The Disestablishment of Paradise (56 page)

At the bottom her feet touched the water and she lodged her toes in one of the folds in the wall. She turned and, reaching out, could feel where the wall of the tunnel started to angle and
become the roof of the new passage. She took another step down . . . and she froze as she felt something brush against her ankle and move away. Her cry was involuntary.

‘What’s wrong? Drop your specs?’

‘Ha! Ha! Very funny. I’m going into the water here and I got a surprise.’

She lowered herself one more segment and felt for the bottom with her toe. Still nothing. And so she went down one more. She was now well past her knees in the cold water, and again something
brushed her leg. It felt like an eel. Twisting her body round, she could look down and see, in the light from her helmet lamp, where the tunnel curved and became level. The water did not extend far
up it, so she must be in some kind of sump, and there was no telling how deep it might be. It could be very deep. It occurred to her that this might be the place where the plant rooted, the way all
the plants did in Paradise. She thought about the Dendron and the Tattersall. Was that what she had touched? She tried one more step and the water came up to her waist, and this time she trod on
the root – or whatever it was – but it didn’t wriggle and she was on the bottom. Cautiously she released the rope and began to wade. She came to a hidden step and almost fell
forward. Now she was able to climb up onto the tunnel floor. The bottom was thick with sediment and the water became like thin mud, but she got through it by taking small steps. She was going up
and, apart from the squishiness under her feet, she was all right. Moments later she was on dry floor again.

‘Can you hear me, Mack?

‘Yes.’

‘I’m in the tunnel. On dry ground. The tunnel comes off that chimney. I’ll shine my light so you can see. No problems. Except there’s a hidden step, which was exciting.
Could you just lift the rope for a minute and let me see its end?’ The rope began to rise slowly. Where it had been immersed in the water it was twisted and muddy. There was more rope than
hole, so that was what she had felt, and that was what she had trodden on. She shook her head at herself. ‘You’re getting too old for this kind of lark, m’gal,’ she
murmured, and then called out loud, ‘OK, Mack. Start lowering the packs. No problems.’

She made two trips, wading back and forth through the water, and soon the packs were on the dry bed of the tunnel. Mack was descending. She saw his boots, and when they were about to enter the
water she called, ‘Hey, Mack. I think there’s an eel or something in the water there. Gave me a bit of a bite. Just try and tread on it, would you?’

‘You what?’

‘Yeah. An eel. It’s not too big. Might get up your trouser leg though.’

She saw him descend, and waited for the moment when he trod on the rope. And she heard him swear and then laugh.

‘You’ll pay for that.’

They moved on.

Steadily down.

The little adventure with the rope had been good for both of them. The tunnel had christened them, as it were, given them a fright, and now it was less threatening.

They came to a place where the tunnel opened up and became wide and high. To the sides were smaller tunnels. These were where the tuyau had sent out offshoots. Pietr Z had drawn little maps on
the floor at these entrances, indicating where they led to. But Mack had no inclination to explore. He was looking at a blanket on the floor and the stub of a candle in a niche on the wall.

‘The old bugger used to sleep here on the way through.’

‘Well, he was older than you. A bit fitter probably, but he needed his rest.’

‘But can you imagine that? I mean. Sleeping in here? Could you do that?’

‘In the subterranean caves on Mars we had to sleep in the water sometimes.’

‘Yes, but you had the right equipment.’

‘Too right we did. The temperature was just above freezing.’

‘But look at this, will you? A blanket and a candle. A bit bloody primitive.’

‘He was a primitive man.’

‘Even so!’

‘I’m getting worried about you, sunshine. You’ll be wanting milk on your muesli next.’

‘Knock it off, Hera. And enough of that sunshine business! All I’m saying is that I admire someone who could sleep down here. I couldn’t.’

‘And he was alone too.’

‘Yeah, that’s true. He had some advantages.’

And so they went on.

If their humour seems a bit forced I invite you to put yourself in their situation. Forget the creepy VR games you play in which you are looking for Tutankhamen’s bedroom or some such.
Smell instead the damp air that Hera and Mack breathed. See the darkness in front and the darkness behind. Here you can’t press
SAVE
and take time out. There is no
sudden
EXIT
. Here any joke is welcome. Here any mistake is fatal.

Well? Say something funny.

As they got deeper they experienced the phenomenon of hearing the echo of their own feet. It always sounded as though something was following them. And it always stopped
seconds after they did. More than once Hera turned round, and then Mack would stop and turn round and shine his torch up the passage. And they would laugh to one another, being careful not to shine
their lights in the other person’s eyes. At such times they would check to see that they were both all right and not getting too tired or hungry or thirsty or in need of a pee. And they would
share out nibbly things such as the hard blue seeds of the thunder bush which Hera had gathered that morning before they set out, after letting Mack explode it. These had the flavour of aniseed and
could be chewed for hours before they became bitter. And there were monkey nuts, which Mack had climbed for and thrown down for Hera to catch in her hat. Such little treats made the time pass more
quickly.

And so they went on.

Down and down and down.

Hera’s helmet light failed. They replaced the batteries, but the replacements didn’t work. They must have been flat and Pietr had not disposed of them. Hera reached out for
Mack’s torch but it slipped in the transfer and dropped, and the bulb broke. So then they were down to their last torch and got ready to use candles. They made jokes about being
old-fashioned.

Gradually the floor levelled. They both felt it.

Now they started to come to boggy patches where water had seeped in from the outside. They had to wade through mud, but undeniably they were coming to the end. It was twelve hours since they had
started. By the time they emerged it would be night.

And the last part was the hardest. Isn’t it ever so? They had to cut and fight their way out. Thick bushes filled the last hundred metres of the tuyau and had grown across the opening.
These had to be cut through. Sometimes they were up to their waists in soft ooze, advancing only by inches as the heavy wet branches gave way. Much of this work fell to Mack and he was glad of it.
He would cut a path through and then come back and carry Hera like a frog on his back.

Finally they felt their way up a bank, the air fresh and sweet, and at the top they were on dry land. The night was dark. No stars or moons shone through the heavy clouds. Their last torch
showed only the trees around them.

Hera had a vague memory of something that Pietr Z had once muttered when they were out walking, something about a tuyau mouth just off the path. Perhaps this was the one he meant? In which case
. . . She pushed forward through the trees and shone her torch. There it was, overgrown now, but no mistaking it. ‘Hey, Mack,’ she called. ‘We must be close to where the three
ways meet. One to the sea. One to the plantation and one to Redman Lake. We’ve come a long way. We’re halfway home. It was worth it.’

Mack came stumbling through the trees, dragging the packs.

‘Tomorrow,’ declared Hera. ‘We’ll sort it all out tomorrow. Let’s make camp here.’

They cleared a small area and pitched their tent. A candle wedged inside one of Hera’s boots made it seem like a home from home.

While Mack went for a pee, Hera spread out the sleeping bags and a few things to eat.

Standing outside, they stripped off their muddy clothes, hung them over branches and crawled into the tent just as they were and snuggled into their sleeping bags.

‘Welcome home. Have we done well, or have we done well?’ asked Hera.

He leaned across and gave her a kiss. ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You’re a bloody marvel. Thank you, Hera.’

‘Aye, but could we have done better?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, we could have brought a corkscrew to open this.’ From her backpack Hera produced a small bottle of wine. ‘Courtesy of
The Courtesy of MINADEC
. I thought we
deserved at least one treat.’

‘Give it here.’ Mack had it open in a moment, and they lay back, crunching seeds and drinking from the bottle.

When it was half finished, Hera leaned back. ‘Do you want the bad news or the good news, Mack?’

‘Give us the bad news.’

‘A man’s work is never done.’

‘So what’s the good news?’

‘It’s the same. And now you’re going to set a new record for the longest kiss in history. It starts at my knees and it doesn’t finish until you reach my ears, and
I’m sorry about the mud, but you’ll just have to get to like it.’

‘I’m partial to a bit of mud.’

‘Well there you are then. And then it’s my turn. But don’t blow the candle out.’

In the soft light of a candle, a tent can seem as large as a cathedral.

It was in the still dark dead of night that Mack woke Hera up, dragging her back from a dream of horses. She lit the candle and his face looked terrible. He was staring at her.
‘Hold me, Hera. Hold me tight.’ It was the voice of a man drowning. And she threw her arms around him and pulled him down onto her and said ‘It’s all right, Mack. It was
just a dream, whatever it was. I’m here.’ And she tried to rock him. ‘Put your arms around me. I’m here.’

He wanted to make love and, while Hera would have preferred to lie still and comfort him, she was not going to risk seeming to reject him, so she welcomed it. It was frantic. He threw himself at
her as if trying to use passion to blind himself, or her, to his nightmare. Looking back, Hera was able to say that it was the kind of love a man might make when he is going to abandon a woman. A
last frantic gift of guilt. But of course she did not know that then, and she bound him to her, her arms around his back and holding him inside her, binding him with passion and hoping that he
would feel her love and draw strength from that. And when he came, he sobbed and shuddered, and that was when she held him tightest, trying with her body and her love to say that for which there
are no words, or ever could be. And she would not let him go when he wanted to withdraw. She whispered things that only lovers say and he stayed in her.

The medicine worked. He became still. She could feel his heart beating and there was sweat on his brow. He became still and soft and rested and finally dozed. That was when his weight became
uncomfortable, but she was able to slip out from under him without him waking. She wiped his brow, and she wiped herself. And she looked at him and thought how noble he looked in repose. She
thought of poor Shapiro. He had never looked noble; he had looked exhausted and dry and bony. But Mack? And she saw the slightest of smiles. One kiss, and then the candle was blown out and a last
wry thought:
I’ll be sore in the morning
. She draped his arm over her and went in search of sheep, not horses.

In the morning, when she stretched and squirmed round on her back, the tent was light and the roof was patterned with the shadow of branches. Mack was not there. Her first
thought was that he was out having a pee or perhaps, if she was lucky, he might come tapping at the tent with a cup of something warm and a joke about women who couldn’t take it. She groaned.
She was too tired to start thinking up smart replies. But then with a rush she came to herself. She remembered the night and sat up. The bed was cool beside her. He had been gone some time.
‘Mack?’ No answer. ‘
Mack!
’

There came something like a spatter of stones thrown hard against the tent wall, and she saw their little shadows run down the tent to the ground. The shock of that got her moving.

‘
Mack
.’

She stood up too quickly, and almost fell over when she caught her feet in the sleeping bags. Seconds later, down on her knees at the tent door, she was pulling at the Velcro ties, but the flap
wouldn’t open. Something was holding it from outside. She gave it one almighty heave; the fabric opened and she found herself facing the dark green spiky leaves of a Tattersall weed and a
small blue flower just about to open. Naked as she was, she squirmed round the branch and climbed out into the small clearing she and Mack had stamped out the previous night. Tattersalls ringed the
space. Perhaps they had been there last night. She neither knew nor cared. They were here now.

Mack’s clothes were gone. She hopped in a circle as she tried to get her legs into her pants. She pulled on a top, still wet and a bit muddy, and then her meshlite overall with the zip up
the front. Her hair got caught in the zip. She unzipped, pulled it free, re-zipped and then tied her hair back with a band. Boot was horrible and wet on her bare foot. And where was the other? In
the tent with the candle. She pushed the branch out of the way and retrieved the boot. Forget socks. And all the time, even while she fastened her boots, she had an eye on the Tattersall weeds.
There was one drooping that must have just scattered its seeds. Was that to wake her up? It was a thought. Hell, how could one know what the Tattersall weeds were about? Helpful one minute,
threatening the next. And she was listening, all the time listening. Hoping to hear a step through the trees, a breaking of branches, a whistle, anything to say Mack was near or coming back from a
morning stroll.