Year of the Flood: Novel (11 page)

20

New people kept arriving among the Gardeners. Some were genuine converts, but others didn’t stay long. They’d be there for a while, wearing the same baggy, concealing clothes as everyone else, working at the most menial tasks, and, if they were women, weeping from time to time. Then they’d be gone. They were shadow people, and Adam One was moving them around in the shadows. As he’d moved Toby herself.

This was guesswork: it hadn’t taken Toby long to realize that the Gardeners did not welcome personal questions. Where you’d come from, what you’d done before — all of that was irrelevant, their manner implied. Only the Now counted. Say about others as you would have them say about you. In other words, nothing.

There were a lot of things Toby remained curious about. For instance, had Nuala ever got laid, and if not, was that why she flirted so much? Where had Marushka Midwife learned her skills? What exactly had Adam One done before the Gardeners? Had there ever been an Eve One, or even a Mrs. Adam One, or any child Adam Ones? If she came too close to such territory Toby would be granted a smile and a change of subject, and a hint that she might try avoiding the original sin of desiring too much knowledge, or possibly too much power. Because the two were connected — didn’t dear Toby agree?

Then there was Zeb. Adam Seven. Toby didn’t believe Zeb was a true Gardener, any more than she was. She’d seen a lot of men of that general shape and hairiness during her SecretBurger days, and she’d bet that he had some game going; he had that kind of alertness. Now what was a man like that doing at the Edencliff Rooftop?

Zeb came and went; sometimes he’d vanish for days, and when he turned up again he might be wearing pleeblander clothes: solarbiker fleather gear, groundsman’s coveralls, bouncer black. At first she’d worried that he was a Blanco affiliate, come to spy her out, but no, it wasn’t that. Mad Adam, the kids nicknamed him, but he appeared sane enough. A little too sane to be hanging out with this clutch of sweet but delusional eccentrics. And what was the bond between him and Lucerne? Lucerne had pampered Compound wife written all over her: every time she broke a nail she went into a pout. She was an unlikely choice of partner for a man like Zeb — a bullet-spitter, he’d have been called in Toby’s childhood, back when bullets were common.

Though maybe it was the sex, Toby thought. A mirage of the flesh, a hormone-fuelled obsession. It happened to a lot of people. She could remember a time when she herself might have been part of such a story, given the right man, but the longer she stayed with the Gardeners, the more that time receded.

She’d had no sex recently, nor did she miss it: during her immersion in the Sewage Lagoon she’d had far too much sex, though not the kind anyone would want. Freedom from Blanco was worth a lot: she was lucky she hadn’t ended up fucked into a purée and battered to a pulp and poured out onto a vacant lot.

There had been one sex-linked incident at the Gardeners: old Mugi the Muscle had leapt on her when she was putting in an hour on one of the Run-For-Your-Light Treadmills in the former party room at the top of the Boulevard Condos. He’d pulled her off the treadmill and tussled her to the floor, then fallen heavily on top of her and groped under her denim skirt, wheezing like a faulty pump. But she was strong from all the soil-hauling and stair-climbing, and Mugi wasn’t as fit as he must have been once, and she’d dug her elbow into him and levered him off, and left him sprawled and gasping on the floor.

She’d told Pilar about it, as she now told her everything that puzzled her. “What should I do?” she said.

“We never make a fuss about such things,” said Pilar. “There’s no harm in Mugi really. He’s tried that on more than one of us — even me, some years ago.” She gave a dry little chuckle. “The ancient Australopithecus can come out in all of us. You must forgive him in your heart. He won’t do it again, you’ll see.”

So that was that, as far as sex went. Maybe it’s temporary, thought Toby. Maybe it’s like having your arm go to sleep. My neural connections for sex are blocked. But why don’t I care?

It was the afternoon of Saint Maria Sibylla Merian of Insect Metamorphosis Day, said to be a propitious time for working with bees. Toby and Pilar were extracting the honey. They had on their wide veiled hats; for the smoke they used a bellows, and a smudge of decaying wood.

“Your parents — are they living?” said Pilar, from behind her white veil.

Toby was surprised by such a question, uncharacteristically direct for a Gardener. But Pilar wouldn’t have asked such a thing without good reason. Toby couldn’t bring herself to discuss her father, so instead she told Pilar about her mother’s mysterious illness. What was so odd, she said, was that her mother had always been so keen on health: by weight she would have been half vitamin supplement.

“Tell me,” said Pilar. “What supplements was she taking?”

“She ran a HelthWyzer franchise, so she took those.”

“HelthWyzer,” said Pilar. “Yes. We’ve heard of this before.”

“Heard of what?” said Toby.

“This kind of illness, coupled with those supplements. No wonder the HelthWyzer people wanted to treat your mother themselves.”

“What do you mean?” said Toby. She felt chilly, even though the morning sun was hot.

“Did it ever occur to you, my dear,” said Pilar, “that your mother may have been a guinea pig?”

It hadn’t occurred to Toby, but it occurred to her now. “I kind of wondered,” she said. “Not about the pills, but … I thought it was the developer who wanted Dad’s land. I figured maybe they’d put something in the well.”

“In that case you’d all have been ill,” said Pilar. “Now, promise me that you will never take any pill made by a Corporation. Never buy such a pill, and never accept any such pill if offered, no matter what they say. They’ll produce data and scientists; they’ll produce doctors — worthless, they’ve all been bought.”

“Surely not all of them!” said Toby, shocked by Pilar’s vehemence: she was usually so calm.

“No,” said Pilar. “Not all. But all who are still working with any of the Corporations. The others — some have died unexpectedly. But those still alive — those with any shred of the old medical ethic left in them …” She paused. “There are doctors like that, still. But not at the Corps.”

“Where are they?” Toby asked.

“Some of them are here, with us,” said Pilar. She smiled. “Katuro the Wrench used to be an internist. He does our plumbing now. Surya was an eye surgeon. Stuart was an oncologist. Marushka was a gynecologist.”

“And the other doctors? If they aren’t here?”

“Let’s just say they’re safe, elsewhere,” said Pilar. “For the moment. But now you must promise me: those Corporation pills are the food of the dead, my dear. Not our kind of dead, the bad kind. The dead who are still alive. We must teach the children to avoid these pills — they’re evil. It’s not only a rule of faith among us, it’s a matter of certainty.”

“But how can you be so sure?” Toby asked. “The Corps — nobody knows what they’re doing. They’re locked into those Compounds of theirs, nothing gets out …”

“You’d be surprised,” said Pilar. “No boat was ever built that didn’t spring a leak eventually. Now, promise me.”

Toby promised.

“One day,” said Pilar, “when you’re an Eve, you’ll understand more.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll ever be an Eve,” said Toby lightly. Pilar smiled.

Later that same afternoon, when Pilar and Toby had finished the honey extraction and Pilar was thanking the hive and the queen for their cooperation, Zeb came up the fire-escape stairs. He was wearing a black fleather jacket of the kind favoured by solarbikers. They slashed those jackets to let the hot air circulate while they were riding, but there were extra slashes in this one.

“What happened?” said Toby. “What can I do?” Zeb’s tree-stump hands were clutched to his stomach; blood was coming out from between his fingers. She felt a little sick. At the same time she felt an urge to say, “Don’t drip on the bees.”

“Fell down and cut myself,” said Zeb. “Broken glass.” He was breathing heavily.

“I don’t believe that,” said Toby.

“Didn’t think you would,” said Zeb, grinning at her. “Here,” he said to Pilar. “Brought you a present. SecretBurger special.” He reached a hand into the pocket of his fleather jacket and brought out a fistful of ground meat. For a moment, Toby had the horrible impression that this was part of Zeb himself, but Pilar smiled.

“Thank you, dear Zeb,” she said. “I can always rely on you! Come with me, now, we’ll fix it up. Toby, could you find Rebecca and ask her to bring some clean kitchen towels? And Katuro. Him too.” She didn’t seem at all flustered by the sight of blood.

How old will I be, thought Toby, before I can be that calm? She felt cut open.

21

Pilar and Toby carried Zeb over to the Fallows Recovery Hut on the northwest corner of the Rooftop, which was used by Gardeners on Vigils, or those emerging from a Fallow state, or those who were moderately ill. As they were helping him to lie down, Rebecca came out from the enclosed shed at the back of the Rooftop, carrying a stack of dishtowels. “Now who did that?” she said. “That’s a glass job! Bottle fight?”

Katuro arrived, peeled the jacket off Zeb’s stomach, took a professional look. “Stopped by ribs,” he said. “Slash, not stab. No deep punctures — lucky.”

Pilar handed the ground meat to Toby. “It’s for the maggots,” she said. “Could you take care of it this time, dear?” The meat was already going off, from the smell of it.

Toby wrapped it in gauze from the Wellness Clinic as she’d seen Pilar do, and lowered the bundle over the edge of the rooftop on a string. In a couple of days, after the flies had laid their eggs and the eggs had had time to hatch, they’d haul it up again and harvest the maggots, because where there was rotting flesh, maggots were sure to follow. Pilar kept a supply of maggots always on hand for therapeutic use in case of need, but Toby had never seen them in action.

According to Pilar, maggot therapy was very ancient. It had been discarded as out of date along with leeches and bleeding, but during the First World War the doctors had noticed that soldiers’ wounds healed much faster if maggots were present. Not only did the helpful creatures eat the decaying flesh, they killed necrotic bacteria, and were thus a great help in preventing gangrene.

The maggots created a pleasant sensation, said Pilar — a gentle nibbling, as of minnows — but they needed to be watched carefully, because if they ran out of decay and began to invade the living flesh there would be pain and bleeding. Otherwise, the wound would heal cleanly.

Pilar and Katuro sponged Zeb’s cuts with vinegar, then rubbed on honey. Zeb was no longer bleeding, though he was pale. Toby got him a drink of Sumac.

Katuro said that pleebland street-fight glass was notoriously septic, so they should apply the maggots right away to avoid blood poisoning. Pilar used tweezers to place her stored maggots inside a fold of gauze, taping the gauze to Zeb. By the time the maggots had chewed through the gauze, Zeb would surely be festering enough to be attractive to them.

“Someone has to stay on maggot watch,” said Pilar. “Twenty-four hours a day. In case the maggots start to eat our dear Zeb.”

“Or in case I start to eat them,” said Zeb. “Land shrimp. Same body plan. Very nice fried. Great source of lipids.” He was keeping up a good front, but his voice was weak.

Toby took the first five hours. Adam One had heard about Zeb’s accident and came to visit. “Discretion is the better part of valour,” he said mildly.

“Yeah, well, there were too many of them,” said Zeb. “Anyway I put three of them in the hospital.”

“Not a thing to be proud of,” said Adam One. Zeb frowned.

“Foot soldiers use their feet,” he said. “That’s why I wear boots.”

“We’ll discuss this later, when you’re feeling better,” said Adam One.

“I’m feeling fine,” Zeb growled.

Nuala bustled in to take over from Toby. “Have you made him some Willow?” she said. “Oh dear, I hate those maggots! Here, let me prop you up! Can’t we raise the screening? We need a breeze through! Zeb, is this what you mean by Urban Bloodshed Limitation? You are so naughty!” She was twittering, and Toby felt like kicking her.

Lucerne arrived next, blotting tears. “This is terrible! What’s happened, who did …”

“Oh, he’s been so bad!” said Nuala conspiratorially. “Haven’t you, Zeb? Fighting with the pleeblanders,” she whispered delightedly.

“Toby,” said Lucerne, ignoring Nuala, “how serious is it? Will he … is he …” She sounded like some old-time TV actress playing a deathbed scene.

“I’m fine,” said Zeb. “Now buzz off and leave me alone!”

He didn’t want anyone fiddling with him, he said. Except Pilar. And Katuro, if absolutely necessary. And Toby, because at least she was silent. Lucerne went away, weeping angrily, but there was nothing Toby could do about that.

Rumour was the daily news among the Gardeners. The older boys heard quickly about Zeb’s battle — it had now become a battle — and the next afternoon Shackleton and Crozier came to see him. He was asleep — Toby had slipped some Poppy into his Willow tea — so they tiptoed around him, speaking in low voices and trying for a peek at his wound.

“He ate a bear once,” said Shackleton. “When he was flying for Bearlift, that time they were trying to save the polar bears. His plane crashed and he walked out — it took months!” The older boys had many such heroic tales about Zeb. “He said bears look just like a man when they’re skinned.”

“He ate the co-pilot. After he was dead, though,” Crozier said.

“Can we see the maggots?”

“Has he got gangrene?”

“Gang! Grene!” shouted little Oates, who’d tagged along after his brothers.

“Shut up, Oatie!”

“Ow! You meat-breath!”

“Off you go now,” said Toby. “Zeb — Adam Seven needs his rest.”

Adam One persisted in thinking that Shackleton and Crozier and young Oates would turn out just fine, but Toby had her doubts. Philo the Fog was supposed to be their stand-in father, but he wasn’t always mentally available.

Pilar took the night watches: she didn’t sleep much at night anyway, she said. Nuala volunteered for the mornings. Toby took over during the afternoons. She checked the maggots every hour. Zeb had no temperature, and there was no fresh blood.

Once he began healing he was restless, so Toby played dominoes with him, then cribbage, and finally chess. The chess set was Pilar’s: black was ants, white was bees; she’d carved it herself. “They used to think the queen of the bees was a king,” Pilar said. “Since if you killed that bee, the rest lost their purpose. That’s why the chess king doesn’t move around much on the board — it’s because the queen bee always stays inside the hive.” Toby wasn’t sure this was true: did the queen bee always stay inside the hive? Except for swarming, of course, and for nuptial flights … She stared at the board, trying to see the pattern. From outside the Fallows Recovery Hut came the sound of Nuala’s voice mingling with the chirping of the smaller children. “The five senses, through which the world comes to us … seeing, hearing, feeling, smelling, tasting … what do we use for tasting? That’s right … Oates, there is no need for you to lick Melissa. Now pop your tongues back into your tongue containers and close the lids.” Toby had an image — no, a taste. She could taste the skin of Zeb’s arm, the salt on it …

“Checkmate,” said Zeb. “Ants win again.” Zeb always played Ants, to give Toby an opening advantage.

“Oh,” said Toby. “I didn’t see that.” Now she was wondering — unworthy thought — whether there was something going on between Nuala and Zeb. Though overblown, Nuala was lush, and oddly babyish. Some men found that quality alluring.

Zeb swept the pieces from the board and began to set them up again. “Do me a favour?” he said. He didn’t wait for a yes.

Lucerne was having a lot of headaches, he said. His voice was neutral, but there was an edge to it, by which Toby understood that the headaches might not be real; or else that they were real enough, but Zeb found them boring anyway.

Could Toby stop by with some of her bottles the next time Lucerne had a migraine, he said, and see what she could manage? Because he himself sure as hell couldn’t do anything for Lucerne’s hormones, if that’s what it was. “She’s been giving me a lot of grief,” he said. “For being away too much. Makes her jealous.” He grinned like a shark. “Maybe she’ll hear sense, from you.”

So. The bloom is off the rose, thought Toby. And the rose doesn’t like it.