Cargo, Page 3

  Chapter Three

  I wake the next morning with Max’s arm sprawled across my face and a bad headache, probably because I only had four hours of restless sleep. My movements wake Max and he jumps up calling my name.

  “I’m here, Max, how was your sleep?” I ask in a voice I reserve just for him.

  “Okay, how was your sentry duty?” he responds sleepily.

  Max has a way of asking questions about the one thing you don’t want to talk about. It’s like an uncanny sixth sense that some people find unnerving. It’s this forthright way of talking, coupled with his preference for introversion that alienates him from the volunteers. Attempts to befriend Max during the two weeks of training were met with silence or awkward comments. Then of course the close quarters on the ship allow everyone to hear Max screaming at night, nothing makes you more unapproachable than the belief that you’re damaged. I read a story once about an eleven-year-old boy from BAS in one of the read, rip and burn sessions Dad and I had, I couldn’t believe how the boy was treated and how he behaved. At one point in the story the boy chased all the family chickens out of the hutch to see if they could fly then his dog ran into the hutch and ate or cracked the freshly laid eggs. The boy’s mother was understandably fuming but when she spoke to her husband about it he said “let kids be kids”. It was one of those times that I was struck by how different things are now, what it means to be eleven now compared to BAS. Max couldn’t be less like the boy in that book if he tried. On looking at the whole picture he is pretty much equivalent to middle-aged and that’s how he acts. Because of this I’m always honest with him.

  “There was an accident. Karther was killed. We don’t know how or why, only that he was pulled overboard. But we’re doing extra sentry duties and working out what defences this ship has, so we’re safe and there’s really nothing to worry about”, I reply.

  Middle-aged or not, he is still my younger brother so I can’t help but tack on that last part even though it’s something I can in no way guarantee. Max frowns and stares at me searchingly as if I’m confusing him.

  “Where were you when this happened?”

  I should be relieved at this question, it reveals a calm response to what happened, but once again Max has hit on the question I don’t want to talk about.

  “I was in the control room”, I respond.

  I don’t know why I leave out who I was with, only that it seems more wrong to have skimped on my duties to talk to Tomas rather than just wasting my time looking at the control board.

  “Were you on your own?” Max asks.

  Grrr!

  “I was talking to Tomas”, I respond looking down at my chipped fingernails..

  “Tomas is nice”, Max replies matter-of-factly.

  It would be easy to think Max callous in his dismissal of Karther’s death, but it’s not that at all. He has seen or heard about death so many times he is desensitised to it. It is normal to hear of the death of neighbours or someone you stood behind in the Rations Office. I think that it’s some mental survival mechanism for Max to take in the information and do nothing with it, no analysis, no questions, just acceptance. Or maybe it is a deeper understanding that there is no point dwelling on something you can’t change. In the case of Karther, Max didn’t see the gruesome nature of the death, he wasn’t close to Karther and the only relevance it really has to him is that his safety could be affected. But I did give him the changes we had made to ensure safety, so to Max, all is being done that can be done, therefore no point dwelling on it. I wish this were his approach to our parent’s suicide.

  Mum and Dad had me when they were fourteen. They were part of the strategy to breed the sickness out with the next generation by having kids as early as possible. They had Max after Mum had started to get sores. Dad got them not long after that but for both of them the signs would flare up, and then go away again. This was a bit unusual. They were twenty-three when they took their own lives.

  They were not good parents. The saying that ‘they only had eyes for each other’ was pretty accurate with them. I would often catch them sharing a private joke just by staring at each other across the room. It wasn’t the type of look I’d seen some parent’s use, the one where they think their child has done something really cute or funny so they look at each other with soft eyes and curvy lips. Their look was not about me. It was an exclusive private conversation that no one else was privy to, certainly not their five year old daughter. But when Max was born they were besotted with him. He was a gorgeous baby and extra special because he was born when they had already shown signs of the Sickness. He was like some sort of hope for them and for a few months the symptoms were held at bay.

  When it was clear they were not going to be spared the Sickness they increasingly turned into their own little world. I would put Max to my Mum’s breast to be fed, but eventually I just got goats milk for him by trading my rations or fish I’d caught in the stream. There were few attentive moments but there were enough for Max to love his Mum and Dad. When Max turned three he walked into my parent’s room in the morning to wake them but instead found them hanging from their bedroom ceiling, their faces a sick swollen parody of themselves.

  Was it fear of the pain and suffering they knew was inevitable? Was it a need to take control of their bodies and lives by not empowering the Sickness with the timing of their death? Or were they terrified at one leaving the other behind?

  To me none of these questions are relevant. The most important question is, why did they willingly leave their children orphans? Other parents spend as much time with their children as possible, giving knowledge and skills, setting up relationships, living arrangements and trading opportunities with neighbours in preparation for their deaths. But mine selfishly took their lives and left a small boy who loved them to deal with the aftermath.

  It’s the swollen faces of his Mum and Dad that Max dreams about. Sometimes he tells me that other people’s faces are replaced with our parent’s. He has bad nights when it is mine.

  Max goes up to have his unappetising breakfast on deck where he likes to watch the sea bird’s dive for fish, while I have a shower to try and ease my now pounding head. When I first got on this ship I was hesitant to have showers, it was too much of a luxury and I was worried the fresh water would run out before we got to the docking port. I cringed when I heard the others talk about how many hot showers they were having and imagined us all dying an agonising death from dehydration. But on the third day I heard Vonteuse telling Renka, who obviously shared my concerns, that the water came from a recycled process where the ship sucked up the salt water, somehow turned it into fresh water and heated it by using solar energy. So as long as someone doesn’t pull the plug on the ocean or black out the sun we’ll be fine. Since then I’ve been having two and sometimes three long hot showers a day.

  After I drag myself out from under the hot water I roughly dry my long brown hair and twist it into a bun off my face and neck. I push my mother’s hairpin in at the base. It’s the only thing of sentimental value I own. I think of it as a link to the women in my family who contributed locks of their hair over many generations to create the intricate pattern that is woven into the clip. My mother wasn’t a strong woman but I take strength from a line of women who came before her.

  I sluggishly get dressed in a blue shirt and brown pants I got as a hand me down from Sadie. She has a completely different body shape from me so they don’t fit very well. Sadie is short and small all around, whereas I am tall with broader shoulders and hips so the shirt is a bit too fitted and the pants more three quarter than full length but that’s why I chose these clothes, the weather has been really nice so far.

  When I walk past the common cabin Renka calls out to me and hands me a piece of paper with my revised sentry duties. It doesn’t seem enough to cover both Diego and Vonteuse’s extra duties. I’m due to be on duty in five minutes any way so I’ll find out what happened after I left last night.

  The sun is hot i
n the sky when I get up on deck, I’m grateful I chose the ill-fitting pants. I head straight to the dome, trying to avoid looking towards the wall of the ship where Karther’s body was mauled the night before, although I notice a collection of small paper flowers scattered at the base of the ship’s wall. I guess they are the work of Gerla who seems honestly distraught at Karther’s death. Ironically I don’t feel any less safe after what happened, instead I feel a sense of relief, as horrid as that sounds, that something finally happened to give us an indication of the ‘perils’ that were rumoured to occur on the way to The Refuge.  

  In fact, most of the others are up on deck. Merva and Mickael are leaning against the supply cylinders talking and enjoying the sun. Beside the control room Isabella, Gerla and surprisingly Linton are making the paper flowers I saw earlier. It seems such a waste of paper to me but due to the absence of any flora on board, there is little else they can use to mark Karther’s death. Back at home we would pick flowers, vines and shrubs to decorate and then burn with the bodies of loved ones who had died. Besides its value as fuel, paper seems a colourless substitute to me but is better than nothing.

  Unsurprisingly Diego and Vonteuse are in the control room, probably deconstructing codes or pressing buttons to work out just what this ship is capable of. I can see the blur of their outlines through the strange laminate. They could almost be brothers or perhaps cousins. They both have dark wavy untamable hair with an overall stocky appearance. No one is fat, how can you be with the measly rations we have available to us, but these two have a fullness that hints at unseen strength.

  And there is Max, leaning against the side of the ship opposite the dome. He’s staring at a large bird circling above the water. When I see him from a distance I always think he looks bigger than I think of him in my head. Maybe it’s that I don’t want him to grow up.

  At the dome prowling on sentry duty is Tomas. He is obviously taking his duty more seriously even with Fiona walking beside him talking animatedly. Looking at everyone, it’s clear that something has changed. There is an overall sense of relief, or a weight lifted from our shoulders. How bizarre that a gruesome murder is what was needed to relieve the tensions that existed for the last week. Waiting for disaster is what evokes terror, once it occurs you get into work mode and feel useful or at least have the knowledge of what you might be up against. Whether this atmosphere will last or not, I don’t know, but I want to enjoy the reprieve.

  I walk over to Max and he hands me an oat biscuit. It’s so like Max to know I won’t get my own breakfast after I remind him to get his. I smile and start chewing on the tasteless meal.

  “Hey, Pia, come and have a look at what Tomas has done”, Fiona calls over to me.

  Tomas looks up when Fiona calls my name and a shadow of dread or maybe resignation crosses his features. I walk over to them and wonder what evoked such a reaction from Tomas.

  “Look, show her Tomas, it’s really good. I told him to bring it to Karther’s memorial this morning. I thought it would be a fitting idea to have a bit of a send off, especially for Gerla”, she explains to me.  

  Fiona is trying to pull Tomas towards me and I can see a notebook in his hand. I wonder if we were all given a journal to record what happens. How egocentric of me to assume it was just me.

  “What is it?” I ask reaching out for the book, a flashback to last night comes to mind and I wonder if it will be another sketch of the old lady.

  “It’s nothing really, just a sketch I did, don’t worry about it”, Tomas says trying to turn back and continue on his purposeful pacing for sentry duty.

  “Can I see?” I ask.

  Tomas turns to me handing over the journal without looking into my face. I flip open the cover and see a sketch of me. I can’t believe the likeness. It is a snapshot of me pushing Max’s fringe off his forehead, although you can’t see Max’s face, just the top of his head. My eyes are squinting into a smile, giving them an even more slanted cat-like look than usual and my lips are spread over my teeth in a carefree smile, showing the extent of their fullness. The bun in my hair has come loose so that wavy tendrils fall around my face, exaggerating my cheekbones. It is me but not the ‘me’ I see in the mirror. There is no frown or sad determination in my eyes, just happiness… or love? It’s confronting to be captured like this in such an unguarded moment. I don’t know what to say. Fiona saves me from this uncomfortable moment by telling me to turn the page.

  “They’re all really good, Tomas has done everyone, but look at the one of Karther”, she urges.

  I flip the pages to find sketch after sketch of all the volunteers. They are amazing, Gerla in the cylinder transport with a smirk on her face; Renka standing statue-still at the side of the dome but with a big bird-poo splattered down the front of his shirt, unseen by him; Fiona staring in wonder over the side of the ship with dolphins jumping out of the waves in the distance; Mickael looking lewdly at Merva’s bum as she bends to pick up an oat biscuit she dropped on the floor; and finally Karther in the common cabin bending over a miniature knight with a look of exaggerated concentration on his face. I can see what Tomas is doing; he is recording this journey in images. But he’s recording the human moments, happy times. Is this how he sees the world? How in contrast is his journal to my account of this journey? Is he blind to the realities around him or is it me who is blind?

  There are more sketches, I feature in a few and so does Max. I notice that there is none of the old lady I had seen him sketch. Obviously he prefers to keep that one out of formal records. There is one sketch I take a particular dislike to, it is a close up of Merva, she’s laughing at something unseen and she looks beautiful. Her long straight black hair frames her face and her thick eyelashes curve to almost touch her brow bone. Her lips are full and even though the sketch is done with lead pencil you just know they are pink and rosy. I don’t know why I dislike seeing Merva captured this way in Tomas’ journal, probably because I find Merva to be a nasty piece of work. I turn the page back to Karther’s sketch and stare at it for a moment longer.

  “These are amazing. I think Gerla would really appreciate seeing the one of Karther. You should show the others, you have a great talent, Tomas”, I say returning the book.

  “Yeah, thanks. I’ll think about it”, Tomas mumbles looking away.

  Is that why Tomas looked at me with dread, because he knew I would agree with Fiona? Max must have overheard because he comes over to my side peering at the sketch of Karther.

  “Hi, Max. It’s a great sketch of Karther, isn’t it?” Fiona asks, not the least bit tentative like some others are with Max.

  “Yes, did you do it Tomas?” Max asks not taking his eyes off the sketch.

  “Yes I did, there’s one of you in there, Max, take a look”, Tomas encourages placing the book into Max’s hands.  

  I am surprised that Tomas isn’t sensitive about showing Max his work and even more surprised that Max compliments Tomas on it. Max flips through the journal of sketches pausing on the one of me on the first page. He looks up at me with a small smile and turns to Tomas.

  “I like this one”, Max comments angling the book towards Tomas.

  “Yeah, but look at this one”, Tomas turns the pages to a sketch of Isabella. It’s a cartoon-style sketch with Isabella in the middle of the page surrounded by fairies dancing around her head. Each fairy has the face of one of the volunteers. There’s one for all of us and they have some characteristic of our features or personality exaggerated, like the Renka fairy has a military uniform with a sword, but instead of a blade there is a feather, and the Linton fairy has mouse ears, whiskers and a tail. I notice that the fairy-me has an enlarged, very intricate version of my mother’s hairpin and a long frown line between her eyes. Tomas has obviously chosen this one to make Max laugh because the Max-fairy has hair so long that it covers everything, waves of it flood the page. 

  “Yeah, that is a good one”, Max says with a chuckle and a flip of his untamable fringe.

&nbsp
; “I have a pair of scissors you know”, Tomas says as he nudges Max’s shoulder.

  I’m shocked that Max doesn’t stiffen at the contact or rebuff Tomas in some other way. How has this easiness come about between them? Max usually isn’t very comfortable in social situations, in truth neither am I. But he always prefers to be alone. Whether it’s me discouraging him to form close relationships, and there has been plenty of opportunity over the years with the different kids we’ve lived with, or Max intuitively protecting himself from hurt by avoiding them, I’m not sure. Either way, this interaction between Max and Tomas is uncharacteristic and unnerving.

  “Did you get the new sentry duties list?” Tomas asks when he catches me staring at him in confusion.

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t seem like I have enough to cover both Diego’s and Vonteuse’s extra duties, what happened when I left last night?” I ask.

  “You don’t, most people thought you would have too much on your plate, I said I’d take Diego’s”.

  “Oh, thanks, I guess, they probably thought it was safer not to put their lives in my hands any more than was really necessary. So is it you I’m supposed to be relieving?”

  “No, I just got here a bit earlier for Renka; he took an extra duty last night and didn’t get much sleep. You’re relieving Fiona”, Tomas nods his head in the direction of Fiona.

  I look at Fiona in confusion. Doesn’t she think the murder of one of us is enough to take sentry a bit more seriously? Shouldn’t she be on the other side of the dome patrolling not chatting to Tomas?

  “Everyone thought it was better to combine the two sentry guards on the dome so they can do circuits around it instead of up and down on either side”, Fiona explains accurately reading the confusion on my face.

  It makes sense to me, two pairs of eyes and no one alone if something does come up. But I enjoyed the peace and solitary nature of sentry. I certainly don’t relish making conversation with someone for three hours straight. But that someone would more often than not be Tomas because he took Diego’s extra duties and Diego and Vonteuse had their sentry duties together. That doesn’t seem too bad, considering Tomas is fine with a few silences, better than sharing with Mickael who never stops talking and asking questions that he never waits for the answers to. Besides, maybe I could ask Tomas a few questions about him and Max.

  “Okay, sounds like a good idea to me”, I say to Fiona.

  “Yeah, I thought so. I’ve got to go and help get some things ready for the memorial. It will start in about half an hour just over there so you two will be able to take part too”, Fiona points to the side of the ship where Karther was taken.

   I wonder what she has to get ready, what is there to do for a memorial where most people attending know nearly nothing about the deceased and who are in the middle of the ocean?

  I fall into step beside Tomas and notice Max gazing intently at a sea bird flying low above the ocean. It has caught a wriggling fish in its claws. The bird is huge and its movements graceful. It’s easy to understand why Max is enjoying watching it. Flying over the ocean in a peaceful yet predatory way is such a celebration of freedom that I find myself being envious. Things are pretty bad if I’m jealous of a bird. I smirk at the thought.

  “It’s really beautiful isn’t it?” Tomas interrupts my thoughts.

  “I think so, but it was its freedom that I was thinking about. Imagine taking off in flight, with no baggage to hold you back or cares for what the future holds. Your view of the world being almost omniscient but with no worries about what happened below you. That would have to be pretty close to utopia don’t you think?” I ask looking back at the soaring bird.

  “If by utopia you mean living on your own with God-like knowledge of the world and no responsibility for it, then yes, but that’s not my idea of utopia. Besides, I think that sea bird has chicks to feed at home, see how it hasn’t eaten its catch but is headed to the west, back to land I’d guess”, Tomas states as he squints up at the bird in question.

  “What is your idea of utopia?” I ask intrigued despite myself.

  “A place where we can grow old surrounded by our grandchildren”, Tomas mutters softly.

  He doesn’t miss a beat in his response and it is such a window into his feelings of our situation that I feel intrusive. I also feel pretty shallow, my idea of the perfect world is so selfish compared to his. The bad part is I don’t really think those things are the most important aspects of utopia. I certainly don’t want to escape my lot by running – or flying – away. I want a better life for Max, a longer life and I would do anything to get that for him. I’m suddenly angry at Tomas for making me seem shallow, for not realising it was just an absent-minded comment, not a deeply thought out life plan.

  “Isn’t that why we’re here?” I respond a little bit too harshly.

  Tomas seems to think this a bit funny because his lips turn up on one side in a smirk. That makes me angrier.

  “Why is that amusing to you? Are you here for a holiday?” I snap.

  “It’s just that you get angry very quickly, you take offence when none is meant”.

  “And that’s funny to you? Maybe if you know me so well, you should think about what you say before offending me. How do you know I was offended anyway? Maybe I was just annoyed at your obvious response”, I retort trying to sound haughty instead of angry but failing miserably.

  “Maybe”, the lift of Tomas’ eyebrows and shrug of his shoulders indicates that he doesn’t believe his comment for a second.

  I let the silence stretch out after his inadequate response and quicken my step so that we patrol around the dome at an almost uncomfortable pace. So sentry duty with Tomas isn’t going to be as easy as I thought it would be, he is obviously a frustrating person. The following twenty minutes passes in awkward silence until Tomas comments that the others are ready for Karther’s memorial.  

  They’re all gathered right next to Max so that by turning away from the sea bird he is among their group. He doesn’t look uncomfortable there but I think I should be there with him. It’s an awkward situation being at a memorial for someone you barely knew with a group of virtual strangers.

  I begin to walk towards him when I remember sentry duty.

  “Don’t worry about it, Fiona and the others are expecting us, with all of us on deck we won’t miss much. It will be over quickly anyway, then we can get back to our riveting conversation”. Tomas has obviously seen my hesitation and recognises it for what it is, doubt about leaving my duty again. I realise he is teasing me with his last comment and chose to ignore it… for now.

  We’re all gathered in a semi-circle facing the wall of the ship. Fiona places a material bag, it looks like a crumpled pillowcase, filled with the paper flowers I had seen Gerla, Linton and Isabella make, in the centre. Gerla steps forward to stand next to it.

  “Karther told me that when someone died in his commune everyone who knew them would bring something that reminded them of that person. They would burn the items with the body. I thought we could do something like that here”, Gerla says in a shaky voice.

  Fiona steps forward and puts her hand on Gerla’s arm in a show of support.

  “We know you probably don’t have an object that reminds you of Karther so we thought we could each write a memory on these paper flowers and throw them into the ocean with Karther”, Fiona adds.

  I think that’s a nice way of putting it, ‘into the ocean with Karther’, as if he floated gracefully overboard on a fine misty morning instead of being dragged to a brutal death. Fiona really knows what to say in each situation, I’ve come to the conclusion that she is a different person for everyone. She knows I don’t appreciate idle chit chat so she never forces it upon me, she knows Tomas needs encouragement to share his talent and she knows Gerla needs her support so she gives it to them. My initial assessment of Fiona as quiet isn’t exactly right, it’s more that she gives people what they need.

  After taking a step forward to be directly in the
centre of the semi-circle Fiona takes something small out of her pocket and holds it up. It’s the miniature knight from Tomas’ sketch.

  “Karther liked to make fun of Mickael and his obsession with the game called chess”, Fiona calls out in a clear voice, then places the miniature knight on the floor of the deck with a paper flower that she has written on.

  “Karther made funny figurines out of fish bones and used them to do singing concerts”, Merva whispers and bends to pick up a paper flower to write on.

  Gerla looks at Merva then down at her hand and steps forward. She opens her hand to show all of us what is in it and bends to put one of the figurines Karther apparently made next to the knight.

  “Karther practised drills with me”, Renka declares clearly and proceeds to pick up a flower.

  “Karther loved fishing”, Mayther bends to pick up a flower.

  It goes on like this until almost everyone has a turn. Karther snored really loudly, Karther talked about his sisters back home a lot, Karther learnt carpentry skills from his dad and older brother before they died, Karther spent a lot of time talking about what else he thought this ship could do. Fiona passes lead pencils out to write on the flowers. I’m a bit taken aback that everyone seems to know personal details about Karther after only three short weeks of having known him. Am I the only one who avoided him and found him slightly irritating? Asking myself this question makes me feel awful. Maybe I just see the bad in people and ignore the good.

  When it comes to Tomas’ turn he says nothing, just tears out the sketch of Karther in his journal and lays it on the floor face-up for everyone to see. Gerla lets out a breath of air that she must have been unconsciously holding and a murmur of appreciation of Tomas’ talent travels around the group. I am selfishly envious that Tomas had something to give and didn’t have to say anything.

  It’s my turn and the only thing I can think of is how Karther sang responses to everything, which seems a little hollow given what everyone else had to say, especially because it is that very trait that lead me to avoid him as much as possible. I’m surprised no one else mentioned this quirky and annoying habit of his and wonder if I’m the only one who found it irritating. Then I remember Tomas impersonating him on the night of his death and, disgustingly, it makes me feel a little better.

  “Karther sang his responses to questions”, I say in a small voice, hoping that it isn’t an entirely inappropriate memory to send off with Karther. I pick up a flower and Max hands me a pencil. I suddenly feel worried for Max, what is he going to say? Should I give him a prompt? I wrack my brains frantically and bend to whisper something about Karther enjoying sentry duty into Max’s ear when he steps forward.

  “Karther always smiled at me when I looked at him”.

  I feel simultaneously proud and sad for Max. It is a courageous thing to say in front of everyone, I want so much to hug him but think that might be embarrassing for him.

  Gerla steps forward next with watery eyes and looks down at the pile of flowers. I think I know what she is thinking, that Karther’s life has amounted to such a small insignificant pile of memories on paper.

  “Karther spoke to me a lot about his family back home. He was the second eldest boy of five sisters. He loved them very much. He listened to my stories about home and always asked interesting questions to show he cared. I think his family would be happy to know we sent him off like this. It might be hard to understand because I hadn’t known him for very long, but Karther was my best friend”. Her voice cracks on this last part and Fiona steps forward to direct her away but Gerla shakes her head and continues in a brittle voice.

  “Karther believed he was part of something really important with this journey, he would want us all to do everything we can to get to The Refuge for his family”. Gerla picks up a flower with shaky hands and begins to write on it.

  I was wrong, Gerla doesn’t see an insignificant pile of memories that amount to Karther’s life, she sees a way to send Karther off in the fashion he was used to, a way that would make his family proud, proud of their brother who had an impact on the lives of people he had known for such a short time.

  Tomas picks up his sketch and walks to the side of the ship where he lets it fall from his hands to the water. Merva and Mickael follow with their paper flowers. Tomas turns and heads back towards the dome for sentry so I follow the procession to the side of the ship and wait to throw my impersonal memory of Karther into the soft breeze that is blowing. Gerla has started crying again after her show of strength earlier. It makes me wonder what these people would do for me when it is my turn. The reality is every single one of us could be dead from Age-Sickness within a year or even a few months. I suddenly have an image of Max burning the last of our bodies, standing on his own looking into the flames. I feel tormented by the image and an irrational urge to grab Max and run pulses through my body. With these thoughts I let my paper flower drop over the side of the ship. It flutters in the breeze before gracefully falling to the water. It reminds me of the sea bird earlier and my feelings of relief or weightlessness. They no longer exist. It is freedom I yearn for but not the running away kind, freedom from a life that will be so short lived, freedom from the image of my eleven-year-old brother dying alone. Yes, the earlier feeling of relief is gone.