The Year of the Flood by Margaret Atwood
Glenn said, "Hang out?" in a puzzled way. "Aren't you with Jimmy?" I said it was over, and anyway it was never serious because Jimmy was such a clown. Then I blurted out the next thing that came into my head.
"I saw you with the Gardeners, at the Tree of Life," I said. "Remember? I was the one who walked you over to see Pilar. With that honey?" He looked alarmed, and said we should get a Happicappuchino and talk.
We did talk. We talked a lot. We hung out in the mall so much that kids started saying we were a thing, but we weren't -- it was never a romance. What was it then? I guess Glenn was the only person at HelthWyzer I could talk to about the Gardeners, and it was the same for him -- that was the bond. It was like being in a secret club. Maybe Jimmy was never my twin at all -- maybe it was Glenn. Which is a strange thought, because he was a strange guy. More like a cyborg, which was what Wakulla Price used to call him. Were we friends? I wouldn't even call it that. Sometimes he looked at me as if I was an amoeba, or some problem he was solving in Nanobioforms.
Glenn already knew quite a lot about the Gardeners, but he wanted to know more. What it was like to live with them every day. What they did and said, what they really believed. He'd get me to sing the songs, he'd want me to repeat what Adam One said in his Saint and Feast Day speeches: Glenn never laughed at them the way Jimmy would have if I'd ever done that for him. Instead he'd ask things like, "So, they think we should use nothing except recycled. But what if the Corps stopped making anything new? We'll run out." Sometimes he'd ask me more personal things, like "Would you eat animals if you were starving?" and "Do you think the Waterless Flood is really going to happen?" But I didn't always know the answers.
He'd talk about other things too. One day, he said that what you had to do in any adversarial situation was to kill the king, as in chess. I said people didn't have kings any more. He said he meant the centre of power, but today it wouldn't be a single person, it would be the technological connections. I said, you mean like coding and splicing, and he said, "Something like that."
Once he asked me if I thought God was a cluster of neurons, and if so, whether people having that cluster had been passed down by natural selection because it conferred a competitive edge, or whether maybe it was just a spandrel, such as having red hair, which didn't matter one way or another to your survival chances. A lot of the time I felt way out of my depth with him, so I'd say, "What do you think?" He always had an answer to that.
Jimmy did see us together at the mall, and he did seem taken aback; though not for long, because I caught him giving Glenn a thumbs-up, as if saying, Go for it, buddy, be my guest! As if I was his property and he was sharing.
Jimmy and Glenn graduated two years before I did and went off to college. Glenn went to Watson-Crick with all the brainiacs, and Jimmy went to the Martha Graham Academy, which was for kids with no math and science potential. So at least I didn't have to watch Jimmy at school any more, coming on to this or that new girl. But it was almost worse with Jimmy not there than with him there.
I put in the next two years somehow. My marks were poor, and I didn't think I'd get in anywhere for college -- I'd end up as a minimumwage meat slave, working at SecretBurgers or somewhere like that. But Lucerne pulled some strings. I heard her talking about it to one of her golf-club friends: "She's not stupid, but that cult experience ruined her motivation, so the Martha Graham Academy is the best we could do." So I'd be in the same space with Jimmy: that made me so nervous I felt sick.
The night before I left on the sealed bullet train, I reread my old diary, and then I knew what the Gardeners meant when they said, Be careful what you write. There were my own words from the time when I was so happy, except that now it was torture to read them. I took the diary down the street and around the corner and shoved it into a garboil dumpster. It would turn into oil and then all those red hearts I'd drawn would go up in smoke, but at least they would be useful along the way.
Part of me thought I would find Jimmy again at Martha Graham, and he would say it was me he'd loved all along, and could we get back together, and I'd forgive him and everything would be wonderful, the way it had been at first. But the other part of me realized that the chances of that were nothing. Adam One used to say that people can believe two opposite things at the same time, and now I knew it was true.
THE FEAST OF SERPENT WISDOM
THE FEAST OF SERPENT WISDOM
YEAR EIGHTEEN.
OF THE IMPORTANCE OF INSTINCTIVE KNOWING.
SPOKEN BY ADAM ONE.
Dear Friends, Fellow Mortals, Fellow Creatures:
Today is our Feast of Serpent Wisdom, and our Children have once again excelled in their decoration. We have Amanda and Shackleton to thank for the gripping mural of the Fox Snake ingesting a Frog -- an apt reminder to us of the intertwined nature of the Dance of Life. For this Feast we traditionally feature the Zucchini, a Serpent-shaped vegetable. Thanks to Rebecca, our Eve Eleven, for her innovative Zucchini and Radish Dessert Slice. We are certainly looking forward to it.
But first I must alert you to the fact that certain individuals have been making unofficial inquiries about Zeb, our many-talented Adam Seven. In our Father's Garden there are many Species, and it takes all kinds to make an Ecosystem, and Zeb has chosen the non-violent option; so if questioned, do keep in mind that "I don't know" is always the best answer.
Our text for Serpent Wisdom is from Matthew 10:16: "Be ye therefore wise as Serpents, and harmless as Doves." To those former biologists among us who have made a study either of Serpents or of Doves, this sentence is puzzling. Serpents are expert hunters, paralyzing or strangling and crushing their prey, a gift that enables them to predate many Mice and Rats. Yet, despite their natural technology, one would not ordinarily call Serpents "wise." And Doves, though harmless to us, are extremely aggressive to other Doves: a male will harass and kill a less dominant male if occasion offers. The Spirit of God is sometimes pictured as a Dove, which simply informs us that this Spirit is not always peaceful: it has a ferocious side to it as well.
The Serpent is a highly charged symbol throughout the Human Words of God, though its guises are varied. Sometimes it is shown as an evil enemy of Humankind -- perhaps because, when our Primate ancestors slept in trees, the Constrictors were among their few nocturnal predators. And for these ancestors -- shoeless as they were -- to step on a Viper meant certain death. Yet the Serpent is also equated with Leviathan, that great water-beast God made to humble Mankind, and also named to Job as an awe-inspiring example of His Inventiveness.
Among the Ancient Greeks, serpents were sacred to the god of healing. In other religions, the Serpent with its tail in its mouth refers to the cycle of Life, and to the beginning and end of Time. Because they shed their skins, Serpents have also symbolized Renewal -- the Soul casting off its old self, from which it emerges resplendent. A complicated symbol, indeed. Therefore, how are we to be "wise as Serpents"? Are we to eat our own tails, or tempt people to wrongdoing, or coil around our enemies and squeeze them to death? Surely not -- because in the same sentence, we are told to be as harmless as Doves.
Serpent Wisdom -- I propose -- is the wisdom of feeling directly, as the Serpent feels vibrations in the Earth. The Serpent is wise in that it lives in immediacy, without the need for the elaborate intellectual frameworks Humankind is endlessly constructing for itself. For what in us is belief and faith, in the other Creatures is inborn knowledge. No Human can truly know the full mind of God. The Human reason is a pin dancing on the head of an angel, so small is it in comparison to the Divine vast-ness that encircles us.
As the Human Words of God have put it, "Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." That is the point: not seen. We cannot know God by reason and measurement; indeed, excess reason and measurement lead to doubt. Through them, we know that Comets and nuclear holocausts are among the possible tomorrows, not to mention the Waterless Flood, that we fear looms ever nearer. This fear dilutes our certainty, and through that
We Humans must labour to believe, as the other Creatures do not. They know the dawn will come. They can sense it -- that ruffling of the half-light, the horizon bestirring itself. Not only every Sparrow, not only every Rakunk, but every Nematode, and Mollusc, and Octopus, and Mo'Hair, and Liobam -- all are held in the palm of His hand. Unlike us, they have no need for Faith.
As for the Serpent, who can tell where its head ends and its body begins? It experiences God in all parts of itself; it feels the vibrations of Divinity that run through the Earth, and responds to them quicker than thought.
This then is the Serpent Wisdom we long for -- this wholeness of Being. May we greet with joy the few moments when, through Grace, and by the aid of our Retreats and Vigils and the assistance of God's Botanicals, we are granted an apprehension of it.
Let us sing.
GOD GAVE UNTO THE ANIMALS
God gave unto the Animals
A wisdom past our power to see:
Each knows innately how to live,
Which we must learn laboriously.
The Creatures need no lesson books,
For God instructs their Minds and Souls:
The sunlight hums to every Bee,
The moist clay whispers to the Mole.
And each one seeks its meat from God,
And each enjoys the Earth's sweet fare;
But none does sell and none does buy,
And none does foul its proper lair.
The Serpent is an arrow bright
That feels the Earth's vibrations fine
Run through its armoured shining flesh,
And all along its twining spine.
Oh, would I were, like Serpents, wise --
To sense the wholeness of the Whole,
Not only with a thinking Brain,
But with a swift and ardent Soul.
From The God's Gardeners Oral Hymnbook
43
TOBY. THE FEAST OF SERPENT WISDOM
YEAR TWENTY-FIVE
The Feast of Serpent Wisdom. Old Moon. Toby enters the Feast Day and the moon phase on her pink notepaper with the winky eyes and kissy lips. Old moon is a pruning week, said the Gardeners. Plant by the new, slash by the old. A good time to apply sharp tools to yourself, hack off any extraneous parts that might need trimming. Your head, for instance.
"A joke," she says out loud. She should avoid such morbid thoughts.
Today she will pare her fingernails. Toenails, as well: they shouldn't be permitted to run rampant. She could give herself a manicure: there are lots of cosmetic supplies in this place, whole shelves of them. AnooYoo Luscious Polish. AnooYoo Plum Skin Plumper. AnooYoo Fountain of Yooth Total Immersion: Shed That Scaly Epidermis! But why bother to polish or plump or shed? But why not bother? Either choice is equally pointless.
Do it for Yoo, AnooYoo used to croon. The Noo Yoo. I could have a whole new me, thinks Toby. Yet another whole new me, fresh as a snake. How many would that add up to, by now?
She trudges up the stairs to the rooftop, hoists her binoculars, surveys her visible realm. There's motion in the weeds, over by the forest edge: could it be the pigs? If so, they're keeping a low profile. Vultures are still clustering around the dead boar. There'll be lots of nanobioforms at work on it: it must be getting ripe by now.
Here's something different. Closer to the building, a clump of sheep is grazing. Five of them: three Mo'Hairs -- a green one, a pink one, and a bright purple one -- and two other sheep that appear to be conventional. The long hair of the Mo'Hairs isn't in good shape -- there are clot-like snarls in it, and twigs and dry leaves. Onscreen, in advertisements, their hair had been shiny -- you'd see the sheep tossing its hair, then a beautiful girl tossing a mane of the same hair. More hair with Mo'Hair! But they're not faring so well without their salon treatments.
The sheep clump together, lift their heads. Toby sees why: crouching low in the weeds, two liobams are on the hunt. Maybe the sheep smell them, but the scent must be confusing -- part lion, part lamb.
The purple Mo'Hair is the most jittery. Don't look like prey, Toby thinks at it. Sure enough, it's the purple one the liobams go after. They cut it out from the group and chase it for a short distance. The pathetic beast is impeded by its coiffure -- it looks like a purple fright wig on legs -- and the liobams quickly pull it down. Finding the throat under all that hair padding takes them a while, and the Mo'Hair scrambles to its feet several times before the liobams finish it off. Then they settle down to eat. The other sheep have run awkwardly away in a muddle of bleating, but now they're grazing again.
She'd intended to do some gardening today, pick some greens: her stock of preserved and dried foods is waning like the moon. But she decides against it because of the liobams. Cats of all kinds will set ambushes: one frisks around in the open to distract your attention while another one slips quietly up behind.
In the afternoon she takes a nap. An old moon draws the past, said Pilar: whatever arrives from the shadows you must greet as a blessing. And the past does come back to her: the white frame house of her childhood, the ordinary trees, the woodland in the background, tinged with blue as if there's haze. A deer is outlined against it, standing rigid as a lawn ornament, ears pricked. Her father's digging with a shovel, over by the pile of picket fencing; her mother's a momentary glimpse at the kitchen window. Perhaps she's making soup. Everything tranquil, as if it would never end. But where is Toby in this picture? For it is a picture. It's flat, like a picture on a wall. She's not there.
She opens her eyes: tears on her cheeks. I wasn't in the picture because I'm the frame, she thinks. It's not really the past. It's only me, holding it all together. It's only a handful of fading neural pathways. It's only a mirage.
Surely I was an optimistic person back then, she thinks. Back there. I woke up whistling. I knew there were things wrong in the world, they were referred to, I'd seen them in the onscreen news. But the wrong things were wrong somewhere else.
By the time she'd reached college, the wrongness had moved closer. She remembers the oppressive sensation, like waiting all the time for a heavy stone footfall, then the knock at the door. Everybody knew. Nobody admitted to knowing. If other people began to discuss it, you tuned them out, because what they were saying was both so obvious and so unthinkable.
We're using up the Earth. It's almost gone. You can't live with such fears and keep on whistling. The waiting builds up in you like a tide. You start wanting it to be done with. You find yourself saying to the sky, Just do it. Do your worst. Get it over with. She could feel the coming tremor of it running through her spine, asleep or awake. It never went away, even among the Gardeners. Especially -- as time wore on -- among the Gardeners.
44
The Sunday after Serpent Wisdom Day was Saint Jacques Cousteau's Day. It was Year Eighteen -- the year of rupture, though Toby did not yet know that. She remembers negotiating the Sinkhole streets on her way to the Wellness Clinic for the regular Sunday-evening Adams and Eves Council. She wasn't looking forward to it: lately those meetings had been sliding into squabbles.
The week before, they'd spent all their time on theological problems. The matter of Adam's teeth, for starters.
"Adam's teeth?" Toby had blurted. She needed to work on controlling such expressions of surprise, which might be read as criticism.
Adam One had explained that some of the children were upset because Zeb had pointed out the differences between the biting, rending teeth of carnivores and the grinding, munching teeth of herbivores. The children wanted to know why -- if Adam was created as a vegetarian, as he surely was -- human teeth should show such mixed characteristics.
"Shouldn't have brought it up," Stuart had muttered.
"We changed at the Fall," Nuala had said brightly. "We evolved. Once Man started to eat meat, well, naturally ..."
That would be
Then they turned to the problem of the animal-skin clothing provided by God for Adam and Eve at the end of Genesis 3. The troublesome "coats of skins."
"The children are very worried about them," Nuala had said. Toby could understand why they'd been so dismayed. Had God killed and peeled some of his beloved Creatures to make these skin coats? If so, He'd set a very bad example to Man. If not, where had these skin coats come from?
"Maybe those animals died a natural death." That was Rebecca. "And God didn't see them going to waste." She was adamant about using up leftovers.
"Maybe very small animals," Katuro had said. "Short life spans."
"That is one possibility," Adam One had said. "Let it stand for now, until a more plausible explanation presents itself."
Early in her Eveship, Toby had asked if it was really necessary to split such theological hairs, and Adam One had said that it was. "The truth is," he'd said, "most people don't care about other Species, not when times get hard. All they care about is their next meal, naturally enough: we have to eat or die. But what if it's God doing the caring? We've evolved to believe in gods, so this belief bias of ours must confer an evolutionary advantage. The strictly materialist view -- that we're an experiment animal protein has been doing on itself -- is far too harsh and lonely for most, and leads to nihilism. That being the case, we need to push popular sentiment in a biosphere-friendly direction by pointing out the hazards of annoying God by a violation of His trust in our stewardship."
"What you mean is, with God in the story there's a penalty," said Toby.
"Yes," said Adam One. "There's a penalty without God in the story too, needless to say. But people are less likely to credit that. If there's a penalty, they want a penalizer. They dislike senseless catastrophe."