The Godling: A Novel of Masalay

by CK Collins

  26 November

  * * *

  Nova Coast, Masalay

  I was down at the cove yesterday, just reading, enjoying the sun. Lost track of time and when I looked up the tide was all around me.

  My fault for spacing out, but there I was suddenly with nowhere to go. My towel was already floating out to sea. I moved to the way back of the bowl, cliffs all around me, and the water rose up to my waist. The smart move would have been to make a go for the stairs. I’m just not scared of anything right now, not even the ocean. I stood there with Madame Bovary over my head and waited for the ocean to back down. It got to my ribs, then to my shoulders, but then it realized I couldn’t be intimidated that easy. It backed down, started receding. I waited for it to surrender the sand and then went back to Emma, who I do not have high hopes for.

  So but that made me ambitious. Today I had this intuition — also known as a reckless idea — that there might be a way to get out of the cove by climbing up the opposite side. A slight problem to not have any stairs, but it’s less steep on that side, and it turns out I’m part mountain goat now, which is cool.

  I came up to this cute wooded area. Gorgeous view of the ocean and these bendy, fuzzy fruit trees that look like they were designed by Dr. Seuss. More intuition — I figured if I kept going I could get down to the village. Much prettier than going down the road, which has all kinds of weeds and bugs buzzing everywhere. Down I come onto the beach from a totally unexpected direction. Which maybe does not seem like a major event, but there’s not a ton of entertainment options here.

  I tell Alimi, bragging a little, and she is not pleased. It’s like she wants to give me detention. She informs me that my life is precious. Which is why I should let her brothers deliver all my food and necessary items (one of her favorite themes). She knows about the baby — I wish Pashi hadn’t told her — and tells me I must avoid unnecessary exertions.

  It’s a really nice day. Pashi made it seem like I was going to get blown around like a kite here, but it couldn’t be more calm lately. There’s kids playing soccer on the beach, and somebody’s cooking something that smells really good. Alimi’s dad knows what I’m going to want and hollers at one of his boys to get the white lady her too-much fish.

  I absolutely cannot figure out the division of labor here. There’s the kid they keep in the way back, in this little hut, and he seems to do about ninety percent of the actual work. Every time I ever see him, he’s in the same tattered FC Sagaro t-shirt. I’ve never seen him playing soccer or hanging out with the other ones. Always keeping his head down like he’s a dog that soiled the carpet. And he looks different too: a darker red to his skin and a flatter face and so skinny.

  Alimi calls over and announces that she managed to acquire a Cadbury for me — talking like somebody might have lost a limb but I’m worth it. I pay her eight pounds fifty, which I’m sure is about triple what anybody else here would get charged. But the woman works so hard to rip me off.

  Talking about chocolate leads into discussing cravings. Which leads to her deciding it’s time to deliver another pregnancy blessing. And then asking if I’ve selected a katraam yet. I can tell she’s hoping I won’t know what a katraam is so that she can educate me. But I’m already up on katraams — Pashi gave me the scoop. It’s the Masalayan version of an au pair, but with an element of adoption mixed in. Your katraam becomes part of your family, and it’s a lifelong association. They help raise your kid and you help lift them up socially — I guess they’re usually from the lower classes — and it seems kind of nice. But it’s way, way more obligation than I’m in for.

  “Actually, I think I’m not going to do that.”

  “Madam, the katraam is essential to a woman of your position.”

  “Huh.”

  “You must reconsider.”

  “Really? Must I?”

  Her reaction, it’s like I’ve slapped her. We have different stations — I get to tell her what to do, not the other way around. The idea of me being above this woman is ridiculous, but that’s Masalay. She backtracks, trying to maintain her dignity. And I feel bad.

  ”You’re new to Masalay, madam. Some of our customs must appear strange.”

  Smart. Now I’m kind of a racist. “No, I mean I might end up doing it.”

  “Only if you find a child who is deserving. That is very important.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine.”

  “May I share a story?” she asks real humble.

  “Sure, please.”

  “Our prime minister, Caida Daar . . .”

  “Right, sure.”

  “Her late husband, Askita Daar, his great-grandfather was himself a katraam.”

  “Really?”

  “To a merchant family in Sagaro. A boy of very modest lineage. But his character was extraordinary. And his intelligence. It came he married the merchant’s own niece. And in that way was a great dynasty founded. It is a very famous story.”

  “I can see why.”

  “So you see a person of character and intelligence can be found anywhere.”

  “I have no trouble believing that.”

  “For instance, only yesterday I was speaking with an exceptional girl.”

  The men here don’t have anything on Alimi when it comes to hooking a fish. “Were you?”

  “Alas, her family has fallen on difficult times.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “If you like . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I could write some information. In case you should be interested in favoring a girl of this region. In life, one can never have too many choices.”

  “Is that true?”

  “I shall return in two minutes with everything written. And if another exceptional candidate should occur to me . . .”

  “Absolutely. Good to have options.”

  She breezes into her house to put together the list of exceptional children. I’m always spineless this way. It’s funny, I’ve got no trouble punching Deanna Tasker — I’d punch her again if she was here — and an asshole like the Colonel, I’ll put up my fists for a bully like him. But it’s the swindlers I can’t handle, the smooth operators. I’m not smart enough to see what’s coming and there’s never anything to punch.

  Alimi’s dad points with his cigarette to let me know the fish is ready. I bring over my candy and take out my pouch so that I can overpay him too.

  “Ayin milai.”

  “Ayin milai,” he says with a bow.

  I mime that I want to leave my stuff and walk down to the water. He says, “Okay.” Which, along with “please” and “ten pounds” is more or less his English vocabulary.

  I’ve never gone all the way down the main beach. Lot of rocks, which is interesting because there’s zero rocks in the cove. I’d bet both Cadbury’s that Alimi makes her brothers rake the sand so that us delicate rich folks won’t get ouchies. I kind of like the rocks, though. More character. I kick off my sandals to get the full experience. Alimi’s brother is back to his soccer game.

  Disiri was raised in Jaya, but she didn’t like what it’s gotten turned into. Not just Jaya, the whole Scented Coast, which apparently is just a name that got concocted for tourists. Masalay gets marketed like Shangri-La — “Where Heaven Meets The Sea” — but Jaya’s more like Shangri-Las Vegas, which is a shame. It’s what happens to places, you suck out the natural flavor to make them palatable to everybody. Maybe I’m delusional, but I think Disiri and I would’ve been friends.

  The soccer ball bounces over. I chase it down before it hits the surf and kick it back. Kick it pretty damn well too. The skinny kid is carrying a bunch of buckets and cutting boards to the surf for rinsing out. He can’t balance everything, though, and when a wave catches him by surprise it all tumbles. I go over and pick up one of the buckets and grab a cutting board. He looks mortified and I give him a pat, telling him not to sweat it. I’m rinsing some fish guts off my arm when I see Alimi coming.

  Not just Alimi — her
dad and her brothers and about eight other people.

  “Hey,” I say and wave. She sees my hand and the blood — and swear to god she looks ready to kill. For a second, I honestly am thinking that it’s me. But then I see the kid and how scared he looks.

  I explain that it was just a little accident. Alimi’s not interested. She tells her brother to take me back to the road. I look at the kid again, but he’s not looking at me. So I follow little brother over the sand and rocks. When I glance back, I can see everybody just waiting for me to leave so they can get on with their private business. I get back to the road, and he hands over my fish and chocolate.

  And I walk away. Just like that, because I’m not as strong as I think and I don’t understand this country.

  Afternoon

  West Anartha Autonomous District, Masalay

  Rika recognises what they’ve brought him to, this manner of room. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?

  This is a court, a shii-haidaam. Justice in the style of the First Anarthan Empire — returning the Talid race to a purer age.

  But what is he to be tried for? The crimes of his father? Of Caida? Of the Runais against the Talids? Of a husband against his wife? (No, they don’t know about that.) Whatever it is, he’ll offer no defence. He hasn’t the energy. Or innocence.

  Time passes. But how much time? It’s become so hard to keep track of time. A man enters from behind the dais. Almost comically out of place: tall and blond, an unkempt beard, Nordic. Laden with photography gear, he heads Rika’s way without a glance at the pair of viyka at the door.

  He clicks a photo.

  “English?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have been told I am not permitted to ask names.” Another photo. “But they have said nothing about pictures.”

  “Best not to push your luck.”

  Settings adjusted, more clicks. “You tell me if they start to aim guns, yeah?”

  “Okay.”

  Profile shots to get the rest of the room. Noticing movement from the viyka, he casually slides the camera into its bag and sits beside Rika. “Sebastian.”

  The viyka return to their posts. “Freelance or assignment, Sebastian?”

  From one of his many vest pockets, he retrieves a press card listing, Der Spiegel.

  “Nice.”

  “Too professional for me. They sack me in, I give it six months.”

  “Well, everyone always needs pictures.”

  “Sure, maybe I shoot nudes. Europeans, you know, they are very fascinated by your country and Aarum Sidaarik. I have been here five times. Each time I get a little closer to Aarum Sidaarik. The last I come is September, and I get an invitation to Ghaatasira. Why me, I don’t know. The piece I file from there — big seller. Very syndicated.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “This time — there is a hint that maybe I can see Aarum Sidaarik. They tell me this morning that first I must write him questions. Okay. The paper they give me? Three slips, so tiny. Like fortune cookie tiny.” He chuckles, miming myopia. “I write microscopic questions.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “People think Hilm Hivaa have no sense of humour.”

  “It could be all the killing and destruction.”

  He nods and chuckles again. “Yeah, maybe that is it.” A door is opened and the room begins to fill with citizens. “You know, every time I come to Masalay I get better at accents. Jaya I know well.”

  “Is that so?”

  “In Ghaatasira, I asked about Runai prisoners. The answer I got? ‘Absolutely no way, forget it — no Runai prisoners.’”

  “Interesting. Well, I don’t want to get you in trouble. By giving you information. But I agree, you are good at accents.”

  “I appreciate that.” He stands with a grin. “Man-who-is-not-here, I wish you good luck.”

  * * *

  Rika is not on trial. And feels strangely let down.

  They’ve brought him here to observe, and although the Anarthan accents and haidaam customs are difficult to follow, he’s able to capture the gist.

  First is a case brought against a magistrate from what’s called “the prior regime,” meaning West Anartha before the handover. The charge is extortion — exchanging favourable rulings for gifts — and he offers a few defences that even Rika finds risible. The audience jeers, but that’s swiftly interrupted by the shii, who states that Hilm Hivaa does not tolerate disorder.

  The second case has a farmer who’s already confessed to bribing a public official. Something about irrigation quotients. The remaining question pertains to the balance of punishment. The farmer claims he’s the victim here — it was either pay the bribe or lose his water rights. It drags on.

  Before the third case, there is a stir. Plainly it’s the main event. A labourer is accused of selling his middle daughter to a Runai sex trafficker. Eleven months in a Sagaro brothel that specialised in providing Talid teenagers to foreigners. The police of course looked the other way. It came for Hilm Hivaa to act, as it has so often done in defence of the Talid people. Although the audience restrains itself, its anger is palpable and Rika shares the emotion.

  The viyka sent into Sagaro freed thirteen young girls. Those responsible were swiftly dealt with. The Runai who trafficked the girl was found and dealt with. Before the court today is the fate of the father who allowed his daughter to be sold and defiled.

  The girl herself is brought to testify. Fourteen years old. The father is so ashamed he won’t raise his head. She doesn’t want to speak but admits that her father drank excessively after the death of his second wife. She and her brothers frequently wanted for food. Her brothers could earn money labouring, but there was no work for a young girl. A Runai arrived offering help. Her father was told by this Runai that she would have a job in Sagaro and live with other Talid girls. A good job, something in an office — they have many offices in Sagaro and need good workers. Her father received £100.

  The prosecutor states the obvious, that such tricks are well known. If the father was deceived it was because he embraced ignorance. The shii interjects that the girl has no cause for shame — the guilt lies with those who would steal, and sell, our dignity.

  She is dismissed and the shii declares that verdict will be rendered this afternoon. The sentences to be carried out at sunset. He is proud of his people and Hilm Hivaa. He is proud that the era of cleansing has come.

  * * *

  The top of the hill is crowded. A festival feel. The photographer is there snapping pictures of all the families and the pits.

  Rika has not been tried, this will not be his fate, not yet.

  “Man-with-no-name. How are you?”

  “Alive.”

  “You look not sure.”

  “The sunset — nice light.”

  “Yes, but when the convicts come I am told I must be gone.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “He is here, you know. Sidaarik — I have seen him through a window, very quick.” He hunts through his vest pockets. “You remember my questions, yes?”

  “You get answers?”

  He nods and remembers to look in his battery pack. “Maybe you’re interested, yeah?”

  “Sure.”

  “The answers have come written even more microscopic.” He sorts the slips. “First question is about Brigades and igmaki. What responsibility does Hilm Hivaa have? Then I ask what is the meaning of ‘cleansing Masalay’ — is that code for elimination of the Runai? And then for fun, number three, I ask how would he respond to the beautiful Caida Daar if he receives a scented note inviting him to tea.”

  “Nice one.”

  The photographer laughs as if he’s been fooled by a practical joke too clever to resent. “About Brigades and igmaki, I get this: Hilm Hivaa trusts in the power of education. About Runais and genocide, I get this: Hilm Hivaa trusts in the power of education. About tea with the Prime Minister . . .”

  “The power of education?”

&
nbsp; He shows Rika the slip and shrugs. “I think I am not getting my interview.”

  “Yeah, well, it was a good try.”

  A cheer goes up and Rika looks. The procession of the condemned has begun.

  “I must take my walk then.”

  “I’ll see you around.”

  “In Jaya maybe.”

  “It’s a lovely city.”