The Raft: A Novel (39 page)

My stomach was pleasantly fed and I was tired after a day of walking. I leaned back on the blanket and was asleep before my head hit the dust.

I woke to the sound of grunting and growling. I opened my eyes and took a second to remember where I was: the cave. The fire was already dead, smoking limply. Behind it, three lean dogs with matted black fur were tugging viciously on the ends of some object.

I grabbed my stick and sprang to my feet. Gideon opened his eyes and sat bolt upright. Three long black heads snapped our way. They lowered their shoulders, baring fangs and lashing out long purple tongues. Against the dark backdrop they looked like one big dog with three ghastly heads.

Our food. They’d ripped open our bags and torn apart the goods. Packets and bags were shredded and the contents scattered across the dirt. One of the cans had been crushed and punctured, leaking in the sand. I held my stick above my head and Gideon grabbed his own. The dogs took a step back but did not relinquish their threatening stance. I grabbed a rock and hurled it at one of them, striking it on the side of its head. It yelped and cringed back and then they spun slickly on their paws and slipped behind the veil of night.

Gideon inspected the strewn food. He picked up wrappers and shook out the crumbs. A plastic bottle had been mangled and the water had seeped into the earth. We had one good can of biryani, a few roasted vegetables from the island, and that was it. I checked to see whether the apple that Klaus had given me had been eaten too, but it was lying in the dirt, still in its wrapper.

I picked it up.

“What’s that?” Gideon asked.

“An apple,” I said. “I was given it. But we can’t eat it. No matter how hungry we get. No matter how much we might want to eat it. Trust me.”

Gideon asked nothing more.

There was no food in Gideon’s bag. It hadn’t been touched and I put what was left of our provisions into it. Gideon grabbed a handful of kindling, threw it on the fire, and added another few logs. He got on his knees and blew fiery life into it once more.

The moon was gone. The air was warm, but in a nauseating, ominous way, as if it had spent the best of itself hanging over some putrid bog. We were out of food. I was out of ideas. All I had been told to do was walk, and now I wondered what that meant. Would I have to walk for days, weeks or months? What desert creatures would we have to eat to survive, now that our rations were gone?

“This isn’t the last time we’ll be tested,” Gideon said, closing his eyes and picking up on his sleep where he had left off.

We woke at sunrise, gathered our things, and continued on. We felt the first prickly drops of rain only a few minutes after we’d left our site. Not long after that, it began to pour hard. It hadn’t rained for some time and the water didn’t soak away. It flooded the surface of the desert, spilling across the highway. We couldn’t allow ourselves to be bothered by it. If we did, we’d be doomed to failure. So we filled a container with rain and pushed on.

An hour later we sat under a lone oak tree on the side of the highway, ate a few cubes of vegetables, and drank some water. We waited to see whether the rain would stop. Finally, it did, and we made our way back to the road. I was losing my strength and, I noticed, Gideon was too. I didn’t think we could go much further, but I kept my concerns to myself.

The clouds still hovered above, the sun was going down quickly; the night promised to be more challenging than the night before and I was worried.

“Look,” Gideon said.

In the distance, at the end of a gravel path, there was a house. It was a small stone house with a thatched roof, draped in vines, surrounded by a short white picket fence. We stepped though a rustic wooden archway and onto a neatly gravelled path. The grass in front of the house had been trimmed, faint puffs of smoke rose from the chimney, and a warm yellow light glowed beyond one of the windows. Next to the house was a rickety gazebo sheltering some sort of van or truck, covered by a big brown tarp. Against the side of the gazebo, pink and yellow flowers bloomed from a rusted wheelbarrow.

Drenched and battered, Gideon and I walked up the gravel pathway, and up to the front door.

On the door there was a sign—a handwritten message on a white, wooden plaque:
IF IT WERE NOT FOR GUESTS, ALL HOUSES WOULD BE GRAVES.

I knocked twice.

I looked back at Gideon, dripping and exhausted behind me. He smiled. We heard the fidgeting of the lock, and then the door creaked open.

At first, I thought I was looking at a boy, perhaps nine or ten years of age. He had a blue cap and t-shirt with a picture of a cartoon mouse wearing roller-skates. But it wasn’t a boy; its face had a metallic sheen and its eyes were two milky balls. There was no nose, no ears, only a perfect little smile on silver rubber lips. The boy at the door was a machine.

A robot child.

The nicest family ever made

M
y hair was dirty and tangled. There were still smudges of grime on the backs of my hands, even though I’d done my best to wash them in the bathroom. My clothes had dried but my feet were still squishing in my soaked shoes. I was tired and my knees hurt, but more than anything, I was hungry.

Gideon sat beside me at the dinner table, looking no better groomed. He sat with perfect posture on his chair, hands on his lap, and smiled sheepishly as Mother—the robot designed to look like a middle-aged woman—leaned over and served him steamed peas from a bowl in her metal hand. The hair on her head was red, cut in a neat bob and she was wearing a flattering floral dress.

“Just say when,” she said.

“That’s fine, thank you.”

She smiled at him and Gideon smiled awkwardly back. She crossed to my side of the table and I arched back in my chair to give her room.

Father sat at the end of the table, a robot man wearing a shirt and tie. His sleeves were rolled back to his elbows and his tie loosened—the look of a man who’d finally had the chance to get comfortable after a long day at the office. He rested his elbows on the table and put his hands together, as if about to say grace. Thankfully, he didn’t.

From across the white table (a long, immaculate table lavish with chicken roast, pickled beetroot, yellow rice, cauliflower cheese), two robot children sat staring at us: Daughter and Son. Son was the one who’d answered the door, and he was eyeing us sceptically, probably wondering if we could be trusted. Daughter was a little taller, with a narrow “pretty” face, short brown hair curling where her ears should have been. She was staring at me dreamily—a teenager with her first fluttery crush.

I gulped and thanked Mother for the peas.

The house itself was warm and pleasant. A fire crackled in a large hearth, a few lamps bathed the rooms in a soft homely glow. Outside, the rain pattered the murky earth. Inside, it was like another world.

We were the humans, yet it was we who were the creatures of the night. In that house full of charming human touches, sitting before that dinner table topped with delicious human food, and hosted by the most “human” family I had encountered in years (perhaps even, the last of its kind on this shattered planet), we were the uncivilised outsiders. We were the grubby pieces that didn’t fit. I’d been pawing my food for so long I could barely recall how to use a fork and knife. I grabbed each and held them uneasily, like the ends of live wires.

“It couldn’t have been easy getting here,” Father said. “You gentlemen seem to have managed well. Very few make it this far up the road.”

“Nobody
makes it up this road,” Son cut in.

“It’s not right to interrupt your father,” Mother said. “That isn’t polite.”

“Sorry, Mother,” Son said. “Sorry, Father.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Father said to his wife. “And apology accepted, Son.” Father turned back to us. “But yes, Son is correct. Nobody’s been here in a long time. Either the world’s become too busy with its own business, or there’s no business at all. These are challenging times, but I’m sure I don’t have to remind gentlemen such as yourselves.”

Father picked up his fork and knife and proceeded to eat. He sliced up his chicken, loaded his fork, and put it in his metal mouth. He chewed it comfortably. I watched him, wondering whether he could even taste it. As he swallowed, I was curious to know whether the food nourished him in any way, or simply dropped into a big steel tank in his stomach.

I realised I was staring, and turned to begin my meal.

“You’re right,” I said, cutting my food into neat bite-sized pieces. “The world has grown stranger. I’m not even sure it’s our world anymore.”

“That’s an interesting remark,” Father said. “Do you think it’s ever been
our
world?”

Well, not
yours
, I would have said if I hadn’t been wary of offence. But then, with a depth of awareness that astounded me, he added, “Actually, to be more accurate,
your
world?”

I loaded another forkful. The meal was remarkable. Perfectly cooked, perfectly seasoned. It tasted like home, a home I wasn’t sure I’d ever had. Gideon seemed to agree. His attention was firmly on his plate and he was already halfway through the meal.

“Maybe not,” I replied. “Maybe you’re right.”

“And maybe I’m wrong.” Father looked at his robotic wife. “Honey, this is absolutely delicious! Thank you so much, my love.”

Gideon and I added our thanks at that point, and Son and Daughter mumbled something to the same effect. Mother patted her mouth with a serviette, hiding a shy smile of gratitude.

“Well, if I don’t feed this lot they’ll eat the shoes off their feet,” she said, deflecting attention.

“I love a good shoe every now and again,” Father joked, and the kids giggled. “A good, hearty shoe stew. Next on the menu on Dad’s dinner night.”

“Ew!” Daughter said. She pulled a face, but was obviously amused.

“Okay, okay,” Mother said. “Let’s keep the shoe-stew talk down until our guests have at least finished their meals.”

Father ducked his head to the kids and widened his mouth in a comically worried frown, as if to say,
I’m gonna get it in the neck now—but she started!

He ended the gag there and continued eating, looking quite pleased with himself. The kids tucked in again. Mother ate slowly and delicately.

We enjoyed the meal in silence for a while. When Gideon had finished, Mother insisted, “Please, have more.”

Gideon bowed. “I’m fine, thank you. Your cooking was delicious. I’m very grateful for your hospitality.”

“Your house is beautiful,” I said. “How long have you been living here?”

“Thank you,” Mother said. “What is it,”—she looked at Father—“a few years now?”

“That’s right,” Father confirmed. “A few years.”

“It’s very inviting.”

“Why thank you! We try,” Mother added. She pointed to the rest of the food. “You sure?”

I waved my hand and smiled to assure her that I’d had plenty.

“Unfortunately,” Father said, and then paused to consider his next few words, “we did lose a family member some time back, and it’s been difficult on us all.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Gideon said.

“A tragedy,” Mother said. “It was no way for anyone to go, let alone someone so dear to us all.”

“What happened?” I asked, and then, realising my question might have been inconsiderate, added, “I’m sorry.”

“No! No, it’s quite all right,” said Father. “I brought it up. Perhaps after dinner you’ll join me for a drink in the conservatory and I’ll tell you all about it. I’ve got a drop of single malt both of you will probably enjoy.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “Thank you.”

“No, Kayle,” he said, his milky eyes flitting between Gideon and me. “We should be thanking you.”

We helped carry the dishes to the kitchen then joined Father in the conservatory, as he had suggested.

The two children retreated to their rooms to do their homework, maths problems that Father had set for them, Son said. Mother was in the kitchen (we had offered to help her, but she would have none of it) and Gideon, Father and I were now sitting in red armchairs in a glass-walled room full of hanging ferns, spiky succulents and a few herbs and vegetables. The rain struck and streaked the glass, revealing nothing of the black night beyond.

Father leaned forward from his red chair and poured us each a tumbler of the single malt. He put the bottle back on the unvarnished wooden table that sat between us, stained with the rings of previous drinks. He picked ice cubes out of a steel bucket, pushed our glasses towards us, grabbed his own, and sat back.

“Cheers,” he said, and we tapped our glasses together. Gideon and I sipped our whiskeys and watched as Father threw back his silver ribbed neck to take a big sip. He leaned back in his chair and sighed.

“I’m well aware how odd this must all be for you,” he said. “We are not without our insecurities either. Whether we were programmed to feel this way, or learned to be, our self-awareness comes with all the familiar drawbacks.” The ice clinked as he swirled his whiskey in his hand. “In my particular case, my fears and insecurities are predominantly related to my family’s capacity to cope with trying times.”

“I don’t know much,” I said, “but your wife and children seem as if they’re doing fine. Or they hide it well.”

Father smiled genially. “Thank you for saying that. That’s all I need to know. All I need to
ever
know. Mother and I have little more than fifteen to twenty years left of battery power. Then we’ll be gone. Dead and rusting. And my children … they’ll be left in this strange world, where nothing seems to mature with age. Not like this malt, anyway.” He sighed and took another sip.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Losing our memories may have been the best thing to happen to this world. No industry. No pillaging. We may have given the natural world the break it deserves.”

“The natural world. That is interesting.” Father smiled. “Humans have interesting ideas about their relationship to the world. Yes. Truly polarised ideas. Some believe humans own the world and can do whatever they want with it … and some believe humans are worthless as a species, that they are not what was intended. This latter group tries not to affect anything, resenting their own existence. But they are just as guilty of making a distinction between man and nature. Because you
are
of the world, aren’t you? As much as the oceans and the animals and trees. You are just as natural, as are your acts and intentions—as devastating as they can often be. Am I incorrect?”