A History Maker (12 page)

She said, “Do you know me now?”

He stared. Under the cosmetics (smudged now) of her archaic sexual mask he saw a young, very boyish face regard him alertly. He shook his head. She sighed and said, “I thought I was famous but of course you don't use public eyes.”

He was too near to see her long body, slender waist, big breasts, but he felt them and was so disconcerted by her intense gaze (one blue eye, one brown) that he tried to lose it by again kissing and embracing but, “That's all for now,” she said sitting upright, “Short brutish sex is the only sort revolutionaries have time for. When the present state withers away nobody will have time for the other sort either. A drink.” Sitting cross-legged on the pillows she lifted a box from under one and took out a bottle of champagne and a glass. She said, “You still prohibit yourself alcohol?”

“Aye.”

“Drink this.”

She handed him a thermos flask which proved to contain scalding black coffee. He poured a cupful into the cap and let it cool, watching her closely and puzzling over what she had said about sex. Was she mad? She astonished him by how easily and quickly she fired the champagne cork out through the low doorway, and caught a fuming jet of liquor in the glass, and sipped it while putting the bottle back in the box and taking out a cigarette case. Nan's domestic actions had the same deft composure but not this alarming speed. He felt a thrumming in his blood, an expansion of breathing which were his usual reactions to danger. With relief he decided that his bodily chemistry was making him as alert as she. He was careful not to change his expression. He decided to say little and listen hard, yet she sat watching him and smiling at him and sipping champagne in such perfect silence that he was the first to speak.

“What's your name?”

“Puddock if you like me, Delilah if I'm a ball-breaker. Smoke one of these Hawaii Gold. It will clear your head and ease you into the plot.” She spoke with the left side of her mouth while putting a lighter to a couple of
slim brown tubes in the right. When he refused she unhesitatingly chucked one out through the entrance while inhaling the other, then sipped from the glass and in a voice that slid through several accents said, “Achtung Liebling! This is the situation. Many in the public eye are bored frantic by broadcasting the same old war games. The viewing public are also bored — that is why chieftains like your father have been bidding for attention by squandering more and more lives. The warriors too are bored. I won't remind you how, in a young girl's arms, you prayed for homes to be bombed and women to be mutilated. I'll repeat something said by a general of the old school six days ago.”

She touched her wristcom and a moment later Wat heard Shafto say, “People are tired of the old strategies. In a month or three you and me should put our heads together and see if we can work out other new strategies — within the Geneva Conventions of course.”

“Fuck the Global and Interplanetary Council for War Regulation Sitting in Geneva!” said the woman with startling violence, “For ten thousand years of civilization mankind put its most creative energies into warfare, breaking old rules and inventing new ones every century, killing greater and greater multitudes in a
crescendo of holocausts which kept pace with the enormous expansion of humanity. The world leaders called it
progress
of course, though they usually found it wiser to pretend that warfare was a temporary part of it. The wisest knew it was an essential part. Why purse your lips? Do you think me a monster?”

“I think you're a clown,” said Wat, shrugging,

“That civilized way of living and fighting nearly wrecked the planet.”

“I agree,” she said, refilling her glass, “That the twentieth and twenty-first centuries played games that nearly destroyed everything animal but the cockroaches. Yes, a peaceful century of fighting-by-rule was needed to restore human resources. The eighteenth century was a bit like ours. European rulers feared the chaotic wars of an earlier age so their armies only fought at frontiers. Polite people toured each other's nations, visited each other's homes whether their governments were warring or not. Those Europeans thought they were safer than the Imperial Romans, but boom! 1789! The French Revolution! A new age of warfare started which spread competing nations to every part of the globe. The biggest nation of all, the Chinese, tried to keep out of that rat race so the cocky wee Europeans and Yanks pulled it apart.
Our
rational Utopia is about to
go boom and fall apart too and you, Wat Dryhope, are the virus of the plague which is going to destabilize it. Prost, skol and slainte you world-fucker. I'll soon want more of you.” “You foul-mouthed big blethering nonsense!” said Wat, amused. She smiled unpleasantly and said, “If you used the public eye you would know that what happened in Ettrick yesterday is happening now on the sunny side of the globe. In the Americas and Asias scholars, gurus, gardeners and artists are crowding to their Warrior houses. Armies are doubling and trebling. The world's great new war hero, Wat Dryhope, came to soldiering late in life, why should every man not do it? Your coffee's getting cold.”

Wat, thinking hard, sipped it then said, “That's no sign of instability! It just shows how widespread male boredom is. The commanders will cope by conferring with Geneva and devising new rules for bigger war games. A lot more men will die, of course, but even if three quarters of male humanity slaughter each other it won't destroy the modern state. The modern state depends on women minding their houses.”

“Have you forgotten that I am a woman? I am also an agent of the Shigalyovite Revolution.” “You are an eloquent, erudite liar, Delilah
Puddock,” said Wat, chuckling, “Tell me about Shigalyovism.”

“You are a man I will enjoy humiliating, Wat Dryhope,” said the woman dreamily inhaling her cigarette yet still watching him closely, “Shigalyov was a Russian who loved freedom and plotted against the Czar. He proved by algebra that freedom can only be fully enjoyed in a world where one tenth of the people are given unrestricted powers over the remaining nine tenths.”

“The poor man must have been so obsessed with Czardom that Russian Communism was the only alternative he could imagine,” said Wat, screwing the empty cap back on the flask,

“Will your conspiracy bring back that?”

“O no, Russian Communism was dull and inefficient. We will recreate the system which overpowered it,
the competitive exploitation
of human resources.
”

“Are human resources people?”

“Of course, but when exploiting people it is best to think them a passive substance like oil or earth.”

“You havenae said a word of practical sense,” said Wat, suddenly noticing he was no longer alert. His thoughts, his words also were coming ponderously: “You can only exploit folk … who depend on you for essential things like
… food or ways of getting it … Landlords and merchants used to do that by removing food from folk who produced it … You could then deal it out to them in such wee amounts that … that poor folk grew too weak to grab it for themselves, especially when you employed a well-paid police force … Then … then the producers would lick your boots and c … cut each other's throats hoping you'll give them enough to let their w … wea … WEANS STAY ALIVE WHY'RE YE NODN AN GIGGLIN?”

Sweating and trembling he fell back on the pillows. She flung cigarette and glass out onto the path (he heard it smash) and knelt upright across his thighs.

“You really do understand political economy,” she said, putting her hands beneath her breasts, lifting them and smiling down on him between. “That's all past,” he whispered, appalled to feel his penis swell, erect, yearn up to her while the rest of him helplessly shivered. She said, “Time for more, my wee Sssscottish Ressssource.”

Caressing her nipples slowly with her thumbs she crooned, “
The bright old day now dawns
again, the cry goes through the land, in
England there shall be dear bread — in
Ireland, sword and brand; and poverty, and
ignorance, shall swell the rich and grand,
so rally round the rulers with the gentle iron
hand, of the fine old English Tory days; hail
to the coming time!
Spurs on the dinnerplates! Guns before butter! If you had shared my champers and pot you would be enjoying this but the doctored coffee won't sssspoil my pleasure Ssssamson.”

Grabbing his hair with both hands she eased herself down on him whispering, “
George
Orwell said the future of humanity would be
a jackboot continually stamping on a face.
He was wrong. It's gonna be me continually
fucking your brains out.
”

Wat obstinately closed his eyes. She opened them with her thumbs. He deliberately emptied his mind of thoughts and lost consciousness after some helpless, shameful intervals of pain and pleasure and wakened still helpless and shivering but on his feet. He was upright because his arm was over the shoulder of a robust presence who also grasped him round the waist. There was a big brown animal nearby. Some pale blobs before him were probably faces.

“Careful, Colonel Dryhope! Take it easy sir!” said Jenny's voice.

He was on the shore of Saint Mary's Loch on a cold grey morning with sharp aches in his head and testicles and muscles. Jenny was supporting him. Nearby his father's horse, Bucephalus, stood on the path under the trees, sniffing among pebbles at broken glass and a crushed cigarette. Women from Bowerhope were in front of him. Myoo laid her hand tenderly on his shoulder and said sadly, “Oh Wattie lad, you look awfy sick.”

“How came your clothes in that fankle?” asked Myow beside her and Wat noticed his clothes felt dirty and ill-fitting. He realized Delilah Puddock must have put them on him while he lay unconscious and before she removed the tent. This provoked two feelings he knew to be insane: gratitude so maudlin that it brought tears to his eyes; a sadistic lust to punish her so urgent that it made his testicles ache worse than ever. He groaned and said, “I'm sick, aye, but don't ask what happened. I need Kittock.”

“There are many messages for you at the Warrior house Colonel.”

“Send them to Dryhope but first help me onto this bloody big horse.”

H
E DISMOUNTED on Dryhope common, stabled Bucephalus and went through the garden without seeing a soul. He was thankful but puzzled, then realized that if Bowerhope had warned the Dryhope mother of his filthy and disordered appearance she would certainly have organized a party or expedition to move the children where they would not see him. She had also made the walls of the house opaque except for a line of clear portholes under the eaves. As he approached the veranda she was waiting for him there and said sternly, “What hit ye? Have ye been pioneering in the woods? Is this the result of alfresco fucking?”

“Aye, but not how ye think. Where are the bairns?”

“Off to watch the circus being pitched on the hills round Selkirk. The aunts and a few grannies have gone with them.”

Standing on the path beneath her he said, “I'm coming no nearer till nurses have seen me. Mibby I'm infected with something.”

“Aye? Well, they're waiting for you.”

He walked round the path to the infirmary door. It was ajar. He mounted the veranda and entered.

Two nieces, a sister and a cousin swiftly undressed him and were shocked by the sight of his body. They said, “Naebody in Ettrick makes love like that!” and, “Were you playing soldiers with a queer man, Wat?”

“No.”

“Was it a gangrel lass?”

“No.”

“Was it a circus woman?”

“Mibby. She said she was famous but I didnae ken her. Be quick with this.”

One cleaned his body and put lotions on the wounds. The others took samples of his breath, blood, lymph, urine and (by an exertion which almost had him screaming) semen. They analyzed the samples and keyed the results into the network while he was shaved and massaged by hands which expertly avoided the bites and
bruises. One told him, “Your brother Joe is a lot cheerier. Annie Craig Douglas visited him last night. She's still with him.”

“Good.”

“She says her mother sent her — Nan, ye ken? — but I think Annie would like to see you.”

“I'll see naebody till I've seen Kittock.”

“You can see her as soon as you've dressed and had your medicine,” said another handing him a diagnostic printout.

It said Wat Dryhope's excellent constitution had been exhausted by at least nine days of intense muscular and nervous exertion, by opiate overdose from a cocktail of caffeine-lavoured chloroform water plus heroin plus alcohol plus cocaine plus L-dopa aphrodisiac, also by a common and harmless throat infection which only afflicted the exhausted. For the exhaustion it prescribed a fortnight of mild activity, sauna baths and massage; for the narcotic poisoning, detoxification with naloxone and total avoidance of all stimulants including caffeine; for the throat infection, a syrup of squill liquid extract and capsicum tincture, one spoonful after meals. A nurse went to order these medicines from the powerplant. In a puzzled way Wat re-read the diagnosis.

“A few hours ago I was in the worst fever of my life,” he said, frowning, “My heart was hammering and the sweat lashing off me, but I don't remember coughing. Are ye
sure
I've just a throat infection?”

“No, Wat, we're too ignorant, but the network is sure. The network has records of every virus that ever mutated naturally, along with those invented by murderous governments and business corporations in the bad old days. It knows all viruses that have evolved on the satellites and the planets, all viral mutations which could possibly happen in the last three weeks and next ten days. You're
safe
, Wattie. Your fever was a sober body's healthy reaction to bad drugs in your coffee. I hope you gave the bitch as good as you got.”

“Here's a
billet doux
from her!” cried one of his nieces triumphantly, returning from Wat's room with clean clothing and a rainbow-coloured ticket which she waved above her head, “I found this and a book about shaking the world while emptying his dirty pockets. It's for tonight's circus and on the back it says — ”

“Gie's it!” yelled Wat so fiercely that she stuck out her tongue at him, threw the clothes into his lap, dropped the ticket on top. He lifted it and read with the other nurses peering over and round his shoulders.

Cher Liebling!
I will never forget the maddening
sweetness of your caresses. Dressed in flame
tonight I will again be yr
slave after the
big show.
D.P.

Someone asked him what the initials meant and he said they wouldnae believe him if he told. He spoke absent-mindedly because the words on the card filled him with a murderous desire for Delilah Puddock. Someone asked if she was a circus artist, a gopher or a camp follower. He cried, “I've telt ye I don't ken a thing about her! I just ken that I'm going to — ”

Their startled faces silenced him. He saw his hands clutching the air before him as though throttling a neck.

“Lassies,” he said plaintively, “I'm hungry. My wame thinks my throat's cut.”

They brought him powsoudie, drummock, kebbuck and farle. He ate it and dressed.

Kittock had no modern intelligence communicators so he went through the garden to the old tower near the duck pond. The smoke of her oven trickled up through bushes on the ruined top. She was not in the goose field or poultry runs and as usual (he thought with a
smile) the tower door was locked against him. She might be entertaining a gangrel. On a scrap of paper he wrote, “Wat is home, mother, and badly needs you,” slipped it under the door, returned to the house, and entering his room suddenly saw it was too small for a grown man. When he had returned from the stars, and found it kept for him, and realized the women had foreseen he would return, he had been so grateful that he had refused offers of a bigger room. The only change since infancy was a bed which now covered half the floor, also a new telecom with commander facilities — the mother must have ordered and installed it as soon as she heard of his colonelization. The screen showed names of many who wished to speak with him but none was Delilah Puddock. A thick sheaf of pink, blue and violet printed sheets had issued from it. He could not face them so made the outer wall transparent and was soothed a little by the familiar view: a garden with a tower holding the wisest person he knew, the loch and hills beyond the tower
under a cloudy April sky which was brightening to a fine afternoon. With a faint cough the telecom spat a rainbow-coloured message onto the sheaf. Its print was too eye-catching to be ignored. 

Impatiently Wat scanned the print for the name of a living woman and saw Alauda Magna was Choral Synthesizer, Cathleen na Houlihaun
was Cloud Choreographer and the mirages had been designed by Lulu Dancy. Under these was a guest list of over three hundred commanders and famous fighters from all round the globe. Lust for Delilah Puddock, the honour of his clan, personal vanity now pulled him so strongly toward the circus that he instinctively knew it would be wrong to go. Welcoming escorts, loud cheering, handshakes with other celebrities would inevitably turn him into a posturing, smirking ornament — into a something used for other people's benefit. To find why he had been called
Instigator of the
New Era
he switched his telecom to the public eye.

Several housewives, one weeping, said the mobilization epidemic infecting most of the world's males was a crazy and dangerous fad. An equal number of young women were shown who expressed pride that their brothers or lovers would face death for the glory of their clan.

“Like the crowds of men swarming to their local Warrior houses, most people in the public eye are responding euphorically,” said a public eye announcer euphorically, “Commanders everywhere predict a new age of more challenging war games played on a scale of
almost historical proportions. They also insist that this is no cause for alarm. The Geneva Conventions will not be contravened though war game rules may have to be redrawn.”

Wat was alarmed by how many people said there was no cause for alarm. He watched Wolfgang Hochgeist with a globe of the world showing the spread of the epidemic from its origin in Ettrick. The least infected areas were Tibet, Ireland, Switzerland, Scandinavia and Italy. Most of the worst infected had military histories. In Japanese, German and French speaking lands the armies trebled, in the British Isles and North America they more than quadrupled. The big surprise was Canada, where fighting men had multiplied by six. Hochgeist daringly suggested that the Japanese, German and French had been slightly inoculated against militarism by historical recollections of disaster; Britain and the former U.S.A. were more prone to it because of former victories; Canada was worst infected because as a historical nation it had a less secure identity for which it was now compensating.

“The persistence and evolution of national military attitudes through generations for whom nationality has not been operational is interesting but not alarming,” said Hochgeist,

“Since soldiers will not be fighting to enrich
their homes future warfare will remain unpolitical.”

Wat switched to another channel and found an amicable discussion between Hinchinbrook, commander of the East Anglian Alliance, and Winesburg, North America's most popular fighter since Stormin' Norman. The alert and boyish Englishman was obviously talking hard to impress the famous veteran.

“The primitive armies of yesterday — and I mean
precisely
the yesterday of twenty-four hours ago — were single regiments. This wonderful new influx means every general must divide his force into three, four, five new regiments, so we will require a whole new hierarchy of command.”

“Or an
old
hierarchy of command?” said Winesburg, smiling.

“Of course! How clever of you to notice. Yes, we will have to bring back the highly unpopular sergeant major.”

“And commanding officers will lead less risky lives, if you don't mind a battle-scarred old veteran saying so.”

“Quite right! More brain work, less cut and thrust.”

“What do you think now of the global and interplanetary referendum called by Geneva,
General Hinchinbrook?”

“What do
you
think of it General Winesburg?”

“Out of date?”

“Utterly out of date. I don't mind keeping the Boys' Brigades in reserve because with these thousands of other lives to play with we don't need them. But it's absurd to confine battles of the scale we now anticipate to two days! Why not a fortnight? Plenty of room to manoeuvre in that. And this fuss about
standards
also seems outmoded. What the world's armies now need — and what our families viewing us from home deserve — is a more inspiring object to struggle for. Last week a great Scottish soldier called his standard
a pole with a tin chicken on top
. I was shocked, I confess. I now see he had the right idea.”