Veracity (22 page)

The story was clever - I'll give the Elders that. It would buy the crew into scouring the landscape for signs of survivors, and then, if they ever found the slightest indication of them, to track those people down with the greatest of focus. They had the foresight to allude to our experimenting with a possible cure, which would provide an answer for the presence of the peculiar chemicals on the ship, and the reason for me bringing them along on our travels. The story also accounted for my being determined to put some of those chemicals inside people's food without their knowing it (after all, it was just an
experimental
cure). It even had a loophole that would explain why we might have to make a sudden dash away from a group of people, and to then avoid them at all cost from then on in; which was that I could possibly discover (conveniently right after slipping them a good dosage of sterilization mixture, no doubt) that they were all, in fact, contaminated with that slowly infectious and horrible disease that we were trying to cure. We were in grave danger, I would say to them one day, leading them away, fleeing over the hills, away from the people who would probably be staggering around, clutching their stomachs after their evening meal. As far as I can tell, the only hole in the story, which, as I now know would come back to haunt me in the worst imaginable way, was the 'technological device' that would be left on the ship to 'communicate' our findings, which of course didn't exist. But I also know that the Elders had to include it in the tale - because how else would the crew rationalize our gathering all of this information if it was just going to die with us, and never be passed on? I'm sure the Elders also thought that returning to the ship or base camp to stage a 'purpose' of the expedition to the crew, wouldn't necessarily be a complete waste of time, but that it would give me an opportunity to make more sterilization mixtures with the extra lab equipment there, should we not come across other such equipment along the way.

Predictably, everyone that was offered a placement jumped at the chance. And in the end, this promising crew of mine - of which, within the first three days, had already become voraciously bent on developing a pecking order among themselves - consisted of eight young men of 'varying beneficial capacities'. Which really only meant that they were all bringing
something
- even if it was something we didn't want, or something we needed but didn't like, or even just themselves, which, I would learn, often wasn't enough. (Though, maybe I'm being a bit unfair here, and I should just admit to myself that these judgments I'm making had little to do with people's capabilities, and more to do with whether I liked them or not.)

Toivo, unfortunately, was one of those people I didn't really like. He was dark and muscular, and could be (at very selective times, mind you) a hard worker. He was also one of those people that had the misfortune of appearing confused in almost any situation; even when asking him a trivial question, like how he was doing, he would still squint at you as if you were the incomprehensible sun, his mouth open, the corners of his eyes hard at work. It took me a long while to get used to this while growing up, and being around him on the ship, I realized that I'd somehow forgotten how to deal with it.

"Toivo, could you rig up some fishing lines? I think we should troll for a bit and catch a few meals," I said, as I was passing by him on one of the first days; but stopped, as it seemed that not a single word had been absorbed in the slightest way.

"Huh?" he mumbled. I would describe his expression as looking puzzled, but that would imply that it seemed he was
attempting
to understand, and this wasn't so - he was just blank.

"Fish. We have to fish, Toivo." But he didn't move, a strand of hair flapping into one of his eyes, causing it to narrow a bit more than the other. "Toivo?"

"Huh."

I waited a moment. Still nothing. "Did you hear me?"

"Yeah," he said, as if this were perfectly obvious to the rest of the world; almost sympathetically, like he might feel sorry for the person that couldn't take in such a simple fact.

"Oh...well, could you rig the lines then?" At this point, I too was squinting with Toivo.

"Yeah," he said in the same way. Of course he would rig the lines. Hadn't I just asked him that? His tone seemed to suggest that perhaps I was a little slow.

And for the first while, this was how most of my conversations went with him. But - and this was the strangest part - he wasn't really an idiot. He was actually one of the people who got things done; sometimes even complicated things, and
sometimes
even things that required analytical thinking. In fact, if there were a long enough silence in a discussion of how to solve a problem, he was occasionally the one who would throw in the most viable solution. So eventually, I just got used to his requisite moment of staring into the air in front of him for a few seconds before plodding away to do the job. But when the vying for unofficial rank began on the ship, I was sure that this frustrating peculiarity of his would push him to the wayside. However, strangely enough, it didn't; and maybe this was only because of his size - that or the fact that he rarely said anything to offend, if anything at all. And it was lucky for him that he was accepted, because I happen to think that belonging was one of his priorities.

Then there was Aimil, who, frankly,
was
a little simple. He, for one, fit seamlessly into the Elders' guidelines. He was a great worker, and would happily jump up and do anything that was asked of him without questioning it in the least. True, he couldn't really offer a lot in terms of problem solving or abstract thinking, but what he lacked in this he made up for in his manner. He was calm and even-tempered, and when we were children, was venerated for his ability to befriend interesting little creatures. (I can still picture him picking insects off of trees, and then crouching down to the ground and waiting an eternity to feed the things that eventually crawled out from under the leaves; which, after plucking the insect from between his fingers, would just spin around and dash back into invisibility. But in the realm of boyhood this was a notable achievement.) His hair was red, and he had an assortment of freckles that coloured his face with a murky brown spray that stood out against the bright white of his skin. His expression never really changed, which was a bit unfortunate in his case, as it was a fairly ridiculous one; his eyebrows raised as if he were constantly and overly interested, his upper lip drooping a little over the bottom one. Like Toivo, he was quiet, but instead of seeming slow and somewhat resistant, he came across as complacent, giving you the feeling that he would always be satisfied with whatever was decided, which, somehow, was comforting. And also like Toivo, I was always half expecting him to slip into the unhappy role of being someone to pick on; and, realistically speaking, I think one of them would have, had Solmund not already effectively filled that niche.

Solmund was, without doubt, the most intelligent person on the boat; he was probably the most intelligent young adult on the island come to think of it. At an early age, it was discovered that he had a remarkable comprehension of mathematics, physics, and generally all things technical. I'm sure that he was one of the first people to be chosen to go on the expedition, and that that conclusion had been drawn years before, when his gift was first recognized. I believe this because he had a very specific education.

Like the rest of us, he was first taught about natural principals, but then went on to learn about more theoretical physics and their specific applications, and by the end of his education, he was studying from books that always had the title 'engineering' on their covers. And I understand that there was good reason for the Elders to see him as an invaluable tool, as no one could foresee what we might have to build during our lifelong quest: a bridge, a raft, another boat, a fortification, maybe even a weapon. But regardless, we would almost certainly have to construct some kind of hauling system to take the boat out of the water and onto land, where it would serve as our base camp; though if it turned out to be less work, Solmund could also instruct us on repairing a hauling system that already existed (one of the many reasons we planned on disembarking in a ruined port).

He was the only person on the island to have had an entire section of the Great Hall reserved for his education alone; a few interesting instruments scattered around the tables, and sometimes even large sheets of paper to draw diagrams (though of course, most of the time he just used a slate and a piece of the greyish stone from the east shore to write with, like the rest of us). His assignments were always intriguing to me. They would ask him to design something, a bridge for instance, and then he would meddle there for days, scribbling obscure formulas and drawing lines with concentrated precision, an Elder ogling over his mathematics, until finally, there was an orderly diagram of a bridge unifying the edges of some make-believe chasm. And by and large, people reacted to his finished product in the same way: they would look at what he'd done and then disappear around a corner for a short while, only to return with someone else, which was when they would both lean over to look at the sketches for a few thoughtful minutes, eventually straightening up with their hands in their pockets, and nod at each other. Meanwhile, Solmund would be huddled in the corner, pretending not to notice what was happening, trying to hide that skittish head of his under bony shoulders, which were always hunched a little high.

He was small, stunted, and awkward, and when he spoke to people, he could only look them in the face for a few seconds before dropping his eyes and speaking to their feet or the ground beside them instead. I found there was something strange about his eyes, too; though it might have just been that his sight was horrible, which he would never admit to, but was something I'd grown increasingly convinced of. When he read or drew his immaculate diagrams, he held his face directly above what he was working on, and during sailing classes or on the boat, when someone pointed into the horizon at a breaching whale or a distant bird, he wouldn't even raise his head to the endeavour. And a part of me actually
hoped
his sight was bad, because at least that would explain his habit of looking at people with his nose all shrivelled up, his face squishing into an expression of complete disdain (a quirk of his that didn't do much to help his social standing).

On the ship, we'd taken to lowering the sails and heaving to every few days, in order to swim in the ocean and keep clean. But Solmund wouldn't swim with us; and I couldn't ever remember him swimming back on the island, either. I only remember him standing in the water with some of his clothes on, splashes bouncing off his knees, looking as if he were sneering at the people in the distance. I had assumed that the reason he chose not to swim on the boat was that he wanted to avoid stripping down naked in front of us, which had quickly become the custom. And as we'd all been witness to the juvenile mentality of some of the crew, he might have been justified in avoiding it, because, really, he probably
would
have been ridiculed, whether he stripped down or not.

This fact that people badgered Solmund, and that he did nothing to prevent it, or rather, almost seemed to go out of his way to provoke it, was a problem that I spent a lot of time thinking about after the battle of snide remarks began. But unfortunately the only conclusion I ever came to was the miserable one that I wasn't really cut out to deal with these things in the first place, which did nothing but make the situation seem even more hopeless. So much so that once - though only once - after Solmund had received a particularly scathing barrage of insults from some of the crew, I even swallowed my pride enough to ask for Mikkel's advice.

He came to take the helm for the night and I lingered around on the deck after handing it over to him, thinking of ways to bring up the issue, stopping to look at the sky as the blue paled, then darkened. When I saw the first few stars being sifted out, I realized how long it was taking me, and quickly convinced myself that there was really nothing disgraceful in asking a bit of counsel every now and then. The second this seemed to make sense to me, I walked up behind Mikkel and spoke over his shoulder. "So - uh... what do you think we should do about the crew teasing Solmund?" I asked, not bothering with any kind of lead up to the question.

He twisted his neck around to look me up and down for a few seconds, "You mean, what should
you
do about it?" he corrected.

"Uh... yeah, I guess."

He drew in a long breath, turning to face the bow again, and tilted his head at the foremast. After a long while, he shrugged his shoulders, "To be honest, I don't really know."

I nodded my head, and then waited for him to continue, waited for him to expand on what he
thought
we should do, or what
might
work. But he didn't; he just stood there with his back to me. And as the silence only grew more awkward, the air between us becoming stiff, I decided it was time to leave. "Well... thanks anyway," I muttered. He barely nodded in reply, and after leaning over to check our bearing on the compass, made a small adjustment to the helm, seeming to forget that I was ever standing behind him in the first place.

But the truth was that Mikkel
did
know what I should do. He knew all about what to say to people and when, how to quietly discourage them from acting in one way, and how to encourage them to act in another. He probably had a slough of words in his head that would have guided me in the right direction, and I'm sure that those words would have come so natural to him that they wouldn't even have felt like advice. Yet he decided to keep them to himself. And by consciously making that choice, he was implicitly communicating something, warning me that he sure as hell didn't think he was on the ship to stick his neck out whenever my shortcomings obliged him to, that he saw the expedition as 'my game', and that he would be content, if not amused, to be a spectator from the safety of the wayside. Without so many words, Mikkel was letting me know that he was only going to do his job - nothing more - and was going to leave me to do mine.