The Night of the Triffids (30 page)

    'Indeed, yes. He was particularly interested in recording the dreams of aboriginals, as they were called then. And I fell into that category. However, I learned more from him that he from me, I think. In that April of thirty years ago I returned to America, to my home reservation, only to find that a very old and cantankerous medicine man had a bee in his bonnet about something. At the beginning of May he browbeat the whole of the village into going down into a disused silver mine where, he insisted, we must retreat from the coming of Doom. Most obeyed him. We stayed there for three days and three nights. During that time he drew his signs on the earth in coloured soils and grains of wheat. He told us that these foretold a catastrophe. That we must remain in the mine workings until the danger had passed. Yes, I believed him. Not because of my people's old beliefs but because of something that Jung was fond of repeating at the dinner table. He would quote these words of Goethe:
Coming events cast their shadow before.
Before The Blinding, I believed I could sense a growing agitation among animals. A local herdsman was trampled to death by cows. We noticed flocks of birds migrating when it was the season to nest. Fish moved into deep water as if it were winter, not spring.' He raised his hands, fingers splayed wide. 'The medicine man was right. Doom
did
come - in a form that you know well. During that fateful night three decades ago green flashes lit up the sky. This was reported back to us in the tunnel by a pair of youths who foolishly disregarded the old man's warnings and went to look outside. In the morning they were blind. However, out of our population of three hundred men, women and children, two hundred and eighty were spared The Blinding.'

    'You people certainly seem to have prospered,' Sam told him. 'You have a fine family here.'

    'Ah, these are my babies. These three have nephews and nieces older than themselves now.'

    'So you returned to the old ways of your tribe?'

    'Some of them. But when the white man supplanted us we lost not only our lands but our self-delusions. You see, for thousands of years we believed that we were the guardians of the sun. That our rituals maintained the sun's light and heat for the rest of humanity. We were very proud of that responsibility. However, missionaries managed to rid us of, as I said, our self-delusions but they did not successfully instil in us any new ones. At best we suffered disillusion, even disappointment… at worst many of our people began to suffer from depressive illnesses that often deteriorated into psychosis. You see, we had lost the will to live. So, with the coming of The Blinding we found we could rediscover ourselves. And even though we could no longer embrace our old gods, we were able to reinterpret and reinvent them, using Jung's teachings. We therefore crafted a new, stronger faith based on spirituality rather than dogma.' He looked at us through his heavy-lidded eyes. 'I suspect this isn't important to you. But you must remember we live in a new age. The Blinding swept the Old World away. And a new age demands a new faith. Look at the societies of old. They flourished when they discovered new gods and embraced new religions. Their cultures declined only when their faith crumbled.'

    'Are you suggesting that we should adopt a new religion?' Gabriel frowned. 'It sounds like just another tool of oppression to me.'

    'Why not? But don't confuse God with religion. They should be discussed separately. Instead, consider, if you will, religion as a design for living. Much as a body of rules forms a nation's constitution.'

    A youth brought mugs of tea and coffee. Gabriel Deeds couldn't hold back any longer. 'There's one thing we'd all like to know…'

    'Ah, I doubted if we could avoid that question.' Chee nodded. 'How can my people move freely among the triffids without suffering harm?'

    Sam clasped a hot mug in his hands. 'That, sir, is the big question.'

    'If you'll permit me to touch your face?' Chee held out his hand towards my chin. Puzzled, I nodded. His dark fingers, tough as leather, lightly touched my chin.

    'Stubble,' he said. 'Now, please touch mine.'

    I did as he asked.

    'Feel that?' He smiled. 'Smooth as the skin of a watermelon. No stubble.' Instead of answering the original question directly he said, 'Twenty years ago triffids claimed their last victim of our tribe.'

    'And after that?'

    'Some of us were stung from time to time. But the poison was never fatal. By fifteen years ago the sting had no effect on us beyond the force of the blow.'

    Gabriel frowned. 'Why do you think you became immune?'

    'I believe the answer lies partly in the demonstration just now. I see stubble on your jaws. Which is something of a novelty for us. You see, I am fifty-five years old and I've never had a single hair on my chin. You'll recall there are significant biological differences between American Indians and Americans of a more recent African or European descent. I'm sure you're aware of the facts. Look at our features: straight black hair, heavy-lidded eyes; Asiatic appearance… broad faces, red skin.' He pointed to his face. 'Look deeper and you find more. Among us you will find few adults with body hair, there is a high frequency of shovel-shaped incisors, an absence of blood type B, low levels of blood group N with a high incidence of the Diego-positive blood type. In short, gentlemen, Mother Nature has brewed our blood a little differently from yours.'

    'That's the answer?' I found myself almost disappointed. I'd been expecting what amounted to a cure for triffids. 'That there's some difference in your blood or your chromosomes that means you're immune to the triffid sting where we aren't?'

    'Perhaps.'

    Gabriel's thinking was sharper than mine. 'But you indicated this was a gradual process. That more than twenty years ago your people were still dying from triffid stings. But then, after a few years, suddenly you became immune.'

    'That's true,' Chee allowed. 'I suspect a latent natural bodily immunity was stimulated due to our people ingesting large amounts of triffids. I remember as a young man dining regularly on a potage of vegetables flavoured with the shredded flesh of the sting. A dish that was invented on our reservation because of economic necessity rather than any culinary adventurousness.'

    'So a gradual exposure to triffid poison over a long period of time triggered an immune response?' Thoughtful, Gabriel pinched his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger. 'And now that freedom of movement gives you an advantage over everyone else.'

    'A rare advantage.' Without any malice Chee added, 'And sometimes that affords us a degree of satisfaction.'

    There wasn't much of a reply we could make to that. Here was a man with a healthy family from a self-confident and manifestly independent community that shared a new faith. One that gave them strength, purpose and self-respect. Indeed, here were people who hadn't suffered from the coming of The Blinding or the triffid invasion. For them the cataclysm of three decades ago hadn't been the disaster that it had been for us. It had been their salvation.

    When the four Indians had left we continued with our work. I snipped away the ruined sections of fence. By nightfall it was ready to receive the new wire. Exhausted, I crept beneath a blanket within the barrier of Jumbos. On top of one of the vehicles a guard gently stroked blues notes from a guitar that were as melancholy as they were sweet. Between wakefulness and sleep I found myself replaying the conversation with Chee, seeing again in my mind the wise eyes gleaming beneath the heavy lids. He'd talked about biological differences in their blood that rendered them immune from the triffid sting. I thought of him and his children strolling through the triffid groves with impunity.

    And at that moment I sat bolt upright with a single word on my lips: '
Christina
.' The thought leaped unbidden and shining with all the power of a Biblical revelation into my head:
Christina ran among the triffids. I saw her. She's immune to their poison, too. But I'll be damned if she has one ounce of Red Indian blood in her veins…

    

    

    

    ON the banks of the river Gabriel said to me, 'Didn't he strike you as a little smug?'

    'Ryder Chee?'

    Gabriel nodded. 'He talked about creating a kind of Jungian religion for his tribe to give them a new faith, but it struck me he was only instilling in them another self-delusion.'

    'But don't we all self-delude ourselves to a certain extent? Don't they say that civilization's only an illusion in itself? That if we stop believing in it, it ceases to exist. And if civilization is just one form of illusion that is…' I groped for the word '… expedient… that does the job for us, why should Ryder Chee's variety of self-delusion be any worse?'

    'The man isn't confronting reality head on. He himself must know that Jung said that the delusions of a psychotic were the psychotic's attempt to create a new vision of the world. Therefore, Chee has, whichever way you look at it, created a society that is essentially psychotic.'

    'Maybe I'm dim, Gabe. But my view is that if it works, if it produces a community that's energetic, optimistic and basically happy, then why not indulge in a modicum of self-delusion?'

    Gabriel looked at me, his gaze hard. 'You know something, David?'

    'What?'

    'You know the problem I'm having with Ryder Chee?' His face softened into a grin. 'I'm envious, David. I'm as green as those triffid leaves with envy. Because deep down I know Chee and his people not only have a natural immunity from those monsters.' He nodded to the triffid plants beyond the fence. 'He's also got the mechanism of his society running as sweetly as a Rolls-Royce motor.'

    'Wouldn't it make sense to borrow some of his ideas?'

    'It might.' He shot me a toothy grin. 'New gods for old, eh, David?'

    Out on the river a woman in a canoe waved a hand above her head.

    'That's our cue, David. Pull the rope.'

    He handed me an end of rope, then took a grip of it further down towards the water's edge. Forty paces upstream two men picked up another section of rope. Together we began to pull. I'd expected the job not to be overly taxing. But that rope felt as if it had been anchored to the river bed.

    'Tarnation,' Gabriel panted, the muscles bulging in his arms. 'Who would've thought fishing could be such damn hard work?'

    We continued to pull hard. At last we made headway. The line of the net broke the water's surface, making a horseshoe shape as we drew the net to shore. Five minutes later we hauled the net onto the bank. Perspiring so freely that beads of moisture stood out on his forehead as big as pearls, Gabriel regarded our catch with more than a hint of disgust. 'All that effort for those?'

    Barely a dozen fish of dubious nutritional value flapped in the netting. After contemplating our sorry-looking haul we began to disentangle the fish from the net, returning the tiddlers to the water while dropping their bigger brothers into a basket.

    'Fish and shoot of triffid soup.' Gabriel wrinkled his nose in disgust. 'Great.'

    As he pulled away some of the waterweed he suddenly cursed. Then, grimacing, he pried the pincer of a crayfish from his little finger. Once he was free of the claw he sucked his finger, then said with a wry smile, 'Am I getting paranoid, David? Or is Mother Nature out to get us?' He dropped the crayfish into the basket. (The freshwater crustacean would no doubt wind up in the soup pot together with whatever else the cook could scavenge.) 'Oh, for a juicy steak. A heap of potato salad. Golden French-fries. Creamy mayonnaise. Crisp lettuce. Sweet tomatoes. A jug of ice-cold beer. How much-'

    'Shh.' I held up my hand. 'Can you hear something?'

    We stood for a moment, listening. I looked up along the river towards where the sound seemed to be coming from. All I could see was the silvery stretch of water between the banks. A flock of birds, disturbed by the sound, took to the air from a line of willows.

    Gabriel's face hardened. 'Hell. Not again.'

    The others moved back quickly from the water's edge. Men and women ran to collect their guns. Further along the bank the gun turret on the back of a Jumbo swivelled to point its twin machine guns upstream.

    I listened to the note of the engine. It didn't sound as it should, but there was no mistaking it. 'Wait!' I shouted. 'Hold your fire!' I ran down to the water's edge to get a better look upstream.

    Gabriel called out to me, 'David! Get yourself into a trench before the shooting starts.'

    'No, those are aero engines. It's a plane.' What puzzled me, however, was that the note of the engines was all wrong. The plane wasn't flying but taxiing.

    A moment later I got visual confirmation. From round a bend in the river came a big four-engined flying boat. The sleek lines of the formidable Boeing Clipper were instantly recognizable to me - which was hardly surprising since I'd slept underneath a handsome technicolour print of the aircraft for years as a child. The picture had been pinned to my bedroom wall.

    The flying boat, engines roaring, its propellers blurring discs of silver, surged towards what remained of a jetty. The white vee of its wake washed up the river bank, almost reaching my feet.

    Now the Foresters cheered the return of the craft.

    With the arrival of its crew on dry land we learned that this was the only aircraft based at the camp to have survived the attack. By chance, several pilots had been chatting to a maintenance crew near the plane when the torpedo boats came storming upriver. With great presence of mind they'd leaped into the flying boat, started the engines and got away. The intention had been to make for the next military camp of the Foresters and return with reinforcements. That was until the pilot checked the fuel gauge, which told her that there was barely a splash of juice in the tanks. So after a hop of three miles she had brought the plane down into an offshoot of the river where, like us in the Jumbos, they had sat tight for a few days until they'd judged it safe to taxi the flying boat downstream to the camp once more.