The MaddAddam Trilogy (118 page)

She covers her head. “May you be happy here, Oh Bees,” she says to the Styrofoam cooler. “As your new Eve Six, I promise to visit you every day, if I can, and to tell you the news.”

“Oh Toby, can we do the writing again? With the marks, on the paper?” It’s her shadow, little Blackbeard. He’s climbed up the garden fence on the outside and is hanging over it, resting his chin on his arms. How long has he been watching her?

“Yes,” she says. “Maybe tomorrow, if you come early.”

“What is that box? What are the stones? What are you doing, Oh Toby?”

“I’m helping the bees find a home,” says Toby.

“Will they live in the box? Why do you want them to live there?”

Because I want to steal their honey, thinks Toby. “Because they will be safe there,” she says.

“Were you talking to the bees, Oh Toby? I heard you talking. Or were you talking to Crake, as Snowman-the-Jimmy does?”

“I was talking to the bees,” says Toby. Blackbeard’s face lights up with a smile.

“I did not know you could do that,” he says. “You talk with the Children of Oryx? As we do? But you can’t sing!”

“You sing to the animals?” says Toby. “They like music?”

This question seems merely to puzzle him. “Music?” he says. “What is
music
?” The next minute he’s dropped down behind the fence and has run off to join the other children.

Smelling of bees when you’re not actually with them can attract unwanted insect company: already there are some green flies trying to settle on her, and some interested wasps. Toby goes over to wash her hands at the pump. As she’s scrubbing, Ren and Lotis Blue come in search of her.

“We need to talk to you,” says Ren. “It’s about Amanda. We’re really worried.”

“Try to keep her busy,” says Toby. “I’m sure she’ll be back to normal in a while. She’s had a shock, these things take time. Remember
how you were at first, when you were recovering from your own Painballers attack? I’ll give her some mushroom elixir, to build up her strength.”

“No, you don’t understand,” says Ren. “She’s pregnant.”

Toby dries her hands on the towel hanging beside the pump. She does it slowly, giving herself time to think. “Are you sure?” she says.

“She peed on the stick,” says Lotis Blue. “It was positive. The fucking thing showed a happy face.”

“A pink happy face! That stick is so mean! It’s horrible!” says Ren. She starts to cry. “She can’t have that baby, not after what they did to her! Not a baby with a Painballer dad!”

“She’s walking around like a zombie,” says Lotis Blue. “She’s so depressed. She’s just really, really down.”

“I’ll talk to her,” says Toby.

Poor Amanda. Who could expect her to give birth to a murderer’s child? To the child of her rapists, her torturers? Though there’s another possibility, as far as the father goes. Toby recalls the flowers, the singing, the enthusiastic tangle of Craker limbs in the light from the campfire on that chaotic Saint Julian’s evening. What if Amanda is harbouring a baby Craker? Is that even possible? Yes, unless they’re a different species altogether. But if so, won’t it be dangerous? The Craker children are on a different developmental clock, they grow much faster. What if the baby gets too big, too fast, and can’t make its way out?

It’s not as if there are any hospitals. Or even any doctors. As far as facilities go it will be like giving birth in a cave.

“She’s over at the swing set,” says Lotis Blue.

Amanda is sitting on one of the children’s swings, moving gently back and forth. She doesn’t quite fit the swing; it’s close to the ground, and her knees are sticking up awkwardly. Slow tears are rolling down her cheeks.

Standing around her are three of the Craker women, touching her forehead, her hair, her shoulders. They’re all purring. Ivory, ebony, gold.

“Amanda,” says Toby. “It’s all right. Everyone will help you.”

“I wish I was dead,” says Amanda. Ren bursts into tears and kneels down, throwing her arms around Amanda’s waist.

“Don’t say that!” she says. “We got this far! You can’t give up now!”

“I want this thing out of me,” says Amanda. “Can’t I drink some kind of poison? Some of your mushroom stuff?” At least she’s showing some energy, thinks Toby. And it’s true, there are plants that were once used. She remembers Pilar mentioning various seeds and roots: Queen Anne’s lace, evening primrose. But she’s not sure of the quantities: it would be too risky to try such a thing. And if it’s a Craker baby, none of that may work on it anyway. They have a different biochemistry, according to the MaddAddamites.

The ivory Craker woman stops purring. “This woman is not blue any more,” she says. “Her bone cave is no longer empty. That is good.”

“Why is she sad, Oh Toby?” says the gold woman. “We are always happy when our bone cave is full.”

Bone cave
. That’s what they call it; beautiful in a way, and accurate, but right now all Toby herself can visualize is a cave full of gnawed bones. Which is how it must feel to Amanda: death in life. What can Toby do to make this story better? Not much. Remove all knives and ropes, arrange constant companions.

“Toby,” says Ren. “Can’t you …”

“Please try,” says Amanda.

“No,” says Toby. “I don’t have that knowledge.” It was Marushka Midwife who did the ob/gyn, at the Gardeners. Toby herself stuck to illnesses and wounds, but maggots and poultices and leeches are no use for this. “It might not be as bad as you think,” she continues. “The father might not be a Painballer. Remember that night, around the campfire, on Saint Julian’s, when they jumped on … where there was a cultural misunderstanding? It might be a Craker baby.”

“Terrific,” says Ren. “Great choices! An ultracriminal or some kind of gene-spliced weirdo monster. She wasn’t the only one, anyway, with the cultural misunderstanding or whatever you want to call it. For all I know, I’ve got one of those Frankenbabies inside me too. I’m just scared of peeing on the stick.”

Toby tries to think of something to say – something upbeat and soothing. Genes aren’t a total destiny? Nature versus nurture, good
can come of evil? There are the epigenetic switches to be considered, and maybe the Painballers just had very, very bad nurturing? Or how about: the Crakers may be more human than we think? But none of it sounds very convincing, even to her.

“Oh Toby, do not be sad,” says a child’s voice: Blackbeard, nudging up beside her. He takes her hand, pats it. “Oryx will help, and the baby will come out of the bone cave, and then Amanda will be happy. Everyone is very happy when there is a baby that has just come out.”

“Lift up, you’re lying on my arm,” says Zeb. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m worried about Amanda,” says Toby, which is accurate, though not the whole story. “It seems that she’s pregnant. She’s not overjoyed.”

“Three cheers,” says Zeb. “First little pioneer born into our brave new world.”

“Anyone ever mention you can be callous at times?”

“Never,” says Zeb. “I’m all quivering heart. The dad’s most likely a Painballer though, judging from what went on, which would triple suck. Then we’d have to drown it like a kitten.”

“Fat chance,” says Toby. “Those Craker women just love babies. They’d go berserk if you did cruel and hurtful things to it.”

“Women are strange,” says Zeb. “Not that I couldn’t have used a mom like that: protective, cuddly, and so forth.”

“It could be a hybrid. Half a Craker,” says Toby. “In view of the mob action during the Saint Julian’s festivities. But if it is, the baby might kill her. Their fetal growth rates are different, their heads are bigger when they’re born, judging from the kids some of those women are toting around, so it could get stuck. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to do a C-section. And even before that, what if there’s a blood incompatibility?”

“Ivory Bill and those others know anything about that? The genetic blood stuff?”

“I haven’t asked them,” says Toby.

“Okay, let’s put it on the crisis list. One pregnancy. Call a group meeting. But if the MaddAddams don’t know what’s likely to happen, I guess it’s wait and see?”

“It’s wait and see anyway,” says Toby. “It can’t be aborted; no one
here has that skill, and it would be way too risky to try it. There’s some herbs, but if you don’t know what you’re doing they can be toxic. Nothing else to be done, unless someone at the group meeting has a brilliant suggestion. But before that, I need to do some consulting.”

“With who? None of our brainiacs are doctors.”

“Don’t laugh at me for what I’m about to say.”

“Tongue bitten, mouth stapled. Fire away.”

“Okay, this is going to sound demented: with Pilar. Who, as you know, is dead.”

A pause. “How you planning to do that?”

“I thought I could pay a visit to her, you know, where we …”

“To her shrine? Like a saint?”

“Something like that. Do an Enhanced Meditation. Remember where we buried her, in the park? On the day of her composting? We dressed up as park keepers, we dug a hole in the …”

“Yeah, I know the place. You wore those green parkie overalls I stole for you. We planted an elderberry bush on top of her.”

“Yes. That’s where I’d like to go. I know it’s a bit crazy, as the Exfernal World would have said.”

“First you talk to bees, now you want to talk to dead people? Even the Gardeners never went that far.”

“Some of them did. Think of it as a metaphor. I’ll be accessing my inner Pilar, as Adam One would have put it. He’d be right onside with this.”

Another pause. “Well, you can’t do it alone.”

“I know.” Now it’s her turn to pause.

A sigh. “Okay, babe, whatever you want. I volunteer. I’ll get Rhino and Shackie to come. We’ll keep you covered. One spraygun, plus your rifle. How long you figure it’ll take?”

“I’ll do the short-form Enhanced Meditation. I don’t want to hog too much time.”

“You expect to hear voices? Just so I know.”

“I’ve got no idea what I’ll hear,” says Toby truthfully. “Most likely nothing. But I need to do it anyway.”

“That’s what I like about you. You’re game for anything.” Some rustling, some shifting. Another pause. “Something else eating you?”

“No,” Toby lies. “I’m good.”

“You’re into prevarication?” says Zeb. “Fine with me.”

“Prevarication. That’s a lot of syllables,” says Toby.

“Let me guess. You think I should tell you what happened out in the wilds of the shopping strip with what’s-her-name. Little Miss Fox. Whether I groped her or vice versa. Whether sexual congress took place.”

Toby thinks about it. Does she want bad news about what she fears or good news she won’t believe? Is she turning into a clinging invertebrate with tentacles and suction cups? “Tell me something more interesting,” she says.

Zeb laughs. “Good one,” he says.

So. Stalemate. It’s for him to know and for her to try to refrain from finding out. He loves encryption. Even though she can’t see him in the dark, she can feel him smiling.

They set out the next morning just at sunrise. The vultures that top the taller, deader trees are spreading their black wings so the dew on them will evaporate; they’re waiting for the thermals to help them lift and spiral. Crows are passing the rumours, one rough syllable at a time. The smaller birds are stirring, beginning to cheep and trill; pink cloud filaments float above the eastern horizon, brightening to gold at the lower edges. Some days the sky looks like old paintings of heaven: there should be a few angels floating around, their white robes deployed like the skirts of archaic debutantes, their pink toes daintily pointed, their wings aerodynamically impossible. Instead, there are gulls.

They’re walking along what is still a trail, through what is still recognizable as the Heritage Park. The little gravelled paths leading off to the side have vines creeping across them, but the picnic tables and cement barbecues have not yet been obscured. If there are ghosts here, they’re the ghosts of children, laughing.

Every one of the drum-shaped trash containers has been tipped over, the lids pried off. That wouldn’t have been people. Something has been busy. Not rakunks, though: the trash containers were made to be rakunk-proof. The earth around the picnic tables is rutted and muddy: something’s been trampling, and wallowing.

The asphalted main pathway is wide enough for a Heritage Park vehicle, like the one Zeb and Toby used to transport Pilar to the site of her composting. Already there are weed shoots nosing up through. The force they can exert is staggering: they’ll have a building cracked like a nut in a few years, they’ll reduce it to rubble in a decade. Then the earth swallows the pieces. Everything digests, and is digested. The Gardeners found that a cause for celebration, but Toby has never been reassured by it.

Rhino walks ahead with a spraygun. Shackleton is at the rear. Zeb’s in the middle, beside Toby, keeping a close eye on her. He’s carrying the rifle for safekeeping, since she’s already drunk the short-form Enhanced Meditation mixture. Luckily there were some
Psilocybe
species from the old Gardener mushroom beds among the assortment of dried mushrooms she’d saved over the years and brought with her from the AnooYoo Spa. To the soaked dried mushrooms and the mixed ground-up seeds she’d added a pinch of
muscaria
. Just a pinch: she doesn’t want all-out brain fractals, just a low-level shakeup – a crinkling of the window glass that separates the visible world from whatever lies behind it. The effects are beginning: already there’s a wavering, a shift.

“Hey, what’re you doing here?” says a voice. Shackleton’s voice, coming to her along a dark tunnel. She turns: it’s Blackbeard.

“I wish to be with Toby,” he says.

“Oh fuck,” says Shackleton. Blackbeard smiles happily. “And with Fuck too,” he says.

“It’s all right,” says Toby. “Let him come.”

“You can’t stop him, anyway,” says Zeb. “Short of braining him. Though I could tell him to fuck the fuck off.”

“Please,” says Toby. “Don’t confuse him.”

“Where are you going, Oh Toby?” says Blackbeard.

Toby takes the hand he holds up to her. “To visit a friend,” she says. “But it’s a friend you can’t see.” Blackbeard asks no questions; he simply nods.