The Year of the Flood by Margaret Atwood
"What did they look like?" says Toby. "Did they have any ..." She wants to say "distinguishing marks," but Ren shakes her head, meaning that that subject is closed. "I have to find Amanda," she says, wiping away tears. "I really have to. They'll kill her."
"Here, blow your nose," says Toby, handing her a pink washcloth. "Amanda's very clever." It's best to talk as if Amanda is still alive. "She's very resourceful. She'll be all right." She's about to say that women are in short supply and therefore Amanda will surely be preserved and rationed, but she thinks better of it.
"You don't understand," says Ren, crying harder. "There's three of them, they're Painball -- they're not really human. I have to find her."
"We'll look," Toby says, to be soothing. "But we don't know where they -- where she's gone."
"Where would you go?" says Ren. "If you were them?"
"Maybe east," says Toby. "To the sea. Where they could fish."
"We can go there."
"When you're strong enough," says Toby. They have to move somewhere else anyway: the food supply's shrinking fast.
"I'm strong enough now," says Ren.
Toby scours the garden, unearths one more lone onion. She digs up three burdocks from the near edge of the meadow, and some Queen Anne's lace -- the spindly white proto-carrot roots. "Do you think you could eat a rabbit?" she asks Ren. "If I cut it up very small and make it into soup?"
"I guess so," said Ren. "I'll try."
Toby's almost ready for the switch to full-blown carnivore herself. There's the sound of the rifle shot to worry about, but if there are still Painballers lurking in the forest they already know she has a gun. No harm in reminding them.
There are often green rabbits near the swimming pool. Toby shoots at one of them from the rooftop, but she can't seem to hit it. Is conscience twisting her aim? Maybe she needs a bigger target, a deer or a dog. She hasn't sen the pigs lately, or any of the sheep. Just as she was getting all set to eat them, they're gone.
She locates the packsacks on a laundry-room shelf. She hasn't been down there since the pumps stopped working, and the air's thick with mildew. Luckily the packsacks aren't cotton but impenetrable synthetic. She takes them up to the roof, sponges them off, leaves them in the hot sun to dry.
She lays out her available supplies on the kitchen counter. Don't carry so much weight that you burn more calories than you can eat, says the voice of Zeb. Tools are more important than food. Your best tool is your brain.
The rifle, of course. Ammunition. Trowel, for digging roots. Matches. Barbecue lighter, which won't last long but it might as well be used up. Pocket knife with scissors and tweezers. Rope. Two sheets of plastic, handy in rain. Windup flashlight. Gauze bandages. Duct tape. Plastic snap-top containers. Cloth bags for wild edibles. Cooking pot. The Kelly kettle. Toilet paper -- a luxury item, but she can't resist. Two medium-sized Zizzy Froots from a Spa minibar, raspberry flavour: junk food, but food, since it has calories in it. The bottles can be used later, for water.
Spoons, metal, two; cups, plastic, two. The remaining sunblock. The last SuperD bug spray. Binoculars: heavy but necessary. The mop handle. Sugar. Salt. The last of the honey. The last Joltbars. The last soybits.
The syrup of Poppy. The dried mushrooms. The Death Angels.
The day before they leave, she cuts her hair short. It's a shorn look -- it reminds her of Joan of Arc on a bad day -- but she doesn't want a hair handle growing out of her head, all the better to grab you by and slash your throat. She cuts Ren's hair as well. They'll be cooler that way, she tells her.
"We should bury the hair," says Ren. She wants it out of sight for some reason Toby can't fathom.
"Why don't we put it on the roof?" says Toby. "That way the birds can make nests out of it." She doesn't intend to waste her body's calories digging a hair burial site.
"Oh. Okay," says Ren. This idea seems to please her.
67
TOBY. SAINT CHICO MENDES, MARTYR
YEAR TWENTY-FIVE
They leave the Spa building just before dawn. They're dressed in pink cotton exercise outfits, the loose pants and the T-shirt top with the kissy mouth and the winky eye on the front. Pink canvas sport shoes, of the kind the ladies wore to do their rope skipping and weight training. Broad pink hats. They smell of SuperD, and of rancid SolarNix. In their packsacks are their pink top-to-toes, for when the sun gets too high. If only everything weren't so pink, thinks Toby -- like baby clothes or girly birthday parties. Not an adventurous colour. Terrible choice for camouflage.
She knows the situation is grave, as the news used to say -- of course it is. But nonetheless she feels cheerful, almost giggly. As if she's a little drunk. As if they're just going on a picnic. It must be a surge of adrenalin.
The eastern horizon is brightening; mist rises from the trees. Dew shimmers on the lumirose bushes, mirroring the faint eerie light of their flowers. The sweetness of the damp meadow breathes all around them. The birds are beginning to stir and chirp; the vultures on the bare branches are spreading their wings to dry. A peagret flaps towards them from the south, sails over the meadow, then swoops in for a landing on the edge of the green-scummed swimming pool.
It occurs to Toby that she may never see this vista again. Amazing how the heart clutches at anything familiar, whimpering, Mine! Mine! Did she enjoy her enforced stay in the AnooYoo Spa? No. But it's her home territory now: she's left her skin flakes all over it. A mouse would understand: it's her nest. Farewell is the song Time sings, Adam One used to say.
Somewhere dogs are barking. She's heard them at intervals over the past months, but today they sound closer. She doesn't much like this. With nobody to feed them, any dogs left by now are sure to have turned wild.
She'd climbed up to the rooftop before they left, scanned the fields. No pigs, no Mo'Hairs, no liobams. Or none in plain view. How little I've ever been able to see, she thinks. The meadow, the driveway, the swimming pool, the garden. The edge of the forest. She'd like to avoid going in there, among the trees. Nature may be dumb as a sack of hammers, Zeb used to say, but it's smarter than you.
Look, she thinks at the forest, with its hidden pigs and liobams. And Painballers too, for all she knows. Don't push me. I may be pink, but I've got a rifle. Bullets too. Longer range than a spraygun. So back off, assholes.
The Spa grounds and its woodland perimeter are separated from the surrounding Heritage Park by a chain-link fence topped with electrified barbed wire, though the electricity won't be functional now. Four gates, east, west, north, and south, with winding driveways connecting them. It's Toby's plan to spend the night at the eastern gatehouse. That's not too far for Ren to walk: she's still not strong enough for heroic trekking. The next morning they can begin to make their way gradually towards the sea.
Ren still believes they'll find Amanda. They'll find her, and Toby will shoot the Gold Painballers with her rifle, and then Shackleton and Crozier and Oates will reappear from wherever they've been hiding. Ren's not yet free of the effects of her illness. She wants Toby to fix and cure everything, as if she herself were still a child; as if Toby were still Eve Six, with magic adult powers.
They pass the crashed pink minivan and, around a curve in the road, two other vehicles -- a solarcar, a jeep-sized garboil guzzler. Judging from the blackened wreckage, both must have burned. There's a rusty, sweetish odour mixed in with the charred smell.
"Don't look inside," Toby tells Ren as they walk past.
"It's okay," Ren says. "I saw a lot of stuff like that in the pleebs, when we were coming here from Scales."
Farther along there's a dog -- a spaniel, recently dead. Something's torn it open; there's a scribble of entrails, a buzzing of flies, but no vultures yet. Whatever it was will surely return to its kill: predators don't waste. Toby eyes the roadside bushes: the vines are growing almost audibly, shutting out sight. What a lot of kudzu. "We should walk faster," she says.
But Ren can't walk faster. She's tired, her packsack's too heavy. "I think I'
"Let's see your blister," she says to Ren. It's not a blister yet. She tears a strip off her top-to-toe, winds it around Ren's foot. The sun's at ten. They put on their top-to-toes and Toby smears their faces with more SolarNix, then sprays them again with SuperD.
Ren begins to limp before they've reached the next curve in the road.
"We'll cut across the meadow," says Toby. "It's shorter that way."
SAINT RACHEL AND ALL BIRDS
SAINT RACHEL AND ALL BIRDS
YEAR TWENTY-FIVE.
OF THE GIFTS OF SAINT RACHEL; AND OF THE FREEDOM OF THE SPIRIT. SPOKEN BY ADAM ONE.
Dear Friends, dear Fellow Creatures and Fellow Mortals:
What a cause for rejoicing is this rearranged world in which we find ourselves! True, there is a certain -- let us not say disappointment. The debris left by the Waterless Flood, like that left by any receding flood, is not attractive. It will take time for our longed-for Eden to appear, my Friends.
But how privileged we are to witness these first precious moments of Rebirth! How much clearer the air is, now that man-made pollution has ceased! This freshly cleansed air is to our lungs as the air up there in the clouds is to the lungs of Birds. How light, how ethereal they must feel as they soar above the trees! For many ages, Birds have been linked to the freedom of the Spirit, as opposed to the heavy burden of Matter. Does not the Dove symbolize Grace, the all-forgiving, the all-accepting?
It is in the spirit of that Spirit of grace that we welcome among us three fellow Mortal companions on our journey -- Melinda, Darren, and Quill. They have miraculously escaped the Waterless Flood by having been providentially sequestered: Melinda in a hilltop yoga and weight-loss establishment, Darren in a hospital isolation ward, and Quill in a place of solitary incarceration. We rejoice that these three appear not to have been exposed to viral contamination. Although not of our Faith -- or not still of our Faith in the case of Quill and Melinda -- they are our fellow Creatures; and we are happy to aid them at this common time of trial.
We are grateful also for this temporary abode, which, though it is a former Happicuppa franchise, has sheltered us from the grilling sun and the gruelling storm. Thanks to the skills of Stuart -- in especial, his acquaintance with chisels -- we have gained entrance to the storeroom, thereby procuring access to much Happicuppa product: the dried milk substitute, the vanilla-flavoured syrup, the moccachino mix, and the single-serving packets of sugar, both raw and white. You all know my view of refined sugar products, but there are times when the rules must bend. Thank you to Nuala, our indomitable Eve Nine, for the skill with which she has whipped up a sustaining brew for our refreshment.
We remember on this Day that the Happicuppa Corp was in direct contravention to the Spirit of Saint Rachel. Its sun-grown, pesticide-sprayed, rainforest-habitat-destroying coffee products were the biggest threat to God's feathered Creatures in our times, just as DDT was the biggest threat to them in the times of Saint Rachel Carson. It was in the Spirit of Saint Rachel that some of our more radical former members joined the militant campaign against Happicuppa. Other groups were protesting its treatment of indigenous workers, but those ex-Gardeners were protesting its anti-Bird policies. Although we could not condone the violent methods, we did endorse the intention.
Saint Rachel dedicated her life to the Feathered Ones, and thus to the welfare of the entire Planet -- for as the Birds sickened and died out, did this not indicate the growing illness of Life itself? Imagine God's sorrow as he viewed the distress of His most exquisite and tuneful feathered Creations!
Saint Rachel was attacked by the powerful chemical corps of her day, and scorned and pilloried for her truth-telling, but her campaign did at last prevail. Sadly, the anti-Happicuppa campaign did not meet with equal success, but that problem has now been solved by a greater power: Happicuppa has not survived the Waterless Flood. As the Human Words of God put it, in Isaiah 34, "From generation to generation it shall lie waste.... But the Cormorant and the Bittern shall possess it.... There shall the great Owl make her nest, and lay, and hatch, and gather under her shadow; there shall the Vultures also be gathered, every one with her mate."
And so it has come to pass. Even now, my Friends, the rainforest must be regenerating!
Let us sing.
WHEN GOD SHALL HIS BRIGHT WINGS UNFOLD
When God shall His bright wings unfold
And fly from Heaven's blue,
He first will as a Dove appear
Of pure and sparkling hue.
Then next the Raven's form He'll take,
To show there's beauty too
In any Bird that He did make,
The oldest and the new.
He'll sail with Swans, with Hawks He'll glide,
With Cockatoo and Owl,
The chorus of the dawn He'll sing,
He'll dive with Waterfowl.
As Vulture He will next appear,
The Holy Bird of yore,
Who Death does eat, corruption too,
And thus does Life restore.
Under His wings we'll sheltered be:
From fowler's nets He'll save;
His Eye will note the Sparrow's fall,
And mark the Eagle's grave.
For those who Avian blood do shed
In idle sport and play
Are murderers of God's Holy Peace
That blessed the Seventh Day.
From The God's Gardeners Oral Hymnbook
68
REN. SAINT CHICO MENDES, MARTYR
YEAR TWENTY-FIVE
We walk through the shimmering meadow. There's a humming like a thousand tiny vibrators; huge pink butterflies float all around. The clover scent is very strong. Toby probes in front of her with her mop handle. I try to pay attention to where I'm putting my feet, but the ground is lumpy and I trip, and when I look down it's a boot. Beetles scurry out.
There's some animals up ahead. They weren't there a minute ago. I wonder if they were lying down in the grass and then stood up. I hang back, but Toby says, "It's okay, they're just Mo'Hairs."
I've never seen a live one before, only online. They stand there looking at us with their jaws moving sideways. "Would they let me pat them?" I say. They're blue and pink and silver and purple; they look like candy, or sunny-day clouds. So cheerful and peaceful.
"I doubt it," says Toby. "We need to walk faster."
"They're not afraid of us," I say.
"They should be," says Toby. "Come on. Let's go."
The Mo'Hairs watch us. When we're closer to them, they turn in a group and move slowly away.
At first Toby says we're going to the eastern gatehouse. Then after we walk for a while on the paved road, she says it's farther than she thought. I start to feel dizzy because it's so hot, especially inside the top-to-toe, so Toby says we'll head for the trees at the far side of the meadow because it will be cooler in there. I don't like the trees, it's too dark in there, but I know we can't stay out in the meadow.
It is shadier under the trees, but not cooler. It's dank, and there's no breeze, and the air is thick, as if it has more air stuffed into it than other air does. But at least we're out of the sun, so we take off our top-to-toes and walk along the pathway. There's that rich deep smell of rotting wood, the mushroomy smell I remember from the Gardeners, when we'd go to the Park for Saint Euell's. The vines have been moving in over the gravel, but a lot of the branches are broken back and stepped on, and Toby says that someone else has come this way; not today though, because the leaves have wilted.
There's crows up ahead, making a racket.
We come to a stream, with a little bridge. The water's rippling over stones, and I can see minnows in it. On the far bank there are signs of digging. Toby stands still, turns h
The Gardeners taught that you should never drink right from a stream, especially one near a city: you should make a hole beside it, so the water would be filtered at least a little. Toby has an empty bottle, the one we've been drinking from. She fills it from the water hole so only the top layer of water runs into the bottle: she doesn't want any drowned worms.
Up ahead, off in a small clearing, there's a patch of mushrooms. Toby says they're Sweet Tooth -- hydnum repandum -- and they used to be a fall variety, when we still had fall. We pick them, and Toby puts them into one of the cloth bags she's brought, and hangs the bag outside her pack so the mushrooms won't get squashed. Then we continue on.
We smell the thing before we see it. "Don't scream," says Toby.
This is what the crows have been cawing about. "Oh no," I whisper.
It's Oates. He's hanging from a tree, twisting slowly. The rope is passed under his arms and knotted at the back. He doesn't have any clothes on except for his socks and shoes. This makes it worse, because he's less like a statue that way. His head is thrown back, too far because his throat has been cut; crows flap around his head, scrabbling for footholds. His blond hair's all matted. There's a gaping wound in his back, like those on the bodies they used to dump in vacant lots after a kidney theft. But these kidneys wouldn't have been stolen for transplants.
"Somebody has a very sharp knife," says Toby.
I'm crying now. "They killed little Oatie," I say. "I feel sick." I crumple down onto the ground. Right now I don't care if I die here: I don't want to be in a world where they'd do this to Oates. It's so unfair. I'm gulping air in huge gasps, crying so hard I can barely see.
Toby takes hold of my shoulders, and pulls me up, and shakes me. "Stop that," she says. "We don't have time for it. Now come on." She pushes me ahead of her along the path.