Forager (6 page)

"Oh yes – and I just loved that teenage girl's magazine. When I can find the energy, I sit in front of the mirror and practice the braids and plaits the girls in the magazine are wearing." She paused and then pouted as she continued. "I can’t believe the world used to be so full of life, Older Brother – people free to go where they liked, able to own so many things – even their own apartments, and wear such bright and colourful clothes, and having the most remarkable adventures!”

"It was a different world back then, that’s for sure," I agreed as I stood. A different world, but not a better one, if you consider where it got us. "I better go before Mother or Elder Sister comes in and catches me here."

“Please, don’t go yet,” she pleaded.

I never could say no to her – her sickly life was so lacking I'd do anything to cheer her up – so I sat back on the bed. We chatted softly about the books she had read, and of the things that I found when I went foraging. Finally, I really had to go. I lifted her chin until her brown eyes met mine. "Please, for me, eat the lunch I brought you?"

She looked down at the barely touched food. "I'll try."

Powerless to help her, and driven to distraction by it, I caressed her pale cheek with the back of my fingers. Then I slipped out of the bedroom, over the balcony, and climbed down to ground level.

Mother rang me earlier this morning and insisted I have dinner with the family tonight. Perhaps that would give me the opportunity to talk to Father about my younger sister's health, which had clearly deteriorated since the last time I saw her. She needed to see a doctor.

That evening I sat with my father in the family dining room at a table that could seat six, but due to our town's custom of women waiting on the men while they ate, my mother and older sister, Ruth, stood at the doorway where they would remain until summoned.

The somewhat subservient role of women in our town was one of many customs given us by the Founders. During the Solidarity Festivals, the Chancellor and councillors drummed into our heads the value of our unique culture. They explained how the Founders had created a completely new society, built from the ground up. A society that would not foster misunderstanding, anger and resentment. A harmonious society rather than one characterised by division, conflict and violence. Because of this, our town would not make the same mistakes our ancestors made – mistakes that lead to war and eventually, worldwide obliteration.

I refused to believe any of that nonsense. Surely it was the fear of the Custodians and the magistrates’ harsh sentences that kept the town’s population in line. It had nothing to do with treating the womenfolk as second-class citizens.

I went back to examining my parent’s flat.

The combined dining/lounge room was rectangular, stretching the full width of the flat, with monotonous, unadorned duck-egg blue walls. The lounge, which was to the right of the front door, had beige sofas and a 42" flat-screen TV. The dining room, to the left of the door, contained the dining table and a large wooden hutch full of Mother's precious collection of china cups, bowls and plates.

I finished a bowl of lentil soup and got stuck into a slice of homemade whole-grain bread topped with melted tasty soy cheese. Glancing at my father, I wondered what frame of mind he was in today. People said I took after him in appearance, with his square jaw, high cheekbones, and full head of thick auburn hair. We were even the same height, though my figure had yet to fill out. Thankfully, that’s where our similarities ended. He adhered religiously to Newhome's customs and traditions, and with Tunnel-vision devoted himself to the councillors who ran the city. He also had little patience and no time for those who did not share his opinions. As I disagreed with him on practically everything, we didn't get on. My deepest fear was that I might turn out like him one day.

"Son, I heard we had some visitors from another town today," Father said gruffly between bites.

"Yeah, two people from the Japanese colony over near Inverloch. My foraging team and Custodian escort found them and brought them here," I replied.

I thought he would be at least a little impressed by my claim to fame, but his expression as he actually met my gaze was not a complimentary one.

"You stay away from them, you hear?"

I could not be bothered getting into another “I'm-over-eighteen-now-Father”
argument, as we normally did after he ordered me to do something I considered unreasonable. I settled for, "Don't worry, the Custodians took them straight to North End."

"Good," he grunted as he served himself another dish of vegetable casserole.

I figured now was as good a time as any to broach the subject of my sister. "Ah, Father, Younger Sister is not looking so good these days – I think she needs to see a doctor."

"Younger Daughter just needs to snap out of it and pull herself together," he said to me. He aimed the next comment at Mother, standing deferentially at the doorway. "She's just lazy; it's as simple as that."

"Have you seen her lately, Father? The sores on her mouth, her white skin and shallow breathing, and finger nails growing upward? There is something wrong with her."

"Ethan, you're young and naive. Those sores are caused by lying in bed all day for month after month. Mother needs to stop mollycoddling her and show her some tough love. Otherwise, no one's ever going to want to marry her and I'll be stuck with her for life – a leech sucking up my money forever. Besides, we can't afford a doctor."

I glanced at Mother, whose eyes were glazing over with tears, while I trembled with rage at the callous insults directed at his own daughter! I wish I could put him through what she goes through for just one day. He'd change his tune soon enough.

"Why can't you afford it, where does all your money go?" I demanded.

Mother's eyes widened in shock and she shook her head ever so slightly, warning me away from this conversation. Unfortunately, it was too late. Father pushed his plate away and turned to face me, trembling with barely controlled rage. "Where does all my money go? You really want to know, do you, Son? Okay then, every spare cent I earn, after the food and rent, goes to pay back a fifteen year loan I had to take out."

"Take out – take out on what?" I was too angry to heed Mother's warning – she was still shaking her head.

"On you!" my father shouted. "For your operation! Remember the brain surgery you needed after that ceiling fell on your head two years ago!"

Suddenly I felt like the world's biggest fool. I’d accused him of wasting his money, only to find out he was spending it all on me. "I...I didn't know. Father, why didn't you tell me?"

"I did what had to be done, what's to tell?" he huffed.

My shoulders slumped in resignation, but I tried one last half-hearted attempt to help my sister. "In that case, let me help pay off the loan, or at least pay for her visit to a doctor."

That, apparently, was the worst thing I could have said. "I do not need your financial aid like I am some...some charity case!" he bellowed.

Head bowed in defeat, I tucked into my dinner until half was left, and then gave my mother a meaningful glance. The women of a household always served the best food to the males and ate less costly foods and any leftovers themselves. So when I had dinner with my family, I always left half my dinner on the plate so that my mother and sisters could divide it amongst themselves later.

That done, I bade them farewell.

My father's anger would simmer for the rest of the evening, but tomorrow he’d act as though the whole conversation had never happened.

I couldn’t turn my emotions on and off like that, so I walked away torn by powerful, conflicting emotions. I was angry with my father for being so obstinate, for refusing to acknowledge my sister's health problems. His arrogance and pride was robbing her of a normal life. On the other hand, I felt so guilty for believing Father didn’t care for me. I could see now that he did. The proof was the massive loan to finance the operation that healed me of the epilepsy caused by the head injury.

That my father cared for me sent my mind spinning, causing me to re-evaluate my opinion of him. I’d concluded years ago that he didn’t care for me. I mean, throughout my life he never really did anything with me. When he wasn’t at work, he’d come home and lose himself in a newspaper or the television. When I reached my adolescent years and shed my fear of him, we began to argue about nearly everything. When I flunked the year eleven exams and had to leave school, he flew into such a rage that he came within an inch of tearing my head off – literally. He didn’t know I’d failed deliberately, so had jumped to the conclusion that it was a result of slothfulness and that galled him all the more. If I’d told him the truth, he would have hit me, I’m sure of it.

One of the greatest causes of contention between us was my choice of vocation. Father had lofty ideas for what I could do, and took offense at my choice of such a demeaning and dangerous job. Once we argued so vigorously that a neighbour banged on our door to complain. That was one of the most humiliating moments of my life, and an eye opener. I realised I could not keep living like this – arguing with my father one minute and put down by my older sister the next, so the day I turned twenty I rented a flat.

My father didn’t like that, either. Took it like a personal attack accused me of abandoning the family. Getting married was the only justifiable reason for a child to leave their family, he had shouted in my face. All that did was convince me I’d made the right choice.

When I got home after a short walk, I climbed the apartment block's ten flights of stairs up to the building’s flat roof, using the exercise to clear my mind and rid my body of tension.

It was refreshingly cool up on the roof and comfortably shrouded in near-darkness. The only light sources were the light above the stairwell exit and the stars.

I collected the disassembled parts of my contraband binoculars, which I had hidden in three different places on the roof, and fitted them back together. One advantage of my vocation was that I could find almost anything in the city ruins.

I sat down on the long side of the roof that faced north-west and dangled my legs over the edge. (There was no guardrail.) I used the binoculars to zoom in on North End – sometimes I looked over the city walls at Melbourne’s darkened ruins, but spying on North End was more fun. It was like another world in there, with larger and better-furnished apartments. There were immaculately kept, multicolour brick footpaths instead of crumbling and cracked ones like ours, and jungle gyms built like castles in the school yards. There were cinemas with facades lit up with sparkling lights; nightclubs where you didn’t have to line up to gain access; and, to top it all off, no curfew. There were multistorey buildings devoted to scientific, genetic and engineering research and development, and the council offices themselves were magnificently opulent. Men and teenage boys wandered the paved streets as they chatted and headed to nightclubs to play cards, billiards, bowling, and drink.

The clubs were all-male affairs, of course – no woman was permitted on the streets after dark, not even with a chaperone. The Founders created this rule, saying it was for our protection. That by keeping women at home after dark kept them safe from males who may be struggling with temptation. It also protected the males by removing the source of temptation. Yeah, right. I often thought of my mother and sisters, stuck at home, while we guys went out and hit the restaurants and clubs. Didn’t seem fair to me.

I often wondered what my life would be like had I chosen to live in North End instead of out here. My life as it was, wasn’t a particularly happy or fulfilling one. There was a deep, aching hole in me that gnawed endlessly at my mind and emotions, threatening to pull me into a miry pit from which there was no escape. I hadn’t always been like that. Before the injury and operation, I was more positive and resilient. I was sure of it.

The only time I felt at peace was when I was out there, rooting through the ruins looking for metals, and – ahem, doing all the other extracurricular activities we engaged in once we’d filled our truck. We had archery competitions, practised stealth techniques by playing hide and seek, and explored old buildings. Once we even found an amazing stash of guns. That was fun. There's an old billboard out there that will never be the same. We also unearthed and read old books and magazines that had not perished over the decades.

As I continued to search aimlessly through North End, I almost dropped my precious binoculars when I spotted the Japanese girl, Nanako, sitting on the flat rooftop of a North End apartment block. She was sitting with her back against the stairwell exit, cradling her knees to her chest. I zoomed in closer and gasped when I saw she was crying, her black eyeliner running down her cheeks.

Was her sorrow due to having endured such a terrible day – ambushed by barbaric Skel and seeing four of her people slaughtered? That was probably the case, though as I examined her I thought I recognised something of my own despondency in her forlorn expression. I wondered if she was weighed down by an impossibly heavy burden. I wished there was something I could do to lift her spirits, to help her carry whatever it was that weighed her spirits down.

My reflections were interrupted when I heard several pairs of feet scurrying up the stairwell behind me, followed by the door banging open.

"Ha! Told you he'd be here." Shorty laughed as he emerged. Then he began doing cartwheels around the roof, as was his habit. (A roof, that is ten stories up and has no guardrail.) Leigh, David, and Michal emerged next, each smiling broadly when they saw me.

Okay, I admit it, there was one other time I forgot about the emptiness that haunted me, and that was when I was with these four goofballs. "Hey guys, what happened, got sick of cards?" I stood and went over to join them.

"Not the same without you, mate," Leigh said as he thumped me on the back.

"And," David added as he took off his backpack, "it's not windy tonight, so I suggested that we – wait for it – have another paper plane war!"

"And there’s nothing like seeing them Custodians picking up the planes in the morning and scratching their beefy heads, trying to work out where they came from," Shorty laughed after he cart wheeled over to us.

"Hey Jones, if the Custodians catch you with those." Leigh gestured at my binoculars. "You're gonna be in trouble with a capital 'T,' mate."

"Hey, can I have a go?" Shorty smiled deviously.

"Why? What do you want to look at?" I asked, suspicious.

"You can see into people's apartments, yeah?"

"I guess so."

"Into women's bedrooms," he continued in a most conspiratorial manner.

"Probably." I tried hard to remain serious.

"Then hand 'em over, Jones me boy," Shorty said as he held out a small hand.