Lament for the Fallen
Read Lament for the Fallen Online
Authors: Gavin Chait
QWYRE PUBLISHERS
8c High Street, Southampton, SO14 2DH
www.qwyre.com
First published in 2016
Copyright © Gavin Chait, 2016
Cover image © Rodd Halstead
The right of Gavin Chait to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. This author supports copyright. Copyright gives creators space to explore and provides for their long-term ability to sustain themselves from their work. Thank you for buying this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it without permission. Your support will contribute to future works by this author.
This is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
ISBNs 9780993191435 (Mobi)
9780993191442 (ePub)
https://lamentforthefallen.com
For those who leave.
For those who remain.
For the wings and tail.
But most, for her
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
Samara’s tale: A Conspiracy of Women
9
10
Samara’s tale: Wall of Souls
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
Ismael’s tale: Pinch Point
28
29
30
31
32
33
Samara’s tale: Lost-wax and the Sea
34
35
36
37
38
39
The Three’s tale: Level Ball
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
Etai’s tale: The Tail of One
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
EPILOGUE A BALLAD
FOR THE
RETURNING
55
56
I
A LAMENT
FOR THE
FALLEN
Even as some would explore the stars, remember that many who remain behind scratch out an existence of near starvation in the dust so easily shed.
Dr Xian Yesui, UN Secretary General, 2053, opening address for discussion of Security Council Resolution 2731 – Tribunal for Colonial Governance of Territories in Earth Orbit
Our technologies and economies have diverged. To what end should we continue to pay allegiance to colonial masters who provide us with little by way of material benefit, with whom we have few social ties, and who no longer have the ability to enforce their power over us? It is time for us to make explicit that which we already know implicitly: our independence.
Ernest Balliol, governor of Equatorial 1, 2094, launching his first, unsuccessful, referendum for colonial independence from the United States
We have been staring into the heavens for thousands of years. Our community of scholars have been functionally independent of the bounds that tie us to our planet for almost a century, staring into that vastness. How could we not wonder? How could we not go?
Professor Ullianne Vijayarao, lead scientist on Allegro quantum navigation team, 2115, last interview prior to the space territory severing its umbilical and exiting earth orbit
1
‘Father, please tell me a story.’
Joshua smiles. ‘And what story would you like to hear, my son?’ His voice is warm, redolent of nutmeg and coffee.
Isaiah is balancing on the thick white water pipe running along the village end of the maize field. He clenches his arms awkwardly at his sides, fighting his urge to stretch them out. The pipe is knee-high from the ground, suspended on a cradle spiking it to the neatly turned red earth. Every few metres, thinner pipes, like ribs on a snake, protrude out of control boxes and connect to the capillary mesh irrigating the field.
‘Show me your hands, please,’ he says, leaning forward slightly. Even raised, he is still only shoulder height to his father.
Joshua laughs and holds them out for inspection. The boy, his face intense with the concentration children bring to bear on such matters, takes first the left.
Joshua’s hands are his journal. Scars trace patterns across an ebony-brown surface thick with veins and bunched muscles. Each subtle script recording a memory.
This notch, in the web of his thumb, marks where he was burned grasping at flaming brushwood as a child. Isaiah has no wish for a lesson on the hazards of not listening to parental authority.
He shakes his head, sucking on his bottom lip, and takes his father’s right.
A short, jagged line on its outer edge recalls Joshua’s frantic struggle to rescue his sister, Abishai, from floods that swept past the village twenty years ago.
In the distance, over the ridge leading down to the river, Isaiah can hear the muted sounds of children laughing and splashing in the water. After lessons and chores, many of the village children regularly gather there to play. In his father’s childhood as well.
He trembles slightly, squeezing the held hand.
‘The flood, Father. Tell me the story of the flood,’ Isaiah bouncing on his toes, his eyes wide, and almost losing his balance on the pipe in his excitement.
‘But you have heard that one so many times,’ says Joshua with feigned despair.
‘Please, Father, please? My favourite part is where the tree falls on you and you have to sink to the bottom before you can push it away.’
Joshua sighs as if he is taking on a heavy burden. ‘Very well, my son,’ grinning as he begins the tale.
Isaiah’s eyes widen with fear as the danger mounts. The children jumping off the jetty much as children do now. The wall of water unexpectedly coming down the Akwayafe, flinging trees before it, crashing through the turbine and tearing the village fish farms apart. Children running in panic up the banks as Joshua races down. Abishai, a young girl, slipping and tumbling. Joshua leaping in and grabbing frantically, flinging her backwards even as he stumbles and is seized by the maelstrom. And then, the tree trunk, both his peril and saviour, holding him to the bottom as the worst of the flood wall passes.
Joshua is no longer sure as to how much has been embroidered. His people love stories, and it is a brave narrator who fails to embellish any simple event into a moral saga of redemption and triumph.
Cicadas shriek in undulating waves of sound washing against the afternoon humidity. The air is still. Red-orange light from the lowering sun pours across the maize field. Dark-green fronds falling away down the slope and rising again to the jungle. Monkeys foraging and whooping through the branches, their crashes and calls filtering through the trees.
Closer to the north gate, along Ikot Road, traders and travellers move about their business. Some stop, holding hands as they smile and greet each other, forming small communions.
Joshua sits down on the pipe alongside his son, the boy leaning on him, his dark eyes bright with pride and affection. He rests his arm over Isaiah’s shoulders, holding him close. The story ends, as it should, with victory over terrible odds.
