Nation - Пратчетт Терри Дэвид Джон - Страница 23

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Mau recognized this. He looked down at what she had absentmindedly been drawing in the dirt. It was a picture of a stick girl and a stick man, standing side by side on a big canoe, which he knew was called a boat. And when he watched her, he thought: She does it, too. She sees the silver line into the future, and tries to pull herself toward it.

The fire crackled in the distance, sending sparks up toward the red evening sky. There wasn’t much wind today, and the smoke rose to the clouds.

“He will come, whatever you think. The Rogation Sunday Islands are much too far away. The wave could never reach them. And if it did, Government House is built of stone and very strong. He is the governor! He could send out a dozen ships to look for me if he wanted! He already has! One will be here in a week!”

She was crying again. Mau hadn’t understood the words, but he understood the tears. You’re not sure of the future either. You thought you were, it was so close you could see it in your head, and now you think it’s washed away, so you’re trying to talk it into coming back.

He felt her hand touch his. He didn’t know what to do about that but squeezed her fingers gently a couple of times, and pointed at the column of smoke. There couldn’t be many fires burning in the islands now. It was a sign that must show up for miles.

“He will come,” he said.

Just for a moment, she looked astonished. “You think he will come?” she said.

Mau rummaged around in his small collection of phrases. Repetition should do it. “He will come.”

“See, I told you he would come,” she said, beaming. “He’ll see the smoke and steer right here! A pillar of fire by night and a pillar of smoke by day, just like Moses.” She jumped up. “But while I’m still here, I’d better go and see to the little boy!”

She ran off, happier than he’d ever seen her. And all it had taken was three words.

Would her father come to find her in his big boat? Well, he might. The smoke of the fire streamed across the sky.

Someone would come.

The Raiders, he thought….

They were a story. But every boy had seen the big wooden club in the chief’s hut. It was studded with shark teeth, and Mau hadn’t even been able to lift it the first time. It was a souvenir from the last time the Raiders came as far east as the Nation. After that, they knew better!

Every boy tried to lift the trophy club. Every boy listened wide-eyed to the descriptions of the big dark canoes, their prows hung with bloody skulls, their oars rowed by captives who were near skeletons themselves, and tales of how those prisoners were lucky, because when they were too weak to row anymore, they were beheaded just for their skulls. The prisoners who were taken back to the Land of Fires weren’t treated quite so well, even before they got turned into dinner. You got told this in detail.

At this point, when you were sitting there with your mouth open or perhaps your fingers over your ears, you were just trying not to wet yourself.

But then you were told about Aganu, the chief who fought the leader of the Raiders in single combat, as was their custom, and took the shark-tooth club from his dead hand, and the Raiders had run back to their war canoes. They worshipped Locaha himself, and if He was not going to give them a victory, there was no point in staying, was there?

After that you were given another chance to lift the club, and Mau had never heard of a boy failing to lift it this second time. And only now did he wonder: Was it really because the story made boys stronger, or did the old men have some way of making the club heavier?

YOU INSULT THE MEMORY OF YOUR ANCESTORS!

Aargh. They had been quiet all day. They hadn’t even said anything about him milking the pig.

“It’s not insulting,” he said aloud. “I’d use a trick, if it was me. A trick to give them hope. The strong boys wouldn’t need it and the boys who are not so strong would feel stronger. Every one of us dreamed of being the one who’d beat their champion. Unless you believe that you might, you can’t! Weren’t you ever boys?”

There was no grumbling roar in his head.

I don’t think they think, he thought. Perhaps they used to really think, but the thoughts have worn out from being thought so often?

“I will keep the baby alive if I have to milk every pig on this island,” he said, but it was horrible to think that he might have to.

No reply.

“I thought you might like to know that,” he said, “since he will be taught about you. Probably. He’ll be a new generation. He’ll call this place home. Like I do.”

The reply came slowly and sounded grinding and cracked: YOU SHAME THE NATION! HE IS NOT OF OUR BLOOD….

“Do you have any?” snapped Mau out loud.

“Do you have any?” a voice echoed.

He looked up into the ragged crown of a coconut tree. The gray parrot looked down on him with its mouth open. “Show us yer drawers! Do you have any? Do you have any?” it squawked.

That’s what they are, Mau thought. They’re just parrots.

Then he stood up, grasped his spear, turned to face the sea, and guarded the Nation from the darkness.

He didn’t sleep, of course, but at some point Mau blinked, and when he opened his eyes again the stars were bright and it was not long before dawn. That was not too much of a problem. A snoring old sow would be easy enough to find. She wouldn’t ask any questions if she found a nice big beery mash in front of her, and when the time came to run, he might even be able to see where he was going.

He told himself this to cheer himself up, but you couldn’t get away from it: Milking a pig would be much harder the second time, because you’d have to forget how horrible it had been the first time.

In the dark the surf shone where it broke over the reef, and it was time to go through it all again. He’d rather have been going into battle.

The Grandfathers certainly thought he should. They’d had time to pull some pig thoughts together. IS THIS THE WAY OF THE WARRIOR? they growled. DOES THE WARRIOR ROLL IN THE MUCK WITH HOGS? YOU SHAME US!

Mau thought, as loudly as he could: This warrior is fighting Death.

The baby was already whimpering. The young woman gave Mau a sad little smile when he took the empty calabash and washed it out. She never said anything even now.

Once again, he didn’t bother to take the spear. It’d only slow him down.

The old man was sitting on the slopes above the beach, staring up at the fading night. He nodded at Mau. “Going milking again, demon boy?” he said, and grinned. He had two teeth.

“Want to try it, sir? You’ve got the mouth for it!”

“Ha! But not the legs! I did my bit, though. Last night I begged the gods to let you succeed!”

“Well, have a rest tonight,” said Mau, “and I’ll go and lie in the muck without a prayer. And tomorrow I’ll get some sleep and you can pray to the gods to make it rain milk. I think you will find lying in the muck is more reliable.”

“Are you trying to be smart, boy?”

“Trying not to be dumb, sir.”

“Games with words, boy, games with words. The gods are in everything we do. Who knows? Perhaps they see a use for your sorrowful blasphemy. You mentioned beer yesterday…,” he added hopefully.

Mau smiled. “Do you know how to make beer?” he said.

“No,” said Ataba. “I have always seen it as my duty to do the drinking part. Making beer is women’s business. The trouserman girl does not know how to make beer, no matter how much I shout at her.”

“I’ll need all that is left,” said Mau firmly.

“Oh, dear, are you sure?” said Ataba, his face falling.

“I’m not going to try to suck milk out of a sober pig, sir.”

“Ah yes,” said Ataba sadly. “Well, I shall pray… and for the milk, also.”

It was time to go. Mau realized that he had just been putting things off. He should have been listening to himself; if you didn’t believe in prayer, then you had to believe in hard work. There was just enough time to make a dash and find a sow before they woke up. But the old man was still staring at the sky.

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