The MaddAddam Trilogy (137 page)

And Adam said, “I’ll be fine. Pray for me.” And he smiled at Zeb and said, “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have lasted long. Plant a good tree.”

And I said to Toby, “Oh Toby, who is
Bestbuddy
? This one is Adam, that is his name, you said so.”

And Toby said that Bestbuddy was another name for
brother
, because Adam was the brother of Zeb.

But after that, the man Adam stopped breathing.

And it was evening, and we walked slowly back, with the bad men being carried by the Pig Ones because of the holes in them, and the ropes. The Pig Ones were angry because of the deads, and they wanted to stick their tusks into those men, and roll on them, and trample on them, but Zeb said it was not the time.

And Snowman-the-Jimmy and Adam were carried too, and the dead Pig One. And in the night we reached the building where the children were, and the mothers, and the Mo’Hairs, and the Pig One mothers and babies, and the other two-skinned ones – Ren and Amanda and Swift Fox and Ivory Bill and Rebecca, and the others. And they came to meet us, and all of the people said very many things, such as “I was so worried” and “What happened?” and “Oh God!”

And we, the Children of Crake, we sang together.

We slept there that night, and ate. And all who had been in the battle were very tired. They talked in low voices, and looked very carefully at the dead one Adam, and said he was not dead because of the chaos-clearing seed that Crake made but because of the holes with blood coming out. And they said anyway that it was a mercy that he was not dead of the Crake seed thing.

I will ask Toby later what a
mercy
is. She is tired now, she is sleeping.

And they wrapped the man Adam in a pink bedsheet, with a pink pillow under his head, and they were very quiet and sad. And some of the Pig Ones went swimming in the pool, which they liked very much.

And the next day we walked here, to the cobb house. And the Pig Ones carried Adam, on branches, with flowers, and the dead Pig One too, which was harder for them because she was big and heavy.

And they carried Snowman-the-Jimmy in the same way, though he was not dead, not when we began to walk. And Ren walked beside him, holding his hand and crying, because she was his friend; and Crozier walked on the other side of her, and he helped her.

But Snowman-the-Jimmy was travelling in his head, far, far away, as he had travelled before, when he was in the hammock and we purred. But this time he went so far away that he could not come back.

And Oryx was there with him, and she was helping him. I heard him talking to her, just before he went too far, out of sight, and stopped breathing. And now he is with Oryx. And with Crake too.

That is the Story of the Battle.

Now we can sing.

Moontime

The next morning they hold a trial.

They sit around the dining table – or the MaddAddamites and the God’s Gardeners sit. The Pigoons sprawl on the grass and pebbles; the Crakers graze nearby, chewing their eternal mouthfuls of leaf, taking it all in.

The prisoners themselves are not present. They don’t need to be there: what they’ve done isn’t in question. The trial is about the verdict only.

“So, we’re here to decide their fates,” says Zeb. “Worse luck we didn’t blow them away in the heat of the proceedings, but since we didn’t, we have to make some decisions in cold blood. Vote now, or is there any discussion?”

Toby says, “Are they common prisoners? Or prisoners of war? Because it’s different, no?” She feels impelled to advocate for them in some way, but why? Is it simply because they don’t have a lawyer?

“How about soul-dead neurotrash?” says Rebecca.

“Fellow human beings,” says White Sedge. “Though I realize that this in itself is not a defence.”

“They killed our brother,” says Shackleton.

“Scumsucking fuckbuckets,” says Crozier.

“Rapists and murderers,” says Amanda.

“They shot Jimmy,” says Ren, starting to cry. Amanda puts an arm around her, gives her a hug. She herself is not crying: she looks flinty-eyed, like a wood carving of herself. She’d make a good executioner, thinks Toby.

“Who cares what we call them,” says Rhino. “So long as it’s not
people
.”

Hard to choose a label, thinks Toby: three sessions in the once notorious Painball Arena have scraped all modifying labels away from them, bleached them of language. Triple Painball survivors have long been known to be not quite human.

“I vote for all of the above,” says Zeb. “Now let’s get on with it.”

White Sedge enters a halfhearted clemency plea. “We shouldn’t judge,” she says. “Surely their viciousness is a result of what was done to them earlier in their lives, by others. And considering the plasticity of the brain and how their behaviour was shaped by harsh experience, how are we to know that they had any control over what they did?”

“Are you fucking serious?” says Shackleton. “They ate my little brother’s fucking kidneys! They butchered him like a Mo’Hair! I want to rip out all their teeth! Through their assholes,” he adds, perhaps unnecessarily.

“Let’s not get too fired up,” says Zeb. “Hold the outrage. We all have cause. Though some more than others.” He looks older, thinks Toby. Older and grimmer. Finding Adam and then losing him again has dragged him down. We’re all in mourning: even the Pigoons. Their tails are drooping, their ears are limp; they nuzzle one another in a consoling way.

“We shouldn’t fight over what should be a purely philosophical and practical decision,” says Ivory Bill. “The question is, do we have the facilities for correctional guardianship, or, on the other hand, the theoretical justification for …”

“It’s not a time for hair-splitting,” says Zeb.

“Taking life under any circumstances is reprehensible,” says White Sedge. “We shouldn’t let our own moral standards slip, just because —”

“Just because most of the human race has been wiped out and the surviving remnant can hardly get enough solar going to run a light bulb?” says Shackleton. “So you want to let these two cesspools bash your brains out?”

“I don’t know why you’re being so hostile,” says White Sedge. “Adam One would have advocated clemency.”

“Maybe he’d have been wrong,” says Amanda. “You weren’t there, you don’t know what they did to us. Me and Ren. You don’t know what they’re like.”

“Though, with so few true humans left,” says Ivory Bill, “perhaps we shouldn’t waste any increasingly rare human
DNA
. Even if the individuals in question must be eliminated, possibly their … their generative fluids should be, as it were, siphoned off, to provide genetic variety. An ingrown gene pool must be avoided.”

“Avoid it yourself,” says Swift Fox. “Personally, the mere idea of having sex with those two festering bedsores just to capture their rancid
DNA
makes me nauseous.”

“You wouldn’t need to have sex with them, as such,” says Ivory Bill. “We could use a turkey baster.”

“Use it on your own self,” says Swift Fox rudely. “Men are always telling women what to do with their uteruses. Excuse me, their uteri.”

“I’d rather slit my wrists than let any of their fucking generative fluids near me ever again,” says Amanda. “It’s bad enough as it is. How do I know my own kid won’t be one of theirs?”

“Anyway, a child with such warped genes would be a monster,” says Ren. “The mother couldn’t love it. Oh, sorry,” she says to Amanda.

“It’s okay,” says Amanda. “If it’s theirs, I’ll hand it over to White Sedge and she can love it. Or the Pigoons can eat the thing; they’d appreciate it.”

“We could try rehabilitation,” says White Sedge serenely. “Incorporate them into the community, keep them in a safe place at night, let them help out. Sometimes, when people feel they can contribute, it makes for a genuine change in …”

“Look around,” Zeb says. “See any social workers? See any jails?”

“Contribute to what?” says Amanda. “You want to let them be in charge of the day care?”

“They’d put everyone else at risk,” says Katuro.

“There’s no safe place to store them except a hole in the ground,” says Shackleton.

“The vote,” says Zeb.

They use pebbles: black for death, white for mercy. It has an archeological feel. The old symbol systems follow us around, thinks Toby, as she collects the pebbles in Jimmy’s red hat. There’s only one white pebble.

The Pigoons vote collectively, through their leader, with Blackbeard
as their interpreter. “They all say
dead
,” he tells Toby. “But they will not eat those ones. They do not want those ones to be part of them.”

The rest of the Crakers are puzzled. They clearly do not understand what
vote
means, or
trial
, or why pebbles should be put into the hat of Snowman-the-Jimmy. Toby tells them it is a thing of Crake.

The two bad men were put in a room at night, with ropes tying them. We could feel that the rope was hurting them, and making them sad and also angry. But we did not untie the rope the way we did before. Toby told us not to, because it would only cause more killing. And we told the children not to go too close, because the bad ones might bite them.

And then they were given soup, with a smelly bone.

In the morning there was a Trial. You all saw it. It was at the table. Many words were said. The Pig Ones were also at the Trial.

Perhaps we will understand it later, this Trial.

And after the Trial, all the Pig Ones went down to the seashore. And Toby went with them, and she had her gun thing that we should not touch. And Zeb went. And Amanda went, and Ren. And Crozier and Shackleton. But we did not go, we Children of Crake, because Toby said it would be hurtful to us.

And after a while they all came back, without the two bad ones. They looked tired. But they were more peaceful.

Toby said that now we would be safe from the bad ones. And the Pig Ones said their babies were now safe too. And they said also that even though the Battle was over now, they would keep the pact they made with Toby, and with Zeb, and they would not hunt and eat any of the two-skinned ones, and they would also not dig up their garden any more. Or eat the honey of the bees.

And Toby told me the words to say to them, which were: We agree to keep the pact. None of you, or your children, or your children’s children, will ever be a smelly bone in a soup. Or a ham, she added. Or a bacon.

And Rebecca said, Worse luck.

And Crozier said, What’re they saying, what the fuck is going on? And Toby said, Watch your language, it’s confusing for him.

And I said that Crozier did not need to call Fuck right now because we were not in trouble and did not need his help. And Toby said, That’s right, he doesn’t like to be summoned on trivial matters. And Zeb coughed.

After the Pig Ones had gone away, Toby told us that the two bad men had been washed away in the sea. They had been poured away, as Crake poured away the chaos. So everything was much cleaner now.

Yes, good, kind Crake.

Please don’t sing.

Because when you sing I can’t hear the words that Crake is telling me to say, and also when we sing about him he can’t tell me any words of the story, because he has to listen to the singing.

So that is the Story of the Trial. It is a thing from Crake. We do not have to have a Trial, among us. Only the two-skinned ones and the Pig Ones have to have a Trial.

And that is a good thing, because I did not like the Trial.

Thank you. Good night.

The Feast of Cnidaria
, Toby writes.
Waxing gibbous moon
.

The Cnidaria phylum contains the jellyfish, the corals, the sea anemones, and the hydra. The Gardeners had been thorough – no phylum or genus was left out of their list of feasts and festivals, if they could help it – though some celebrations had been odder than others. The Festival of Intestinal Parasites, for instance, had been memorable, though not what you would call delightful.

The Feast of Cnidaria, however, had been an especially beautiful one. There had been paper lanterns in the shapes of jellyfish, and many decorations fashioned from objects found in dumpsters. A creative use was made of spent balloons and inflated rubber gloves with trailing filaments of string, sea anemones were created from modified round dish-scrubbing brushes, and hydras crafted from transparent plastic sandwich bags.

The children would do a little jellyfish dance, festooned with streamers and waving their arms slowly, and one year they’d composed and performed an interminable play on the subject of the life cycle of the jellyfish, which was uneventful.
First I was an egg, Then I grew and grew, Now I am a jellyfish, Green and pink and blue
. Though when the Portuguese Man O’ War had made its entrance, drama had been possible:
I drifted here, I drifted there, My tentacles so fine to view, But don’t get tangled up with me, Or I will put an end to you
.

Had Ren helped with that play? Toby wonders. Had Amanda? The song, the grabbing of a smaller child playing a fish, the stinging to death – they had the earmarks of Amanda; or of the streetwise
pleebrat Amanda of those days, who, since the disposal of the two malignant Painballers, appears to have been reborn.