately more amiable. “Hello, old son. Long time, no see, eh? How’s your mother?”
“Knocking along, thanks, Major.” Jerry sat down heavily and lit a Sullivan’s before offering the box.
Accepting, the old soldier took time to light it, regarding Jerry through pale blue eyes. “Many thanks, dear boy.
Jerry needed something to perk himself up. The sooner he got home to Blenheim Crescent the better. Ladbroke Grove had never felt more comforting.
Behind the major the Thames was covered in a slick of oil and ash flowing slowly down to the sluggish sea. Half of London was down, taken out bit by bit by Texan drones in a frantic reaction against any nation not sworn to back that State’s bid for independence. Parts of the city were obliterated while others were untouched, giving the impression of a patchily over-exposed print. Jerry had an uninterrupted view from Canada Dock to St Paul’s. Why the Texans had abandoned their vendetta against England for imagined wrongs was as mysterious as their reasons for beginning it. Britain had been the first to reopen the Texan Republic’s Legation in St James’s.
As soon as one was available, Jerry left the office and took a Number 15 along Whitehall, heading west. By the time he got off in Ladbroke Grove and headed for Blenheim Crescent he had spotted a small shadow overhead. Who could be delivering a package already?
When he reached his steps the Royal Mail drone had dropped off his gift-wrapped parcel. He dragged it up to his front door and through into the hallway. An early birthday present. He hoped it wasn’t another Remington 38.
VII
“Oh, we grew up wiv them buzz bombs!” Mrs Cornelius raised her glass to Colonel Pyat. In the full dress uniform of a Don Cossack hetman, he had just entered the room. He glanced around self-consciously, only brightening when he recognized her. He began to push his way through the party to where she sat in the filthy old armchair she liked to call her throne. “You got used to ‘em in no time. We did. I missed ‘em when they stopped. Life got dead boring.”
The party reminded her of old times. Jerry’s guests were always interesting. But she wasn’t enjoying herself as much as usual.
“You ‘aven’t bin the same, love, since you came ‘ome,” she told him. “You miss Caff, don’t yer?” She put out a plump hand to stop him before he crossed the room to say hello to Miss Brunner, severe in her charcoal three-piece and pearls, on the arm of Bishop Beesley in all his mitred glory. “Yore not stuffin’ that bitch?”
Jerry reassured her. “Mum. Didn’t you know there’s a war on?”
“Now you’re just tryin’ to make me feel better,” she said.
Bishop Beesley reached five fat fingers towards the tray of Mars Bars Jerry offered him. Miss Brunner leaned forward to present a tight kiss on both his cheeks. “Mr Cornelius. We heard you’d been in Kabul.”
“There’s no money left in reconstruction,” he said. “They were doing so nicely, too. Hamil sent his love.”
“He’s still alive, is he? What a sweetie. She glanced around the crowded room. “Doctor Rymer, Doctor Swann, Doctor Nikola?”
“Doctor who?” Bishop Beesley bit into his Mars. “The right place for a stroke or something?” Light brown dribble lined his chins.
“Any time.” Jerry winked. He was feeling flirty since his return to London. He had his identities back. With luck he might soon be in work. The population was low enough these days. It couldn’t be long. He remembered the 1940s when every newspaper had fifty pages of job ads. He had grown sick of science and codes. Even architecture had no longer engaged him. The Crow had proven no better friend than the Raven. Some past! Then Cathy had told him she was pregnant. At first he had disliked the triplets. They grew on him naturally. Nonetheless it was tiring keeping track of all those personae. But that was the modern world for you. Too many options. Not enough choices. After all, he had decided to go this way. He couldn’t really complain. That said, he was pretty pissed. Black holes. Dark matter. Something was happening to the multiverse. Time radiated erratically. They all regretted Pera. What had they done?
With a sigh he rejoined the party.
“We can only rely on ourselves, these days.”
“You said it, Mr C.”
“Do I know you? Or me, is
it?”
Cathy and Frank came in at last. As usual Frank looked angry and baffled but his sister waved cheerfully.
Jerry felt himself perking up. Say what you liked there was still something exquisite about finding yourself and your sister at the same time. Radiation made you like that. He put it down to his Catholic background.
Or was he Jewish?
VIII
Hampton Court, a pile of ancient terra cotta and snaking green vines, remained handy for the river.
“It always seemed too small for Henry somehow.” Catherine slipped her exquisite hand from her brother’s and stepped carefully on to the gang-plank. “Libraries. Tennis courts. And yet…”
“It must have towered over the Windsors.” Jerry acknowledged the guard of honour assembling at the other end of the plank. “I wonder why they decided on us. We always seemed so marginalized.”
“Sometimes that’s why.” She raised an expert hand in its white cotton glove. And waved. “You know very well you’re enjoying this. Remember when they put you in an episode of Doctor Watt?”
“Who?”
“Why?”
“I’ve wondered. Believe me.”
“I do, Jerry. Really.”
On the well-tended shore Major Nye appeared, saluting, at the head of his bear-skinned redcoats.
“Are we,” Jerry wondered, “prisoners or pensioners.”
“Or all three,” said Catherine.
Jerry was concerned. “Which came first? The egg or the egg? Are we putting this down to Radiant Time?” She could be losing it. He had a feeling this was going to be like Cornwall all over again.
Maybe Professor Hira was right and all they were mere echoes of echoes.
Somewhere a bell began to toll.
“Isn’t that sweet,” she said. “They’re playing Greensleeves.”
“I knew it.” Jerry took a tighter grip on her hand. “Too many bloody narratives.”
Fantasy For Good: A Charitable Anthology Page 40