left to the wind, and one by one their inhabitants flocked to their capital, expanding the circle until the forest glowed with torchlight. They prepared food to feed the candle-bearers, and brought them water, and mumbled endlessly into the night.
All is light… all is light…
The trials grew more frequent until every month a procession lead from Ertanea to the Drift to watch the skyward streams of light, before returning like a line of ants to their nest, aflame.
This brought a nervousness to the Sundra, and they built three wooden towers from which to watch the vigil. As they had their shifts, so did we, and I took my turn like everyone else. The western tower granted the best view, and during the day you could see their faces clearly.
During one such shift I spotted two guards circling each other and realised that they were talking in the old fashion; without speech. We saw this more and more, until soon every conversation was thus—the erta had converged once again, and the silence was terrifying.
But not nearly as terrifying as yours.
You became a tripwire around which I crept.
Gone were the hunting trips, the fishing and the hiking—even your surfboard stood outside, unused. Instead you barricaded yourself in the Room of Things. It became a fetid place, and at night I would sneak in and attempt to freshen it while you slept, almost always finding the quantum telescope recordings whirring away on the wall.
One such night, as you snored fitfully from your nest of blankets in the corner—you had grown plump, I noticed, and pimples had appeared on your face—I decided to find out what you had been watching. I scrolled through the logs, replaying each place and time you had visited.
At first you had favoured war, hovering over the Somme, Stalingrad, Gettysburg, Teruel and Marston Moor, like some flesh-hungry raven. Then skirmishes drew your interest. You lurked in the abandoned French villages of World War II, the windswept Falkland hillsides forty years later, and the ancient turrets of Moorish castles against which enemy ladders shook.
Once you had grown tired of armed conflict, you moved into the cities. You liked them in the summer, it seemed, especially London, New York, and Bangkok, where the heat sent their inhabitants mad. You were searching for conflict—people getting in each other’s way, arguing, and fighting with their fists. Eventually you watched only incidents in which two people were shouting in each other’s faces, zooming in close to read their lips. You were trying to see what they were saying.
You returned to certain individuals, like a doctor who took the same seat on the bus every day and spent the journey standing if it was taken, even if there were other seats free. Or the young woman who screamed at her reflection every night before bed, but smiled throughout the day, and bought people coffee, and made them laugh with jokes. Or the farmer in Minnesota sharpening his machete with long, straight strokes, and a broad smile on his ruddy face.
THE NEXT DAY I found Jorne outside with your surfboard. He was applying wax made from a dead animal.
‘Why do you maintain that thing?’ I said. ‘He no longer uses it.’
‘He may do again one day. Besides, it is a welcome distraction.’
‘From what?’
He stood up.
‘We are expecting something.’
‘From Ertanea?’
He nodded, inspecting the block of wax.
‘There are trials every week now, more and more movement towards the Drift. They must be close to completion, and after that how long will it be? There are over 11,000 of them. How long will that take—a year? A year and a half? Everyone has gathered there but us, and they will want to change that, one way or the other. They will come for us.’
‘What will you do?’
‘You know what we will do. The question is, Ima, what will you do?’
I dropped my head.
‘I can’t see past the end of the day right now, let alone a month, or a year, or an eternity.’
‘He still won’t speak to you?’
‘He won’t even look at me.’
‘Let me try,’ said Jorne.
He did, and failed, and I took some selfish comfort in this. At least I wasn’t the only one you hated.
MANY MONTHS WENT by. It was a flat, dead time, full of uncertainty. Ertanea kept its vigil, the Sundra kept their watch, and you kept your silence.
One night I went into the room to find you gone. Thinking you had fled, I ran out into the square and was about to shout your name