Gaby shook her head in disbelief. Not at what Peter Werther had told her, and whether he could be believed or not, but that she had been given such a gift as this. This was syndication to every on-line newsnet on the planet. This was the centre spread of every lumbering folding paper Gutenberg dinosaur. This was prime-time broad-and narrowcast news: this was half the industrialized world choking on their microwave TV Chow. This was Time and Le Monde and Stem. This was lead-lines on magazine covers from stands on Times Square to the Gare du Nord.
This was Gaby McAslan in front of a camera lens.
‘They’ll never leave you alone once this gets out,’ she said.
‘We can always move. What the Sun Said has been good to me. There is a lot of country for us to disappear into.’
‘They’ll find you. They won’t give you space like we have. They won’t let you say what you want to say, they won’t respect your message, or your story, or where you’ve been, or what you’ve seen. They’ll be asking you how you think the world has changed in the five years you’ve been away and what you think of the latest fashions and the latest music and the latest supermodel and what the three things are you missed most while you were in the Chaga. They’ll do articles on your sex life, they’ll run features on the contents of your bloody refrigerator. They’ll ask you a million things, but they won’t listen to you. They’ll make you into a celebrity.’
‘I know this. But people must be prepared. People must understand. Even one word of mine may be enough. Prophets are never honoured in their own countries. Even if they do not listen to what I have to say, it may be enough to see that a man can go into the Chaga and return.’
But as what? Gaby thought.
The voices of the children grew louder. They came running along the shore and out onto the wooden jetty, shouting for their Brother Peter. Peter Werther hastily pulled on his protecting garments.
‘They are my family, my friends. Even if no one else will, they believe me.’
The children spilled into the wooden gazebo. The weaver birds fled from their clamouring voices and restless bodies. The children tugged at Peter Werther’s sleeves and hands, implored him to come and look at what they were doing.
‘Their future too,’ he said. ‘Ja?’
A great cloud, dark, flat-bottomed, rising to a peak of curdled cumulus ten miles high, edged over the eastern escarpment and cast its reflection into the lake.
11
Gabygram 8
April 24
from: GMcA(a)136657NAI:EAFTP.
Hi Reb. A million thanks for the tapestry. It got here relatively unplundered by Customs and Excise, except for the inevitable wee hole they snip off the corner so they can stick an endoscope in to sniff for cocaine. It’s a beautiful thing; too precious for this place. When I find a more permanent bunk, I’ll accord it its due honour. Which, as I’ve said, may be sooner rather than later. Mrs K. says this is not really the place for me, though she’s loved having me – she has a soft spot for Irish girls: apparently I am not the first, which makes me rather suspicious, but I can’t go into that here. But she has a friend in the cathedral choir who works in the Global Aids Policy Unit who has a lodger who may be moving out – I don’t care, just get my feet under the table.
So, I’m Auntie Gab again? A wee girl. Hannah’ll probably stop at two, she’s a real two is enough, three is social irresponsibility person. I’m happy, of course, but I warn you, this is what happens when you steal your sister’s boyfriend. Actually, Marky and her were made for each other, so they should be thankful to me for having introduced them. Some people like living in a Laura Ashley catalogue. Me, when, if, I have kids, I want dozens. All over the place. Noisy and dirty and rude and lively.
Very pleased to hear Dad’s gall bladder operation was a success. Doctors, what do they know? There’s more rest and healing out on the Point than fretting indoors listening to the birds and the wind and wanting to be out there, except that some eejit of a doctor says you’re not allowed to. It’s good this time of year, the Point; the gorse will just be past its best, the leaves budding. You miss seasons here; whatever changes there are as the planet spins around the sun are too subtle for a white girl like me to notice.
I’m keeping up with United’s progress’ through the Net – we have an office league going, those of us who appreciate the finer points of the Beautiful Game, as opposed to the ethnic cleansing Americans call football. Our very own SkyNet United has, ahem, been doing rather well recently. We stuffed the BBC last week: four nil, four nil, four nil, four nil! One of them from the size five of your own dear sister. Tembo would have made a hat-trick but for a decidedly dodgy tackle on the edge of the box; the ref was obviously blind, bribed or both, it was a clear-cut penalty. Faraway managed to stop everything that was fired at him for once, in between showing off his natty new sports gear to his multitude of goal-line groupies. Next fixture is against UNECTA itself that is, when there are enough of our peoples in town to make teams.
So, I’m a celebrity. Local girl makes good. If they’re talking about me in the Groomsport Drugstore, I really have arrived. Wish I felt so good about it. Jesus Reb, SkyNet ... I get the animations back from the Manga Twins – whom I’ve never met – I e-mail the thing to T.P.’s PDU so it’s the first thing he sees when he gets out of the bed in the morning. He creams himself, Reb.
Gaby McAslan is the toast of the Thorn Tree. Even that bitch Abigail Santini shouted me lunch at the Norfolk and managed to do a passable impersonation of being gracious. Pats on the back from Cap’n Bill at head office, even. I tell T.P. the Werther story was worth its weight in cocaine so when is he going to pull me off on-line and put me out in the field as a correspondent?
Fuckpig Nazi bastard asshole. He sits there behind his desk and says to my face, ‘Well, I don’t know, you’re doing so well in On-line it would be a mistake to move you just as you’re carving out a niche for yourself,’ and then gives me some shit about wanting me in On-line to cover the Tolkien probe when it rendezvouses with Iapetus at the beginning of next week, because I’m the only one he can trust to do it right. Jesus, Reb, Ute Bonhorst’s name is on the copyline, but I made the Werther story, every last bit of it. They don’t need a journalist for the Tolkien thing. Bastard Dubliner. Never trust a Southerner.
On the up side, though, I’m going out on the town with Oksana Telyanina. The Siberian shamaness? She left a message for me on the Thorn Tree. Used to be a regular jungle telegraph back in the Great White Hunter days, now it’s mostly wankers on TransAfrica Jeep Safaris with names like Jerome or Letitia telling Rudy and Charlotte they’ll meet them in Alex, OK? And one addressed to me. Gaby McAslan. Spelled wrong. Here it is, see? ‘Big cocks and vodka, Gaby! Come with me and meet men!’ She writes like a six-year-old. We’re going to this place called the Elephant Bar up at Wilson Airfield – she calls it Weelson, which is going to remain stuck in my head forever -where the Siberian pilots all hang out, drink vodka, smash glasses and male bond. They have a strict dress code. Very strict. They won’t let you in unless you’re wearing shorts. Shades are optional, but if your knees don’t show, you’re bounced. So, what do you think? T-shirt not too much? Hannah may have got the man, but I kept the T-shirt. At least T-shirts can’t get you pregnant.