The Triple Goddess (174 page)

The blood began to circulate once more in Steerforth’s veins. ‘I remember now: I’m the Speaker of the Ward, and my name is Steerforth. We are Slaves, and we are about to die with nary a salute to the Emperor, or, in our case, Central’s Minotaur.’ Pleased to have recovered his wits, Steerforth raised his voice. ‘Bed-check! Everyone to acknowledge the person on either side of him. Those no longer alive, or who have stolen away under cover of night, needn’t respond.’ He gave a wheeze of ironic amusement.

There were sounds of movement and murmuring, and the creaking of springs and rattle of bedsteads against the wall, as the Impatients turned to each other. Some of them touched hands, before adjusting their pillows and reaching for their urine bottles. Brief words were spoken but there was no conversation.

‘The chap we were listening to,’ said Steerforth, ‘would he please identify himself.’

‘It was I,’ said Sorias.

‘Aye, who is Aye? We all have S-names here; you can’t be one of us.’

‘I am Sorias and I am as you are. You asked me to tell you a story, and I did.’ Sorias reached for the water jug on the table that he shared with the next bed, and poured himself a glass. He drank it quickly, and then another.

‘Young man,’ said Steerforth, ‘I recall that you went on for a long time, much longer than was desirable or appropriate. An all-nighter. We have rules, you know, which I will ask you to keep in mind for what may pass for the future amongst us.’

Sorias said, ‘If such a rule were made, it can only have been in ignorance, or aforethought of a need for it to be broken. Actually, I have been speaking not for one night but three nights, and two days, continuously. The same people are here as when I started, which means that for two mornings we haven’t received a visit from Director Bonvilian and his death squad, nor has anyone new been brought in. You can do a roll-call if you doubt me.’

Steerforth chuckled. ‘To suggest, Sorias, that for a triality of days the Minotaur has been off his nosh is fatuous. You spoke all night, for one night, and none of us is due to be gathered until ward round at nine o’clock, as per usual. The beast needs his fibre to keep him regular. As Speaker it is my duty to record the name of each person who is taken, and the last, Serum, was carried hence kicking and screaming yesterday. To confirm which I’ve only to appeal to the house. Gentlemen, what say you?’

He looked up and down the ward for support. Nobody stirred, and Steerforth sneered, ‘Is this a bid on your part, Sorias, for the Speakership? I’m not dead yet, and I am sure that everyone here would object to your lobbying for the position. That isn’t the way we do things here. Besides, the order of succession, so far as it can be, has already been determined.’

‘Mr Speaker,’ said Sorias, ‘what prompted me at last to answer your call for a story-teller was your own mention of a book,
The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments
, and the young woman in it named Shahrazad. Shahrazad, as you know, was the elder daughter of the wazir, or vizier, of King Shahryar, a King of the Kings of the Banu Sasan in the islands of India and China. For the last three nights I have been your Shahrazad.’

‘An S-person and a she,’ said Steerforth. ‘There are none such here. Said Macbeth, “Bring forth men-children only,” and that is how the Minotaur has arranged it. This is a gender-specific ward, and presumably you were subjected to the same sexuality test prior to admission as the rest of us. I gave the example of Shahrazad only to get the ball rolling, and the ball has come to rest.’

‘The analogy is appropriate,’ said Sorias, ‘as I will presently explain. In
The Arabian Nights
it was the King’s practice, after discovering the infidelity of his first wife and having her executed, to take a new one each day and cut off her head at dawn. The occupants of Ward One have suffered a more protracted fate at nine a.m. for as long as any of us can remember; except, as I said, for the last two mornings.

‘Shahrazad had a plan to end the slaughter, the accomplishment of which involved risking her own life by volunteering to become the next in the King’s series of wives.’

‘The woman had a death-wish,’ said Steerforth. ‘But don’t let that stop you from offering to go before the rest of us, if that’s what you have in mind. Though hitherto, the method in the Minotaur’s madness has always guided him in his selections. Or are you suggesting that we draw lots to get kissy-kissy with our persecutor, as a sop to Cerberus?’

‘You misunderstand me. Shahrazad I am not, but I believe in her hopeful strategy in dealing with a situation similar to ours. She had a life wish, not a death wish.’

‘Are you making some analogy here, implying that there might be a...dare I use the word?...happy conclusion to our situation? If so, I should remind you that the raising of false hopes is forbidden amongst us. So, unless you know of something in your DNA that will arrest the process of annihilation, in which case we encourage you to request immediate audience with the Minotaur, you must cease and desist propounding this heresy.’

‘I was merely drawing your attention to how, every night, Shahrazad told King Shahryar a story that had to be suspended the next morning without being concluded, so that he was consumed with curiosity as to how it would end, and spared her until the next day; when she continued, and merged it into another tale that also had not ended by dawn; and so on until she had recounted one thousand and one such episodes.

‘By which time Shahryar was convinced of Shahrazad’s constancy, and spared her life. She remained with him till the end of his days, and bore him three children.’

‘Somehow I don’t think Director Bonvilian is as susceptible to narrative influence as your King Shahryar.’

‘With respect, you’re missing the point.’

‘Which is?’

‘Shahrazad risked her life out of a desire to end an abhorrent practice, which would otherwise have gone on indefinitely, and she was prompted to do this by hope, or perhaps faith. Whilst her objective was clear, to distract the king from his misogynistic preoccupation, her accomplishment of it was not. She had no guarantee of success. But it came to pass that, by fabricating another world for King Shahryar to enter, a timeless one that became more real to him than the one he was in, she created an environment in which he unconsciously relinquished his jealousy; and then, consciously, rescinded his cruel mandate. In the process, Shahrazad did not moralize with, or attempt to reform, the King, nor did he learn compassion. All he did was listen.’

‘For rather a long time. Central, I believe, is keen for this Project thing to bear fruit before the end of the world renders it redundant.’

‘All I know, as Shahrazad did, is that the stories must continue.’

Steerforth shook his head. ‘The suggestion, young man, though laudable, is impractical. A thousand more stories would require the retailing of fictive matter on Ward One for nearly a further three years, and there’s proof enough that the world will end in months not years, absent any positive contribution that our bodies might make to Central’s Project.’

‘A thousand and one is not a literal number, like ten, or a hundred, or a thousand. Shahrazad’s stories would have gone on indefinitely, if necessary and she were spared. Life is life so long as it lasts, with no proof required. Whether a river runs straight, or winds, or forms an oxbow lake by intersecting with itself to shorten its path to the sea, it follows its own secret destiny.’

A spark of glee ignited in Steerforth’s belly. It must be clear to all that Sorias had gone over the edge. Now, as Speaker, it was incumbent on him to be charitable, for the wardniks knew only too well how great was the mental duress imposed upon them, and the toll it took.

Steerforth looked around to assess the general mood; but the Impatients, their eyes empty of expression, were all lying on their backs staring at the stained-glass dome of the ceiling, passive and impassive.

Sorias had not finished. ‘Regarding that rolling ball. As you may recall, the myth of the Minotaur contains the hopeful person of Ariadne, daughter of Minos, King of Cnossos. Ariadne gives a ball of golden thread to Theseus, so that he can find his way out of the labyrinth after he has slain the fearful beast. Ariadne herself had a golden crown set with gems, which at her death was set in the sky where the gems became stars.’

It was nine o’clock. The door to the ward opened; not as it usually did, thrust open for the strutting Hugo Bonvilian 4285D by one of his entourage; but slowly, and only by so much as was enough to admit a slim unaccompanied figure in a tailored navy-blue dress with white piping.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are!

Up above the world so high,

Like a diamond in the sky!

     Anne Taylor and Jane Taylor,

  
Rhymes for the Nursery
, “The Star”, 1806

*

Sister Gloria Mundy 2042M had lost none of her air of gravity, but she no longer had the air of a nursing sister. Nor did it seem that she would answer anyone who addressed her by her alphanumeric name.

As she walked down the ward looking to neither left nor right, the Impatients shook off their torpor with a vigour that Speaker Steerforth had failed to induce in them, and sat up.

When Gloria Mundy reached the end of the ward, she raised her arms before the windows in a grand gesture. Although the day had begun leaden grey, sunshine suffused the room; the iron stanchions inside the tall panes melted away; and, despite decades of disuse, the windows opened wide without a sound. The fetid atmosphere freshened, and was filled with the scent of flowers and the singing of birds.

Gloria put both index fingers in her mouth and blew a piercing whistle out of the window. The sound was so powerful that every man on the ward found himself trying to remember whether, in his youth, he had been capable of producing one like it. Impatient Squamous whispered to his neighbour Squeamish, ‘Me, a two-fingered curl was as much as I could manage. It’s all in the bevel, you know, as the upper teeth and tongue force air downwards.’ Squeamish nodded.

When she turned to face the ward, Gloria Mundy’s face was transformed by a smile, and instead of her uniform of hospital blue she was wearing a dress that matched the light so closely it was impossible to tell them apart…the material might have been reflective, or the brightness inherent in it, or perhaps the day was itself taking on the hue of the garment.

The smile became a laugh, a silvery tone that irradiated the spirit of every man on his pallet. Hearts beat more rapidly, cheeks filled, and the extremities of numb limbs tingled as if with pins and needles. The cuckoo depression, which had grown and pushed so many recollections of humanity and love from the ward, flew out of the windows to seek its victims elsewhere. Stagnant, selfish, and fearful thoughts, even hatred of the oppressor, were replaced by a liquor that coursed through every dried-up vein, like the blood that flows into a butterfly’s wings when it emerges from the chrysalis, pumping them up by as much as sixty times in size.

In a low mellifluous voice, Gloria Mundy said, ‘I am here for one reason only: to lead you on a journey. A final journey, to a place where there is no past or present or future. In the words of Guy de Maupassant, “Le voyage est une espèce de porte par où l’on sort de la réalité comme pour pénétrer dans une réalité inexplorée qui semble un rêve.” There you shall reside forever with your brothers and sisters of the world who have gone on before you.

‘But before I do so, before I can do so, each of you must relinquish your S-name and reveal yourself as you were at birth. You know your names, and now you must declare them.’

Gloria walked to Squamous’s bed and touched his shoulder.

‘Charmed I’m sure,’ said Squamous nervously. ‘Been an admirer of yours for some time, miss. I’m Squamous.

‘But Squamous isn’t your name, is it?, not your real one.’

Squamous gave Gloria first a blank and then a shifty look. ‘It is too. Squamous.’

‘Come on, try harder.’

Even the birds stopped their noise to listen. Squamous began to shake. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he looked first to the windows, as if he were contemplating jumping out of them; and then to the other end of the ward, as if he were contemplating making a run for it, or willing the Director to burst in and “Ho!” for his summary execution. But he did not move, and Bonvilian did not enter.

Flatly he said again, ‘I have only one name, and it’s Squamous. Everyone here knows that. Guys, back me up here.’

Gloria leaned over him. ‘That’s three times you’ve denied me. I know how difficult it is, but if we’re to move on you must declare it, for the others’ sake as well as yours.’

Squamous sighed, then...‘Ben,’ he said. ‘It’s Ben, Ben Allenby. I’m fifty-seven years old and have…had...a wife, and three children. Their names were...I wish I knew what happened to them.’

‘Thank you, Ben Allenby,’ said Gloria. ‘Now everyone, you heard Ben. Follow his example and introduce yourselves.’

One by one, Squeamish, Squint, Snot, Smallpiece, Spittle, Sarco, Spleen, Stink, Scrap, Scrag, Sputum, Sweeney, Syndrome, and Sick, cast off their designations and announced themselves by their proper names. As each person reassumed his birth identity, the resurgence of emotion that came with it felt like a kind of baptism in a warm incoming tide. The others cheered each announcement, most loudly when it was revealed that Sweeney, Syndrome, and Smallpiece were all called John and that their respective surnames were Black, Brown, and White.