That Book Your Mad Ancestor Wrote (24 page)

And now he really listens. At least partly out of respect for me, I like to think. I
’m giving him the benefit of the doubt, anyway.

I remember something about being supposed to consider yourself already dead and not care that you
’re going nowhere, but I don’t want to think like that, and the people in my land of samurai don’t think like that either. So I’ll just keep the idea in reserve, I’m thinking, in case I ever need to go nuts that way to stop me going nuts some worse way.

Out in the dark, with the Milky Way sprawled across the sky like the mother of the bride after one too many, listening to small creatures scurrying about in the blue
-black coffin of the night, I think about a good death, a worthy death. Is there such a thing? And if there is, does it still count as good if no one sees it? My gut tells me of course it fucking does, like if a tree falls in the woods it makes a noise whether Joe Mouse or Joe Volk or Joe Bactyl hears it or not. The action matters, not the witness. Then my gut thinks again and reminds me that the whole point is not to die. Death is always a failure.

That sounds right. But then I
’m not sure. I want the kid to hurry up and grow up so that we can talk about it.

I suddenly remember her and her stupid underwear, how she used to care about all that lace and shit.

IV
.

A dream
’s around. It must be that, because the smell’s like nothing else, and the volk are excited. They’re coming further into the hills. One night we nearly ran into a hunting party. I say nearly ran into, but in fact they were making so much noise that we heard them long before they could have seen us. We were able to just turn around and quietly go home. His runtship was calm, a perfect little stoic. That’s how far he’s come.

I
’d still call this time to move on, or at least vacate the premises for a while, but it’s getting on for winter now and pouring rain nearly every day. I figure each deluge should be washing away our scent, so that I don’t have to factor that into my weighing up of whether we should stay or go. We’ve been out to farms twice more. I’ve buried our pig supply in a few caches around and about, so that if any intruder comes by the hut while we’re out there won’t be anything to see or smell right there. I’ve been making him take apart the shrine when we patrol. That means he gets to put it back together again when we come back. He enjoys doing that, but I have a bet with myself that eventually he’ll get sick of the repetition.

I also have to figure that there
’s danger in leaving, too, with volk running around in the woods. My head says it’s actually better to stay, but I’m troubled by the fact that it’s telling me what I want to hear. A man gets attached to a place. A mouse too, it seems. Maybe I’m starting to believe in this little hut like the kid believes in his samurai queen. I’m thinking of how good we’re doing here. But I also have to consider that it could be some trick of the world’s to trap us here, turn me soft and lazy, make me lose my simple clear purpose to keep going and never stay put long enough to get noticed.

I try to listen to the voice of discipline. But it
’s been losing its definiteness of late. It’s getting to be like two loud voices telling me different things. One of them says I should stay in my house and defend it, while the other says I’m only using that as an excuse to stay here.

This worries me badly. I know I
’m getting smarter, but what if I’ve only gotten smart enough to think my way into trouble and not out of it? Suppose I’m getting more complicated – maybe that just means more ways I could fuck up. I’ve only survived and kept my kid alive in this world through clear, simple thinking. The second discipline voice says that if staying here is making my head less clear, then we have to go, and not come back.

But just this morning the runt woke up with a cold, and it
’s pissing rain, so that today, for his sake, we have to stay put.

Come night, the rain’s stopped and the sky’s cleared up. There’s a nice fat moon like a giant bennie, big enough to keep you awake for the rest of your life. I leave him on the sofa and go out by myself. I don’t go far, just check the caches and note the volk assholes blundering around on a couple of hillsides and the pong of the dream like bad breath on the night breeze.

When I get back he
’s awake, staring out the window.

I ask him if he heard something. Nope, he says. He asks if the change happened out there too, in the sky, and I say I don
’t know, I hope not, and I tell him how there used to be plans to go all the way out there into the never-never, and how we did in fact walk on the fat moon.

I know, dad, he says. Which kind of blows my mind.

He goes to sleep on my long hairy stomach, breathing through his mouth, while I lie on the sofa. I think about how happy he is here. Well, not really happy, maybe, but not shit miserable by any means, and I’m wondering if I’ve got the right to take him away from here for the sake of survival, if it should come to that.

Despite how far he
’s come, I still can’t see how he’s got much chance of ever being a man – or a grown-up gopher – whatever the fuck. Sure, I’ll always try to protect him, but I’m going to fail one day. I must face that. I will fail, and he will die of something, be it violence or sickness or accident.

Before we came here all I could think was survive, survive, day by day, but now I
’m in one place and I see the seasons moving, I see time, that stops for no mouse and no runt gopher thing, and it comes into my mind that this hut would be a good place to live in until we die – even if living here means that we die before too long. I’m thinking of it in the light of a last stand.

This seems like my old way of thinking coming back, the way I used to think in the days before, making justifications and excuses
– murky, weak thinking, pretending to put others first when actually I’m only trying to look after myself – deceitful, slimy thinking. The thoughts a bactyl would have, if it could.

That
’s what the second voice is saying when I smell the cat. Fuck, you move up into the woods for a quiet retreat, and the whole social scene follows you.

Now I am clear. First light tomorrow, we
’re heading down to the road.

Would have been. Long before first light, he
’s got a bitch of a fever and the rain’s pouring down icy cold. Mid-morning it’s still pouring and he’s raving. He’s seeing Potatohead, bactyls, dogs, even bloody werewolves. I swear that’s what he says.

So that we
’re not going anywhere, after all.

V.

He
’s been pretty much out of it for a week. I’ve used up half the new meds on him. Which might have been a waste, since I have no idea what kind of bug he’s got. But his fever’s coming down, and he’s stopped hallucinating. He’s pretty washed out, but he’s alert again. I’m just waiting for him to smell the cat.

I
’ve been thinking about going out to look for its lair in daylight and catch it asleep. I give myself pretty good odds of avoiding volk patrols if I go alone. He’s okay enough that I could leave him here for a few hours. On the other hand, the sound of me shooting might get even stupid volk minds wondering, if they were to figure out it wasn’t one of their own kind letting off a few rounds.

Then there
’s the fact that your average cat is a big animal. I killed my ex with one shot, but I still had my Dirty Harry gun back then, and it was at close range.

He was with her on the day. I was at work. Doing a drug bust, in fact. The assholes I was shooting at turned bactyl. My partner turned volk. He was still shrieking his head off about blood and soil while the bactyls absorbed his legs.

My car had vanished. Punched out in the first wave. I found another with its engine running. By the time I got to her house, she was batting the runt around the floor like a toy.

The one outside
’s a tom. It sprays. For all that my kid has come so far, I’m ready for him to freak out and start bawling when he sniffs it.

That isn
’t what he does.

When the moment comes
– he’s sitting quietly on the floor, round about noon, practicing stripping the AK – he gives the air a good sniff. There’s a wind blowing, and the smell comes in on that. Then he gets a look like it’s Christmas and someone gave him the best present of his life.

He thinks it
’s her. He says he can smell the samurai queen.

I tell him it can
’t be, because it’s a tom and she’s dead.

He shakes his head like he knows better. And goes on taking apart the gun, grinning with halfwit faith.

No, not faith. It isn’t just that. I should know. I tell him a samurai can’t be having any truck with self-deceit or even wishful thinking. Those things are enemies of a clear mind and therefore enemies of survival, I say sternly. You think you have enough brains to sort bullshit from fact once you get them confused? What happens if you start believing bactyls are nice or that you can eat whatever you want? But I can see he isn’t taking it in. These ideas are too much for him.

I
’m getting ready to try again, and if necessary to beat some sense into him, when the sound of all hell having its teeth pulled erupts out of the wind damn near over our heads.

I don
’t know how many mouths it takes to produce a scream like that. More than one.

Quite a few more
.

It can only be the thing the volk want for their trophy wall. The dream. The cat smell must have masked it. And the AK
’s in pieces.

Instinct makes me hit the floor and pull him down beside me. The roof shudders. I hear giant sheets flapping on a washing line.

My heart hammers like it’s got the shits and my ribcage is the door to the only toilet in the world. The kid’s gone stiff as a log, but his heart’s banging too. He feels like a bomb ticking in my arms.

And then the monster passes on, and we
’re still here. The cat smell isn’t so strong, is the first thing I notice. It must have run for its life. But the shoe has fallen off the TV. He picks it up so tenderly, I guess that’s what breaks me.

One upside his head, one smack on the snout. His nose gushes blood which he catches on his fingers and wipes on his dungarees
.

I
’m expecting a reaction, but all he does is lick his fingers and whiskers clean. Then he fixes up the shoe and arranges everything else on the TV the way he likes it. I’ve already got the AK halfway back together. He’s picked a bit of foam out of a cushion and he’s holding that under his nose. He’s solid, like a funny little rock. He doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s got it into his head that she’s taught him not to cry. She makes him a little bit strong. Not strong enough for the real world, but enough to stand up to his mouse dad some. Or maybe just proud. Yeah, that’s it. Weak, but proud. Well, I can understand that. It’s how she was, anyway. Vain creature. Wanting someone to look after her but never wanting to be obedient or altruistic. Yeah, that’s the kind of power she’d give him if she was real.

He
’s finished arranging the altar. Now he’s kneeling in front of it, whispering. It’s all about the land of samurai, everything I told him, all that bullshit. Bushido. Bullshitto. Rice farms. His mama.

Same old fucking broken kiddy record, just a different track. My fault. He adds the bit of red foam to the collection of objects up there. I
’m clear now. This place isn’t really making him better. It never was. He can’t be made better. We’ll go tonight. As soon as darkness comes, I’ll go round the caches and get the tins.

No can do. Plans busted again. The cat’s back. I should just go out there and kill it, while there’s still a bit of light, but the dream’s still in the picture. It’s pouring again and the dream smells like garbage in the rain. I can hear volk shrieking and a couple of bursts of gunfire, but there’s only silence from the sky, so they didn’t hit it.

At least the runt
’s quiet now. He’s just curled up on the sofa, kind of dozing. But when the cat smell is strong he opens his eyes.