Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (33 page)

He went down and
unlatched the door that led into the garden. Outside the air was
sharp, fresh, the sky clear after the rain. Long shadows lay across
the glittering, dew-soaked grass, exaggerating every hump and hollow,
making the ground seem rutted and uneven. The roses were beaded with
dew, the trestle table dark and wet.

He was still a
moment, listening to the call of birds in the eaves above him and in
the trees down by the water. It was strange how that sound seemed
always not to breach but to emphasize the underlying silence.

The pain came
again, more bearable this time. He braced himself against it, then,
when it was fading, lifted the injured hand to his face. There was
the faintest scent of burning. A sweet, quite pleasant scent. He
pressed it against his cheek. It was warm. Unnaturally warm.

Cradling the
hand against his chest, he stared out across the lawn toward the
shadowed bay. The tide was high. Sunlight lay in the trees on the far
side of the water, creeping slowly toward the waterline.

He smiled. This
much never changed: each day created new, light flying out from
everything, three hundred meters in a millionth of a second, off on
its journey to infinity.

He went down,
across the lawn, and onto the narrow gravel path that led, by way of
an old, rickety gate, into the meadows. The grass here was knee high,
uncut since his father had left three months earlier, the tall stems
richly green and tufted. He waded out into that sea of grass,
ignoring the path that cut down to the meandering creek, making for
the Wall.

There, at the
foot of the Wall, he stopped, balanced at the end of a long rib of
rock that protruded above the surrounding marshland. The Wall was an
overpowering presence here, the featureless whiteness of its two
li
height making a perfect geometric turn of 120 degrees toward the
southeast. It was like being in the corner of a giants playbox, the
shadow of the Wall so deep it seemed almost night. Even so, he could
make out the great circle of the Seal quite clearly, there, at the
bottom of the Wall, no more than thirty paces distant.

Ben squatted and
looked about him. Here memory was dense. Images clustered about him
like restless ghosts. He had only to close his eyes to summon them
back. There, off to his left, he could see the dead rabbit, sunk into
the grass. And there, just beyond it, his father, less than a year
ago, looking back toward him but pointing at the Seal, explaining the
new policy the Seven had drawn up for dealing with incursions from
the Clay. He turned his head. To his right he could see Meg, a
hundred, no, a thousand times, smiling or thoughtful, standing and
sitting, facing toward him or away, running through the grass or
simply standing by the creek, looking outward at the distant hills.
Meg as a child, a girl, a woman. Countless images of her. All stored,
hoarded in his mind. And for what? Why such endless duplication of
events?

He shuddered,
then turned, looking back at the cottage, thinking how ageless it
seemed in this early morning light. He looked down, then rubbed the
back of his left hand with his right, massaging it. It felt better
now, more relaxed, which made him think it was some form of cramp.
But did machines get cramp?

He breathed
deeply, then laughed. And what if we're all machines? What if we're
merely programmed to think otherwise?

Then the answer
would be yes, machines get cramp.

It was strange,
that feeling of compulsion he had had to come here. Overpowering,
like his desire for Meg. It frightened him. And even when it was
purged, it left him feeling less in control of himself than he had
ever been. Part of that, of course, was the drugs—or the
absence of them. It was over a week now since he had last taken them.
But it was more than that. He was changing. He could feel it in
himself. But into what? And for what purpose?

He stared at the
Seal a moment longer, then looked away, disturbed. It was like in his
dream. The bottom of the lake: that had been the Wall. He had sunk
through the darkness to confront the Wall.

And?

He shivered. No,
he didn't understand it yet. Perhaps, being what he was—
schizophrenic—he couldn't understand it. Not from where he was,
anyway. Not from the inside. But if he passed through?

He stared at the
Wall intently, then looked down. And if his father said no? If his
father said he couldn't go to College?

Ben got to his
feet, turning his back upon the Wall. If Hal said no he would defy
him. He would do it anyway.

* *
*

"Again,
Meg. And this time try to relax a bit. Your fingers are too tense.
Stretch them gently. Let them
feel
for the notes. Accuracy is
less important than feeling at this stage. Accuracy will come, but
the feeling has to be there from the start."

Meg was sitting
beside her mother at the piano. It was just after nine and they had
been practicing for more than an hour already, but she was determined
to master the phrase—to have something to show Ben when he
returned.

She began again.
This time it seemed to flow better. She missed two notes and one of
the chords was badly shaped; yet for all its flaws, it sounded much
more like the phrase her mother had played than before. She turned
and saw Beth was smiling.

"Good, Meg.
Much better. Try it again. This time a little slower."

She did as she
was bid, leaning forward over the keys. This time it was note-perfect
and she sat back, pleased with herself, feeling a genuine sense of
achievement. It was only a small thing, of course—nothing like
Ben's achievement—yet it was a start: the first step in her
attempt to keep up with him.

She looked
around again. Her mother was watching her strangely.

"What is
it?"

Beth took her
hand. "You're a good child, Meg. You know that? Nothing comes
easy to you. Not like Ben. But you work at it. You work hard. And you
never get disheartened. I've watched you labor at something for
weeks, then seen Ben come along and master it in a few moments. And
always—without fail—you've been delighted for him. Not
envious, as some might be. Nor bitter. And that's . . ." She
laughed. "Well, it's remarkable. And I love you for it."

Meg looked down.
"He needs someone."

"Yes. He
does, doesn't he?"

"I mean . .
." Meg placed her free hand gently on the keys, making no sound.
"It must be difficult being as he is. Being so alone."

"Alone? I
don't follow you, Meg."

"Like
Zarathustra, up in his cave on the mountainside. Up where the air is
rarefied, and few venture. Only with Ben, the mountain, the cave, are
in his head."

Beth nodded
thoughtfully. "He's certainly different."

"That's
what I mean. It's his difference that makes him alone. Even if there
were a hundred thousand people here, in the Domain, he would be
separate from them all. Cut off by what he is. That's why I have to
make the effort. To try to reach him where he is. To try to
understand what he is and what he needs."

Beth looked at
her daughter, surprised. "Why?"

"Because
he's Ben. And because I love him."

She reached out
and gently brushed Meg's cheek with her knuckles. "That's nice.
But you don't have to worry. Give him time. He'll find someone."

Meg looked away.
Her mother didn't understand. There
was
no one else for Ben.

No one who would
ever understand him a tenth as well. Not one in the whole of Chung
Kuo.

"Do you
want to play some more?"

Meg shook her
head. "Not now. This afternoon, perhaps?"

"All right.
Some breakfast, then?"

Meg smiled.
"Yes. Why not?"

* *
*

they WERE IN the
kitchen, at the big scrubbed-pine table, their meal finished, when
there were footsteps on the flagstones outside. The latch creaked,
then the door swung outward. Ben stood in the doorway, looking in,
his left arm held strangely at his side.

"That
smells good."

His mother got
up. "Sit down. I'll cook you something."

"Thanks.
But not now." He looked at Meg. "Are you free, Megs? I need
to talk."

Meg looked
across at her mother. She had been about to help her with the
washing. "Can I?"

Beth smiled and
nodded. "Go on. I'll be all right."

Meg got up,
taking her plate to the sink; then she turned back, facing him.
"Where have you been . . . ?" She stopped, noticing how he
was holding his left arm. "Ben? What have you done?"

He stared at her
a moment, then looked toward his mother. "I've damaged the hand.
I must have done it on the rocks." He held it out to her. "I
can barely use it. If I try to it goes into spasm."

Beth wiped her
hands, then went to him. She took the hand carefully and studied it,
Meg at her side, her face filled with concern.

"Well,
there's no outward sign of damage. And it was working perfectly well
yesterday."

Ben nodded.
"Yes. But that stint at the piano probably didn't help it any."

"Does it
hurt?" Meg asked, her eyes wide.

"It did
when I woke up. But I've learned how not to set it off. I pretend the
problem's higher up. Here." He tapped his left shoulder with his
right hand. "I pretend the whole arm's dead. That way I'm not
tempted to try to use the hand."

Beth placed his
arm back against his side, then turned away, looking for something in
the cupboards. "Have you notified anyone?"

He nodded. "Two
hours ago, when I came in from the meadows. They're sending a man
this afternoon."

She turned back,
a triangle of white cloth between her hands. "Good. Well, for
now I'll make a sling for you. That'll ease the strain of carrying it
about."

He sat, letting
his mother attend to him. Meg, meanwhile, stood beside him, her hand
resting gently on his shoulder.

"Why was
the keyboard black? I mean, totally black?"

He turned,
looking up at her. "Why?"

Meg shrugged.
"It's been playing on my mind, that's all. It just seemed . . .
strange. Unnecessary."

Beth, kneeling
before him, fastening the sling at his shoulder, looked up,
interested in what he would say.

He looked away.
"It's just that I find the old-style keyboard distracting. It
preconditions thought; sets the mind into old patterns. But that
all-black keyboard is only a transitional stage. A way of shaking
free old associations. Ultimately I want to develop a brand new
keyboard—one better suited to what I'm doing."

"There!"
Beth tightened the knot, then stood up. "And what
are
you
doing?"

Ben met her eyes
candidly. "I don't know yet. Not the all of it, anyway." He
stood, moving his shoulder slightly. "Thanks. That's much
easier." Then he looked across at Meg. "Are you ready?"

She hesitated,
wondering for a moment if she might persuade him to listen to the
piano phrase she had learned that morning, then smiled and answered
him softly. "Okay. Let's go."

* *
*

IT WAS LATE
morning, the sun high overhead, the air clear and fresh. They sat
beneath the trees on the slope overlooking the bay, sunlight through
the branches dappling the grass about them, sparkling on the water
below. Above them, near the top of the hillside, obscured by a small
copse of trees, was the ruined barn, preserved as it had been when
their great-great-great grandfather, Amos, had been a boy.

For two hours
they had rehashed the reasons why Ben should leave or stay. Until now
it had been a reasonably amicable discussion, a clearing of the air,
but things had changed. Now Meg sat there, her head turned away from
her brother, angry with him.

"You're
just pig stubborn! Did you know that, Ben? Stubborn as in stupid.
It's not the time. Not new."

He answered her
quietly, knowing he had hurt her. "Then when is the time? I have
to do this. I
feel
I have to. And all the rest. . . that's
just me rationalizing that feeling. It's the feeling—the
instinct—that I trust."

She turned on
him, her eyes flashing. "Instinct! Wasn't it you who said that
instinct was just a straitjacket—the Great Creator's way of
showing us whose fingers are really on the control buttons?"

He laughed, but
she turned away from him. For once this was about something other
than what
he
wanted. This was to do with Meg, with
her
needs.

"Don't make
it hard, Megs. Please don't."

She shivered and
stared outward, across the water, her eyes burning, her chin jutting
defiantly. "Why ask me? You'll do what you want to anyway. Why
torment me like this, when you know you've decided already what
you're going to do?"

He watched her,
admiring her, wanting to lean forward and kiss her neck, her
shoulder. She was wearing a long nut-brown cotton dress that was
drawn in below the breasts and buttoned above. The hem of it was
gathered about her knees, exposing the tanned flesh of her naked
calves. He looked down, studying her feet, noting the delicacy of the
toes, the finely rounded nails. She was beautiful. Even her feet were
beautiful. But she could not keep him here. Nothing could keep him.
He must find himself. Maybe then he could return. But for now . . .
"Don't chain me, Meg. Help me become myself. That's all I'm
asking." She turned angrily, as if to say something, then looked
down sharply, her hurt confusion written starkly on her face.

"I want to
help you, Ben. I really do. It's just. . ."

He hardened
himself against her, against the pity he instinctively felt. She was
his sister. His lover. There was no one in the world he was closer to
and it was hard to hurt her like this, but hurt her he must, or lose
sight of what he must become. In time she would understand this, but
for now the ties of love blinded her to what was best. And not just
for him, but for the two of them.