Read Walk to the End of the World Online
Authors: Suzy McKee Charnas
Walk to the End of the World (22 page)
‘What do you expect from me?’
‘Ah,’ the old man said, approvingly, ‘but it’s not such a simple matter. These are complex times. What did Bajerman tell you, that we’re in a generation war? He would; he was always a cheesebrain.
‘It’s not a political squabble between old men and young that we’re faced with this time. This is going to be a great famine, a literal famine. Tell me, how do you think the seaweeds we live on survived the Wasting? I know that’s not the kind of question you’re encouraged to think about in the Boyhouse; don’t be embarrassed by your ignorance. The answer is, the seaweeds were tough, fairly simple organisms that already were living on the rubbish of the Ancients’ civilization to some degree. They were able to adapt to using the large quantities of poisons released during the Wasting as a side-effect of the men’s efforts to defend their civilization.
‘Our problem is, the lammins and lavers have now metabolized and dissipated most of the contaminants left over from the Wasting, and these seaweeds are finding much less of the kind of nourishment they’ve come to depend on. So each succeeding crop is scantier, and the situation is going to get worse, not better. Oh, some seaweeds will survive on the sewage from the City, and others may adapt again to clean conditions; but not in the profusion we’re used to for a very long time, if ever. And we don’t know which of the other plants moving into their place we can use. That change will also take a long time. Meanwhile, as men have become so heavily dependant in turn on lammins and lavers, they must also starve.’
‘Unless,’ Servan observed, ‘they’ve prepared. Bajerman said you have all kinds of food stockpiled here in ’Troi.’
‘That’s one way to prepare,’ Maggomas said. ‘There is another – as I tried to tell the Board, but they wouldn’t so much as give me a
decent hearing — and that’s to diversify the food supply so that we don’t need the lammins and laver so much. That’s what we’ve done here; we’ve stripped down, lived lean and stored up food to carry us over the transition period until new staples we’ve been developing are available in quantity.
decent hearing — and that’s to diversify the food supply so that we don’t need the lammins and laver so much. That’s what we’ve done here; we’ve stripped down, lived lean and stored up food to carry us over the transition period until new staples we’ve been developing are available in quantity.
‘Mind you, we have no margin; we can’t take in any more mouths to feed. I haven’t had a lot of time to get things ready. We have had setbacks; some of the information I needed was locked up in the Boyhouse where I couldn’t get to it. Still, we’re set to go just as we are, which is more than can be said for the rest of the Holdfast. We mean to ride out the crisis.
‘Then, when the time is right, ’Troi will take over what’s left and will start building a new, better and truly rational society. All of which will require leadership from dedicated, intelligent men: heroes.’
He opened a door on the outside, where a bridge of metal linked the furnace-building with another, taller structure a street away. A sooty wind plucked at their clothing and stung their eyes. Down below illuminated glass globes stippled the empty street.
‘Heroes,’ Eykar echoed, limping out onto the thrumming metal walkway. He raised his voice against the wind. ‘And what am I to be, then?’
‘Look down there,’ Maggomas said. ‘Look over my town. It will still be here, strong and vital, when the rest of the Holdfast is rags and bones. That’s my doing.
‘Why do you think I’ve bothered? So that I can stand here for a while, until you come to kill me – unless I kill you first — because that’s what you’ve been taught you must do? You’re too valuable to use yourself up in dramatics. If I didn’t know it for a fact, I could read it in you now. Your injury pains you, your surroundings are strange and threatening, you have only your wits for weapons; but you haven’t asked for rest, or for time, or for help. Inner discipline is the beginning of a man’s power.’
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ Eykar said.
Servan swore silently. What was the matter with Eykar? Couldn’t he see that they were home-free? Nothing could stop them. It was all going to be worth every famishing step of the journey and more. Legends? They would be gods. Even Eykar’s beautiful, absurd pride would have to bend before the superb artistry of events.
Maggomas thrust open the door on the far side of the bridge and led them into a suite of littered rooms. There were papers and books everywhere. Lop-eared drawings and charts hung from the walls. There were stilt-necked lamps clamped to the desks and tables, one even to the back of a chair, so that beams of light crossed each other at every angle through the dimness of the rooms.
‘Consider, my son,’ the old man said, ‘what rational motive do you have for opposing me? You can’t be any more ambitious for yourself than I am for you.’ He swept out both arms, indicating the chaos through which they made their way. ‘This place of disorder will become the center of the new Refuge and someday of a new Holdfast. From here I control ’Troi now; the entire river and much more besides will fall to me in time. I am the master of this and creator of its future.
‘My place here will be yours. You’re to be my successor. Did you think you were bred for anything less?’
One glance showed Alldera that no fems kept this place in order for its master. Could all of ’Troi’s fems have been sent to the mines or locked up somewhere else in preparation for a battle with the City men?
‘Not that there won’t be problems about the succession,’ the old man continued. ‘I’ve already run into resistance trying to persuade the ’Troimen that my son need not be my born enemy. We’ll work out some demonstrations of unity. For a start, you’ll drop your name and take mine. Your DarkDreamer friend can design a ceremony to mark the new legitimization of lineage.’
Bek said, ‘Suppose I am your born enemy?’
Maggomas made an impatient gesture of dismissal. ‘If you think of yourself that way, it’s not by nature but out of ignorance. What would I do, rationally, if I were your antagonist? I would stand in your way. But I’ve made your way for you!’
‘This is grotesque!’ Bek grated.
‘Not at all. It’s a very sensible custom. In the old days a man used to have a son to take over his property, further his plans and generally see to the honor and the prosperity of his bloodline, after — when the time came.’ Maggomas stood glancing restlessly about him, took up a stack of papers from a table and began looking through the pages as he continued.
’Mind you, sons turned against their fathers even before the Wasting. But I’m convinced that that was a result of the warping
influence of their dams. Ancient men very carelessly left the education of their young boys primarily to fems.
influence of their dams. Ancient men very carelessly left the education of their young boys primarily to fems.
‘Still, the Ancients knew the basic principle: a man smart enough to amass wealth and power has a good chance of passing on his talents to his son. That’s important, if a great lifework isn’t to fall into the hands of quarreling louts or idiots. And idiots there are in plenty, no matter how carefully you try to weed them out. Take the lads I’ve been training here; they still turn in trash like these reports.
‘You two get cleaned up. You’ll find clean clothes in the alcove; something in there should fit you. I have no one to send in with you — we’re used to doing for ourselves here in ’Troi — but your fem can attend you. I’ll join you shortly.’
In the small bathing-room d Layo scrubbed quickly, miming his delight in scouring off the grime of the journey and bowing in mock-obsequity to his companion the Crown Prince. Bek ignored him. They close not to shout over the rushing of the water for any one in the corridor to hear.
The DarkDreamer had already shaved and dressed in simply cut shirt and pants of a soft gray when Bek and Alldera entered the dressing alcove. D Layo’s jaunty, graceful carriage lent a touch of elegance to these severe clothes. He was too eager to wait for Bek, so he went off to find their host.
Bek sat down before the mirror and began to shave with grim-mouthed care. ‘Go get yourself washed,’ he told Alldera.
The hot water, which sprang from holes in the wall at the touch of a knob, nearly put her to sleep. She hadn’t realized how exhausted she was. She went through a series of warm-up exercises, delicate slidings and tightenings of muscle, and the water washed away the sweat of exertion and left her feeling fresh. Decorously wrapped in one of the men’s damp, discarded towels, she returned to the alcove.
Bek, looking lean and taut in dark shirt and trousers, stood bleakly studying himself in the long mirror. ‘I thought I’d look older,’ he said.
There were no femmish smocks in the alcove. Alldera chose a shirt that was long enough to serve, one that had correspondingly enormous sleeves. But Bek was in no mood for the ludicrous. He had her take it off and wear shirt and pants like his. The significance of his own somber clothing and his austere and deliberate preparations
was clear: he was armoring himself in his ritual status: it was as Endtendant of Endpath that he meant to face his father.
was clear: he was armoring himself in his ritual status: it was as Endtendant of Endpath that he meant to face his father.
The sound of voices drew them to the great front room of the suite, which was in darkness. Its furthest wall was a transparent sheet incised with a glowing design which seemed to shine with light from lamps outside in the night.
Alldera’s messenger training had included recognition of maps. This one she understood at once: there was Bayo, there Endpath, there the City. Deeper inland gleamed a gridwork representing Oldtown, a larger one for ’Troi – and further up the river, further than shown by any map she had ever seen, stood steeply pitched figures that seemed to be actual descriptions, not mere symbols, of mountains.
D Layo stood tracing the mountain-marks with his fingertips. He said, ‘Then the Reconquest has actually begun?’
Maggomas, crouched over a table laden with papers, glanced up and laughed angrily. ’What Reconquest? I’ve sent out a few exploring parties of my own, that’s how I know this much. There is no Reconquest, it’s a myth.
‘Everything the Board does – or fails to do – is calculated to insure that nothing happens to shake its control. That means no new ideas and no new territories and not too many young men! I’m surprised that neither of you has figured it out. What’s hierarchy for, or the endless maze of games and standings, if not to dissipate young men’s energy? Which is kept low anyhow with an insufficient diet, since the old men take more than their share of the pittance of food that the Holdfast furnishes. You know, in the Refuge men had to play games to keep from going rogue. Sport is an acquired taste which the Seniors have encouraged in the Holdfast for the same reasons: to use up energy.
‘You, my son; what do you think Endpath is for? When the Board decides that there are too many restless youngsters around for the maintenance of stability, it’s not difficult for them to manipulate the standings or break up certain love affairs, so that pride and misery send a number of Juniors off to die at Endpath. Dueling in the Streets of Honor takes care of others.
‘Then look at our economy: a model of institutionalized inefficiency! The old men pool the surplus of a five-year’s production and take off the top themselves for their own comforts. Not that the
Holdfast offers much more than subsistence – rotating the companies from work-turf to work-turf every five-year means a lot of unskilled clods do everything badly in an effort to do each thing better than the last lot of unskilled clods did it.
Holdfast offers much more than subsistence – rotating the companies from work-turf to work-turf every five-year means a lot of unskilled clods do everything badly in an effort to do each thing better than the last lot of unskilled clods did it.
‘The point, young men, is to prevent the Junior population from growing large enough, rich enough or educated enough to burst the boundaries of the Holdfast, begin a real Reconquest – and perhaps turn around afterward and take the Holdfast for themselves, with their newfound strength and confidence. Now, I maintain —’
Interrupted by a string of faint popping sounds from outside, he held up his hand and listened. ‘That’s got to be first contact with the City men! Come on outside.’
They followed him out onto a paved terrace overlooking the plain. A table had been set up, its surface a mosaic of magnificent green and golden tile glittering in the light of two squat globe lamps that were housed in the parapet. The light of the lamps gleamed steadily on the gear of four Armicors deployed by Maggomas along the length of the terrace. He himself went to confer with a stocky young man of the same company, who reported without lowering the spyglass through which he was studying the plain below.
‘No problem,’ the old man said, joining the others around the table. ‘There’s been a little skirmish some distance down the river. We saw the flashes of our people’s guns. Our patrols are too small to stop that mob, but the guns will stagger them! You’re going to have a fine view of an interesting night.
‘How do you like this?’ he added, running his palm over the gleaming tiles of the tabletop. ‘’Troimen are realists, but you’d be mistaken to think they have no taste. This is a product of our own kilns.’
‘You’ve built kilns here?’ d Layo said, with interest. ‘You know, we had just the thing to give you as a guest-gift: some plates and platters from Oldtown ruins, Scrappers’ loot. They were stowed in the body of the camper we came in, which was left outside the palisade.’
‘Then they will have to stay there a while. The gates of ’Troi won’t open again for a long time. Tell me, though: what would you have asked for in exchange for your guest-gift?’
‘They were fine pieces,’ the DarkDreamer said, considering. ‘Very old, I think. A fair exchange would have been one of those weapons.’
He pointed to the shiny weapon belted to the hip of the nearest Armicor.
He pointed to the shiny weapon belted to the hip of the nearest Armicor.
‘Well chosen,’ Maggomas said, plainly pleased. ‘Not that I’m entirely happy with the guns yet; but even imperfect as they are they’ll shake up the City mob. Sit down, I’ve got a meal laid on for us. Have that fem sit, too. I hate having people hang over the table while I eat.’ He raised his voice: ‘A bowl of wash-water and soemthing to drink while we’re waiting!’
No fem appeared at the service-hatch. Instead, one of the sentries descended and returned bearing a tray with glasses, a metal bowl and a large carafe of water. The bowl, poured half-full, was for Maggomas’ use. He fumbled for a moment at the ties of his apron, swore and sat down to wash as he was, the apron-bib standing out stiffly under his chin. He dried his hands on a stained rag from his pocket. Several small, colorless objects fell from the rag’s folds, clicking and bouncing on the table top.
Maggomas off-handedly explained that they were cubes of something called ‘plastic’, which the Ancients had made out of coal and other substances. He had recently produced these samples from the leavings of the Oldtown hemp-mills.
He shot a sly look at his son as he spoke of this, but Bek spared the intriguing little objects scarcely a glance. He kept his eyes on his father. D Layo was the one to pick up the cubes and juggle them on his palm. He rubbed the ‘plastic’ surfaces and remarked wistfully and with awe on the powers of the Ancients – and again his eyes turned toward the guns the Armicors wore.
Maggomas sniffed at the soup that had been set in front of him. ‘About time,’ he said, and ladled some for the men and a bowlful for himself. Alldera was relieved that none was served to her; the soup had dark, shiny shapes in it and a musty odor. The young men sat and looked uneasily at their portions.
‘You just don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Maggomas said, ‘when you glibly rattle off a phrase like “the powers of the Ancients.” They were men of might, not scrabblers in an ash heap. Listen, just as an example: the Ancients had so many fibers, natural and man-made, that not only could a man change his shirt every day; but they even had to put labels in their garments, to tell the owner which of the many methods of cleaning was appropriate to that particular fabric! Extend that kind of versatility into all fields,
and you begin to get some idea of the wealth and power of the Ancients.’
and you begin to get some idea of the wealth and power of the Ancients.’
‘Yet,’ Bek said, harshly, ‘they were overthrown.’
‘Oh, yes,’ jeered the old man, jabbing his spoon in Alldera’s direction, ‘and next you’ll tell me that it was by the magical powers of her kind!
‘Let me tell you something: the Ancients weren’t overthrown; they fell down – in their understanding of their own incredible powers. They should have forseen the Wasting soon enough to have prevented it. Ancient science was so far advanced that they had machines to do the work of the Dirties, artificial foods and materials to replace those they had from plants and beasts, even man-made reproductive systems that would eventually have cut out the fems from their one supposedly necessary function. But the men didn’t see where it was all leading.’
He drank down the remainder of his soup in one draught, and turned to serve up a stew of mixed lammins and lavers on fresh plates for the men. The stew smelled strong. A bowl was filled for the Armicor officer, who ate standing.
Alldera’s mealtime would come when the men were finished, according to the traditions of formal dining. Her mouth welled sweet juices. She had never seen so much food assembled in one meal in her life. The coldness of the night breeze on her damp hair seemed to spread all through her body as a hungry ache. She could barely stand to watch Bek, across the table from her, poking uninterestedly at his portion with his fork and frowning as if he didn’t even see it.
‘The science of the Ancients,’ Maggomas went on, around a mouthful of food, ‘was so highly developed that they were about to cut through the tie of dependence on this mortal bitch of a world altogether and become gods – not your famishing mystery-god who passes understanding and coping-with, but real, rational, deathless gods wielding real, rational power. The Ancients invented artificial body parts and anti-aging drugs that would eventually have made sons themselves obsolete. Who needs posterity when men are immortal? And given eternity, they could have discovered everything else that there is to know or do.’
Rapidly, after a swallow of beer, he went on: ‘You can see that the fems couldn’t have that. They were committed – still are – to an
endless, pointless round of birth and death. They knew that once they were no longer needed for reproduction they would be dispensed with altogether. So they attacked first.
endless, pointless round of birth and death. They knew that once they were no longer needed for reproduction they would be dispensed with altogether. So they attacked first.
‘How do you like the stew?’ he asked, with sudden solicitude. ‘I noticed before that neither of you finished your soup. The black bits were only fungi. We’ve learned to grow them in quantity in our cellars and how to weed out the poisonous ones that have given all fungi a bad name. You get to like the flavor in time, as with so many foods. The Ancients, when they sat down to an evening meal, prized highly a wild variety of these same fungi, though of course they had so much else to choose from.
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