The Raft: A Novel (30 page)

Anubis was standing at the other end, gripping the rail and breathing deeply and dramatically.

I crossed the bridge and joined him.

“This view,” he said. “This view. Makes you just wanna break into song, doesn’t it?”

I leaned over the rail. The support beams of the deck vanished into the tangled canopy of trees below. Staring down onto the top of the jungle reminded me of my recurring dream: following the trail of a red shoe into that tree in the clouds …

“And to think,” he said, “all this is one big floating pile of shit. You know how many plastic bottles it takes to keep an island afloat? Millions of the bastards. And that beach sand, that soft sand right there …” He pointed and I looked up. “Millions of shards of finely shredded electronics, my friend.Yesterday’s must-haves. Computers, palm-plates, puh-puh-
plasma
TVs and tablets and Senso-sheeting and thinkscreens and smartphones—all the toys people
buh
-buh-bought and threw out and bought and threw out.

“But hey.” He shrugged. “Now it’s home. Home-sweet-home-on-a-mound-of-crap. And she may be one tempestuous bitch if you ever get your grubby paws down in her bush, but she floats just fine.”

A cold wind rushed over the deck. A set of hanging metal chimes jingled and an old-fashioned cockerel weather vane perched on a wooden post spun clockwise, then back again.

“That’s why we need to defend her,” he said.

“From what?”

“From them,” he added, and pointed into the distance. He was pointing at the smaller island I had seen the day I arrived. It was much closer now—only a kilometre or two from the beach, by my guess.

“I saw that from the beach,” I said. “Getting closer all the time. Are we going to them or are they coming to us?”

“They’re coming. They’re coming and they want this island.”

“Who are they?”

“Pirates.”

“Pirates
?”

“There are a number of these islands, Raft Man. People living off the map. Off the grid—I mean, if there still
was
a grid. But we’re out on the high seas now, Captain! And this is the prize. They’ll be here soon, probably by to-tomorrow. But boy, they’re gonna be in for a big surprise.
Nobody
gets very far up the jungle, and neither will they.”

“If they do?”

“If they do! If they do, well …” Anubis turned and smirked. “Let’s just say the surprises don’t stop at the plant life. But I can see you’re a man who understands what it means to pruh-pro
tect
the thing you love, don’t you? You know what a man has to do to stake his claim, to fight and defend the thing he values most. I mean, helping that woman escape the island, that must have taken a couple of cuh-cuh-
cannon
balls, am I right? But you did what you had to. Just like we will.”

He slapped my shoulder. “But we’ve got time before the show. And you should see my brother. I insist. Go down to the cabin and hear what he’s got to say. He’s a lot easier to understand these days—most days, anyway. He’ll welcome a visit. I’ve had lots less time to chat with him recently.”

“I see.”

“Take this.”

Anubis gave me a small plastic bag filled with sticks of dried meat. I didn’t understand the sense of urgency. My body was still recovering and I was in no mood for introductions. I wondered if I was being called on to pay some kind of debt for my accommodation.

“I’m still not feeling very well,” I began to excuse myself. “I’m not sure now is a good time.”

“I get it. But it’s worth it. You’ll wanna hear him out. Believe me.”

I looked back out to the approaching island, reluctantly agreed, and asked where his brother’s cabin was located.

“Down in the jungle. Not far from here. Take the st-stairs at the end of the deck. Follow the path until you reach a fork. At the fork, go right. You’ll see his cabin. Knock. Go in. It’s okay. He’s expecting you.”

“Expecting me?”

“I mentioned you and he said he knows you,” Anubis said. “How’s that for a strange twist of fate? He saw you talking to Moneta. He remembers you sitting there and drinking tea while she told you her story. You had no idea what you were guh-guh-
getting
yourself into, did you? It was all over your face. He said that too. You didn’t realise you’d been selected for something more than moving a few pots around. So whaddya know, Raft Man, you washed up here for some reason after all.”

Anubis said I should leave before the sun rose any higher. He assured me it would take no longer than two or three minutes to get there. I wouldn’t have to contend with killer vines and malicious plant life either. Those flesh-eating plants were making their way to the top of the hill—that was a fact, according to Anubis—and getting closer every day, but they were not near enough to present any immediate threat. One day, they would. One day they’d grow up the hill and weave through the windows and doors of the house, drawn by hot human blood. But that could take months—or years, even; he didn’t know. He made it sound inevitable, and, bizarrely, as if he was open to the idea—of being suffocated in his sleep by a creeper and then promptly consumed. Almost as if it would be an honour.

But for now, the route between the deck and the cabin was a manageable one. I wasn’t certain whether he could be believed, but I also refused to accept that I might be trapped in that house. If I didn’t have the courage to walk at least a few paces, I wouldn’t have the courage to go anywhere at all.

He gave me the directions and I walked past him to the stairs. The stairs descended into the trees and finally rested on uneven ground, webbed by the thick, exposed roots of the jungle trees. I glanced back at Anubis standing on the deck. He was eyeing the approaching island the way a vulture eyes a crawling, starving animal.

The jungle was dark, nearly all light blocked out by the foliage. I made my way through the thick trees and over puddles of stagnant water. I ventured deeper into the jungle until I was surrounded by a wall of wet, densely green plant life. A soft breeze whistled through the jungle as if each leaf was the string of a large musical instrument.

I could no longer see the stairs behind me, but I followed the directions Anubis had given me. I reached the fork and turned right, but after ten minutes of walking I feared I had taken a wrong turn somewhere.

I was lost.

I circled back and tried another route, but couldn’t recognise the twisted and tortuous space behind me. The ground held none of my tracks. I should have left markers—coloured rags, stones, a trail of breadcrumbs. I wiped my forehead and looked up, but the weak light straining through the leaves did nothing to help.

And then, as if it had been slipped into the jungle while my back was turned, the cabin was suddenly there—tucked between the trees, hidden by the green blanket that snaked over its walls and its rooftop. It was a wooden cabin with a flat roof and a yellow paint-flaked door, greenery woven into the neat logs of its walls. A single square window sat beside the door, and beyond that the house was filled with darkness so thick that if I were to open that yellow door, I imagined it would spill like a crude oil—spill out and drown everything.

I walked to the door and knocked. The door was hollow and rickety, sagging loose from its hinges. On the third knock it creaked gently open.

Still, there was no sound.

“Hello?”

I stepped inside. The floor and walls had been painted black. This wasn’t just darkness. It was blackness. A place not simply devoid of light, but repellent of it.

I closed the door behind me and stood for a moment, hoping my eyes would adjust. They didn’t. My other senses took charge. There was a strong smell of mildew and wet wood. At first I thought the cabin was empty, but then I heard a slight shuffle and the soft huff of shallow breathing.

“I’ve brought you biltong,” I said. I heard something scuttle across the floor—a lizard, a large spider, or something else—and took a step back. Warily, I held out the biltong, and felt it get snatched from my grip. I felt nothing else: no touch of skin, no warmth of a body’s presence.

“I can chew a piece for ages,” a slow and wispy voice came from the dark. “Until I’ve gotten every last bit of flavour out of it. And then I spit it out—or swallow it.”

I heard him tear off a piece of biltong with his teeth, and then I heard him begin to chew, and I imagined him working his jaws, coating the hard meat with saliva. He crunched and snapped his way through the biltong. The grunt of his chewing slowly dwindled to a soft, wet mashing until finally there was the sound of noisy swallowing.

“I had a dream last night,” the whispery voice floated towards me. “Nothing special. I dream every night. But I’ll tell you anyway, since you’re here, and the memory of a dream only has the lifespan of the day that follows. Did you know that? After that it’s gone for good. You may remember the events of it two or three days later—sort of—but it’s almost impossible to relive it in your mind. So, if you’ll permit, I’ll pay my respects to last night’s dream before tonight comes by,
chew the flavour
out of it, so to speak.”

“Okay.”

The brother in darkness paused a moment and then spoke:

“I saw a thin naked man with a big beard dancing barefoot on a bed of hot coals. He had two big eyes and two rows of large white teeth, grinding into each other. I asked why he was dancing on those coals, and he said,
Dance. Dance like a drunken orangutan. But whatever you do, do not mistake the tolerance of your moving feet as a reason to stop … because you’ll burn, brother. You’ll scream and you’ll burn in the agony of your arrogance. And brother,
he says to me … he says,
brother, have these feet been
burned.”

There was pause. I didn’t think it was a joke, but it had ended with some kind of a punch line. A bit like a lit firecracker that hadn’t gone off. I waited for something to be added, but when nothing came, said, “I see.”

The darkness hung just as thick and I knew how powerless I was, sure he could see me with eyes that had grown accustomed to that blackness. I wanted to turn and leave, but I had to relax. I wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry, it seemed, and these were my dubious hosts.

“It doesn’t really have to be this dark, does it?” I asked. “Surely you can handle more light than this.”

“Yes. I probably can,” he whispered. “But who’s content to spend a life
tolerating
? At least this way I feel I’ve made a choice. If the light won’t have me, let the dark. It’s proven to be a far more giving medium, anyway. The light, you learn, is happier to whore itself.”

“Your brother said I should speak to you. He said you might have something to tell me.”

“In a minute. Tell
me
something first.”

“Like what?”

“When you’re in your darkness, what do
you
see?”

The wind had picked up outside, and I could hear it beating against the sides of the cabin.

“I don’t understand.”

“When the lights go out, what do you see?”

“I don’t know, less than I used to, I suppose,” I replied. “But there’s always my son. I see his face.”

“Andy.”

Anubis must have told him.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m looking for him.”

“And Andy’s been gone a long time.”

“Yes.”

“And you have no idea where he could be?”

“No.”

“That’s unfortunate for you,” the ghostly voice sighed. “An idea would help.”

There was a silence at that point, drawn out by the heavy darkness, as if it could last forever.

“Do
you
have an idea?” I asked, entertaining the notion that this man could somehow help me.

There was a faint patter of footsteps and I wondered if the twin was walking the floor in circles, tapping his finger on his chin. What else was in the room? Was it empty? Was there a bed, a toilet? A shelf of unreadable books and a vase of dead flowers? Could this place really be his home?

“I have a few,” he replied. “But ideas are funny things. They’re not trinkets. You can’t hold one in your hand or bottle it. They’re like atoms. Atoms are always moving, vibrating, giving an object the illusion of solidity, of forming a single object at all. But the truth is, they vibrate against every other atom in the universe. Ideas vibrate against each other too. To give an idea its due, you have to understand that one idea is connected to all the others. No one idea stands alone. So all I can give you … are some vibrating atoms of an idea. But to understand what it is I’m going to tell you, you’re going to need to see the bigger picture. I’m going to explore my options of explaining it to you and you’re going to explore your options of understanding. And there
are
options. An idea, after all, is not a simple thing.” He paused, then said: “Come back tomorrow. At the same time. I’ll tell you what I know, and maybe by tomorrow I’ll know a little more. In the meantime, you have to think long and hard about how much you’re willing to hear.

“And thank my brother for the biltong,” he added. “It’s our favourite, you know.”

The voice stopped. As did any sounds of movement.

I turned and felt for the front door. The light of day slipped into the room, but still, nothing was revealed. The darkness of the cabin ran deep within, and I could see no back wall—only a vast amount of empty space.

I left the cabin and walked back in a strange daze. I turned to get one last look at the little wooden structure with its lone occupant. The door of the cabin banged softly on its crude frame. The darkness hung densely behind the tiny window.

I walked slowly along the crooked path, to the point where the path had forked, finding my way to the stairs between the trunks of trees with unconscious ease.

I held the rail and ascended through the leaves, and stepped back on the wooden deck with the bright and sunny view.

Anubis was no longer there, but the weather vane spun on its post. The vines along the walls of the house shook their many pink and impatient lips. I looked out to the ocean. The island was even closer than before, its sliver of beach almost touching our own. I stood at the rail and watched it for a while. From where I was I could see no signs of anyone.