At the Edge of the Game (16 page)

‘We have lots of
food here. Team up with us and we’ll share. You stay here tonight. Tomorrow we
go.’

His wife starts
crying all of a sudden. The boy, after a moment’s consideration, joins in. Big,
throaty wails from him.

‘So can you do
it?’

‘Where’s the
food?’ says Helen.

They have a
freezer – not really cold with no electricity. Packed with all the commodities
you’d expect them to have - pizzas, burgers, frozen chips.

‘We’ll want a
good share of that,’ says Heathshade.

‘We can discuss it.’

Helen knows what
she wants. ‘We’ll have the stew now, please.’

She takes it
upon herself to ladle it out onto plates for the three of us.

The most for
Heathshade, the least for me. Why?

Next we indicate
that we are to be shown to our beds. Only one spare bed is available and pre-emptively
I make it plain that Heathshade is assigned the sofa.

 The bed is
bare, the mattress lumpy. In the wardrobe are dusty old blankets, torn sheets,
a single stained pillow.

It’s still only
seven, but Helen falls asleep. Not me though. I’m over-tired, strung out from
the stresses of the day, muscles aching, head throbbing. Also thirsty, but will
stay here. The family is hearing a Heathshade monologue. His personal brand of
opinionated vacuity must be quite an unfamiliar experience for them.

Bur can’t find a
comfortable position on the bed, and I am too aware of the airborne grime of
this musty room, troublingly elaborate of molecular structure. It sticks to the
back of my throat.

Open the window.
It’s of that old-fashioned wooden sort that sticks so that you have to force
it. The loud creak makes Helen groan and stir.

The air, cool
and refreshing. Carrying still some sense of springtime, rippling the curtains,
stirring dust on the sill.

Moonlight and
the busy floodwater glint give dark definition to the line of trees outside the
boundary wall.

Climb out through
the window. Why am I doing this? Plant feet on the yielding soil like stepping
off a lunar module ladder. Leave behind those lost souls inside.

I will ensure
that my child has a soul, transcends the world of the obvious, a world already
overpopulated with the likes of those fools in the house and - may as well
admit it - also inhabited by myself.

A voice carries
faintly on the breeze, propagating across the water, a halloo desolate and
grim, emitted without hope.

I come upon a
garden bench wet with water droplets. It’s pleasant to sit, look at the clouds
driven from the south crossing past the bright moon. Through gaps stars are
also visible, and Venus, and that gold body, that spark low in the southwest, that
I divine must be Jupiter.

I throw a rock,
never hear the splash though it surely hit the water. I’d like to climb one of
those trees, plunge from a high branch. I imagine against all reason warmish
water, soft and friendly like this spring air.

The swishing grass
is long, catches at my legs so that I plod as though I were in the flood
shallows.

 At least the
aurochs are unsighted behind the rocky ridge. Good fortune has ordained that we
are also downwind of the grazing animals. We did not take the wind into
consideration when we formulated our plan. We sit against a boulder. Whispering,
Masqle outlines the next stage of our venture. One of us, he says, should
proceed to one end of the rocky ridge, the two others to the other end. When
the two are in position, the one should emerge from cover into full view of the
aurochs. This should startle them sufficiently so that they bolt in the
opposite direction. As they pass the far end of the ridge, the two concealed
marksmen should be able to bring down Aleph-29 at their leisure, and have time
to take more than one shot to do so if need be.

Connor
volunteers for the lone role. Masqle and I proceed quietly to the end of the
ridge and settle down against a boulder in preparation for the auroch stampede.
We wait several minutes for Connor to manoeuvre himself into suitable position.
We clutch our rifles tightly, with sweating hands, not knowing when the charge
will occur. A flash of movement catches my eye amongst the grasses between two
boulders about thirty paces below the ridge. I grip Masqle's shoulder lightly
and gesture towards the spot. Another quick movement reveals a male acinonyx
creeping towards the slow-moving aurochs. Then we spot another further away - a
sleek female, feline eyes fixed on its unsuspecting quarry. There may be more
acinonyxes with these two. They often work in familial teams.

As one, we
realise the danger. Abandoning our position, we make out way back down the
ridge, keeping as low as we can to stay in cover, all the while listening for
the acinonyx attack that will send the aurochs thundering towards our comrade. We
reach the end of the ridge and see no sign of Connor. Then Masqle spots him
some way down the ridge, too far from us to hear our whispered warnings, lying
on a patch of grass between two boulders. The aurochs are standing in a tight
group now, the closest twenty paces from him, looking warily around, sensing
danger. Masqle tells me to stay where I am and crawls down the shallow incline
towards Connor. He is within several paces of him when Connor notices his
presence. They exchange a few hushed words and then start to creep their way
back up the incline towards me.

The acinonxyes
begin their attack. There are four of them. They emerge from cover as one,
converging on the aurochs from different directions. Though the great cats are
large creatures, half as heavy again as a man, they are dwarfed by the aurochs,
who stand so tall that a man is not high enough even to look levelly at their
massive shoulders. Yet even an auroch in full health is in danger in the face
of a team of hungry acinonyxes. The aurochs cannot hope to outrun the great
cats, for they are the swiftest land-creatures on earth. Neither can they hope
to elude them through agility, for the acinonyxes employ strategies that can
cause an auroch to break a leg on the treacherous grassland. The aurochs cannot
even confidently hope to defeat the acinonyxes through brute strength, though
they are among the most powerful creatures on the planet. A team of acinonyxes
can pull down even a bull like Aleph-29 with relative ease after they have used
their natural cunning to tire him out.

However, the
primary weapon of the acinonyx is surprise, for it is through confusion that
they can isolate an auroch and subdue it. In this case the acinonyxes have
mistimed their appearance. They are young and relatively inexperienced hunters,
probably all from the same litter, now on the cusp of adulthood. The aurochs
turn as a unit and bolt in the direction of Connor and Masqle. I shout a cry of
warning to them. They realise too late what has transpired. They get to their
feet and try to run to safety. The aurochs, pursued half-heartedly by the
acinonyxes, who know they have already lost their opportunity, bear down upon
the men too swiftly for them to get clear. The men are knocked to the ground in
an instant and then crushed beneath the hoofs of the huge animals. Their blood
and entrails are spread across the grass.

I stare at
their broken forms, living men one instant, formless meat the next. The
acinonyxes, still not aware of me, bound cheerfully to the site of my comrades'
deaths, sniff at the scattered bloody traces before settling down to feast.

A female grips
Masqle by the neck and drags him along the ground, so I discharge a round into
the sky. They scatter, retreating to the cover of some longer grass some
distance away, look back towards me as I climb unsteadily, legs trembling, down
to the bodies.

I don't know
what to do. I can't hope to carry them back to the post, leaving a trail of
blood all the way back. The acinonyxes would have me before I even got halfway
there. Vultures already assembling in the sky overhead. One of the males
emerges from the grass and begins a cautious approach. I fire off another
round, this time aimed at a rock just to his left, and he retreats again.

The smell will
draw all kinds of predators here, some of them likely to be more formidable
than these cats. Better get back to the safety of the post.

I pick up the
identity tags of Masqle and Connor and put them in my pocket. The human remains
I leave to the local predators and scavengers.

The light is on
in our hut. A surprise. One that makes me fearful now in an entirely different
way. The window is open. A shadow crosses the wall inside.

Helen. She sits
on the side of the bed, leaning forward, rocking.

‘Where were you?’
She’s sweating, very pale.

I haul myself
inside. Trying to gather my thoughts, think straight. I need to make a
conscious effort to breathe, medulla out of commission. ‘Are you all right? You
don’t look well.’

She doesn’t
answer for a moment. ‘No.’

‘What is it?’ Heart
switches gear.

‘I don’t know. Cramps.’

Don’t let there
be blood. There isn’t.

She groans at
the onset of… what, a contraction?

‘What’s
happening, Helen?’

‘Help me into
bed. I’ll be all right.’

She’s wearing
nightclothes under a couple of sweaters and a heavy overcoat. Why? It’s not
that cold in the savannah breeze. So light and slender she feels in my arms.

She doesn’t want
me to talk, but she lets me lay beside her, hold her hand. The tattered
wallpaper has a cartoon-animal pattern of puppies, fawns, kittens. On the wall
are scribbles, clumsily scrawled letters. Not, I am completely sure, anything
to do with that half-boy, half-defendant out there. The word CAT appears beside
a pen-drawn form that does, in fact, for all its inexactness, capture something
of feline essence. I could labour for years and not achieve what this scribble
does. I would enlarge the scrawl and frame it, if I could.

She takes a
breath. ‘Get more blankets. I'm freezing.’

Yes, it’s cold
in this godforsaken place. A layer of ice on the bed and the carpet. Standing
up, I get dizzy. Lean against the wall. The CAT comes away in my hand, ripped
in two, destroyed.

I get all the
remaining blankets from the wardrobe and cover her. So much dust is raised that
I have a fit of sneezing. Where has my strength gone? I really want to lie
down. She has the bed. She needs it. I’ll take the floor.

‘Are you okay,
George?’

‘Tired.’

My skin tingles,
my legs ache even more than before. I really want to sleep. She’s leaning over
me. Let me just lie here, Helen. Get back into bed. Your turn not to bother me.
Tables turned.

Can’t think with
this internal overlay getting worse – buzzing, roaring, a drifting veil, pain
like electric current. Body defences failing cell by cell, biological defeat
played out on the thin, worn carpet. No contortion relieves the burning in my
waist and legs. A problem, a mental puzzle I have to solve – what is it again? Like
in dreaming, I forget what it is. I keep forgetting.

Sound of
rattling loose windowpanes - a distraction. Cool evening air, blowing in from
the sea. Sea? That’s not right. We’re far from the sea… hundreds of miles. Where’s
the sea? A long way beyond that high mountain spine, which the train track
parallels throughout its long ascent. Not so hot here as down in the lowlands,
but the exertion of this hike, this leg-aching hike, has pricked my sweat
glands. Nothing wholesome or satisfying about this. Feels like life itself
leaking out through my skin.

But those impressive
hilltop earthworks are the work of sound military minds. I have a new respect
for these Neanderthals, seeing the sharpened beams protrude from the circular
mound, and the deep, dry moat that rings its outer edge. Steel-tipped assegais
and pikes of the defenders flash in the afternoon sun. A multitude of warriors
occupy the foot of the hill, and all are silent. On the wind is carried only
the faint sound of a woman gasping and groaning, coming from… I can’t see
where. Will someone not attend to her? Are they so primitive, these people,
that they will ignore a woman in labour?

In the light
of day we skirted around the evening's unpleasantness. After a breakfast of
forest nuts and fruit he went up the slope to Brinnilla's grave. Some time
later I saw him at the edge of the trees, moving in the general direction of
the northern headland. That afternoon I spotted him through the telescope
sitting on one of the headland's rocky crags, watching the waves crashing
beneath. He returned just before sunset in lighter mood. I shared the meal I
had prepared for myself, which he accepted with good grace. We discussed of the
possibility of exploring the wider world. We studied a holographic
representation of the globe based on mapping the ship had carried out from
lunar orbit, and prepared an ambitious flight plan that would take us on a
polar circumnavigation of the planet.

We left in
midmorning the next day, flying south, following the line of the island coast
until it turned eastwards and receded behind us. Soon the vast ocean was all
that was visible below. Cat stared with grave intensity at the waves, feline
face pressed against the cockpit window, tail fur standing on end. The triped
dozed at my feet. The sun edged closer to the horizon behind us as we flew over
New Zealand. The contrast with my time could not be more dramatic. Though it
was the winter season in the Southern Hemisphere, conditions were quite mild. The
rugged terrain was covered with ice-encrusted forest. The rivers and lakes were
frozen over, but clearly alive beneath the layer of surface ice. From the air
the rich abundance of the land, awaiting the spring thaw, was plain to see.