The Apex Book of World SF 2 Page 4

  "You must understand how important school is, Tamuka," he said while wrestling with what seemed like a very heavy crate. "When your mother and I were growing up there was no schooling, only day to day survival. Now when I was twelve, I—"

  "—Was in a mass exodus that crossed the seaward wasteland deserts, walking five thousand kilometres to return to the homeland of our ancestors, during which time you met mother. Yes I know the story," Tamuka cut in impatiently, still plotting exactly how he would aim his verbal darts.

  His father unexpectedly burst out laughing and soon had Tamuka in a fit of sympathetic giggles, although he was not altogether sure why his father was laughing. Their laughter attracted a glare from a management type, standing over a computer terminal at the far end of the warehouse. His father choked his laughter down to snorts of air through his nose, but grinned happily at Tamuka, before he resumed working. Eventually their laughter died down to a long comfortable silence, in which Tamuka just watched his father at work. As always, he marvelled at the way his father seemed to effortlessly flip up the crates and position them within the larger crate.

  Tamuka knew those crates were probably very heavy; he'd never managed to budge one. They were all shapes and sizes. His father had once explained to Tamuka that in his mind he held a map. One that he created by first looking carefully at the smaller crates designated for the larger one. He then played a quick game in his mind. In this game he played every possible combination of smaller crates to fill up the larger crate. When he won the game with the best possible arrangement of small crates, he had a final mind map. This meant, added to his immense physical strength, he loaded up the crates with an incredible speed and efficiency that kept him gainfully employed.

  His father's job, like his mother's, was a position normally reserved for Geneforms or the rare and expensive robots. His mother cleaned apartments, capitalising on those who could not afford either, while his father was assigned to deal with items requiring special care during packing, such as the delicate but heavy ion metal sculptures that were the specialties of the Mbare artistic community, or anything to do with Mbare's Mayor, the shady Mr Isaac Gondo. So his father was never lacking for this type of work, and it afforded him some liberties since he was nearly indispensable. Liberties such as Tamuka being allowed here while he worked, without much objection from his manager. Still, Tamuka knew, the wages were hardly great, and his parents struggled each month on their combined income to pay the mortgage, something they had both taken pains to explain to him at various points in his life. Mostly as the final "No" when he incessantly nagged them about having a Geneform of his own.

  "I think you'd better think about going home in a bit, Tamuka," said his father. "It's best not to make your mother wait too long. Even today."

  "But, Father!" Tamuka started, and he wanted to protest further, but his father simply looked at him briefly. And wordlessly he said, it's time to grow up son, not too much, just a little, enough to show you are worthy of our trust. So Tamuka kept quiet, and his father carried on packing crates. Timing it carefully, Tamuka quickly nipped in, hugged his father and then scampered off. He thought he could feel his father's glance and loving grin, warm on his back. But he did not need to turn around; it was enough to just feel it there.

  Mr Goop wasn't looking at all well when Tamuka got back to the apartment; its skin was even paler, almost translucent. It still refused to come out of its coffin-sized capsule, but at least the hatch was open.

  "See to Mr Goop," his mother said from the kitchen, "Before you even think about having dinner."

  At first, Tamuka just stood near Mr Goop's capsule, but when he saw tears roll down Mr Goop's expressionless face, it all fell into place. Tamuka immediately crawled inside the capsule with Mr Goop, something he had not done for years. It was much smaller than he remembered. But he managed to eventually wriggle his way into a snuggle on top of Mr Goop's chest. Once there, he lay still and waited for Mr Goop's reaction.

  With a slight sniffle, Mr Goop wrapped its arms around Tamuka, just as it had done many years previously. Tamuka sighed happily. He realised that it had been afraid for his life. For Mr Goop truly loved him in its own special way. The idea of losing Tamuka must have been a great shock and, followed by the strenuous sprint to get Tamuka home and safe, Mr Goop was simply tired and upset.

  Tamuka felt quite adult, not only for realising what ailed Mr Goop, but also for being adult enough to put another's feelings above his own and take the best course of action to help. His mother poked her head in and smiled at them.

  "Dinner on the table when you want it," she said and left them alone.

  Tamuka had the notion that this was probably the last time he would be able to fit into the capsule with Mr Goop, so he decided to enjoy the moment a little longer, and right then he felt as if he would burst with his love for Mr Goop. And one day probably, he dreamily mused, so would his own child.

  But perhaps sooner than that, Tamuka could ask to go to school without Mr Goop.

  Trees of Bone

  Daliso Chaponda

  Malawian Daliso Chaponda is a stand-up comedian as well as a writer, with shows such as Feed This Black Man, Don't Let Them Deport Meand others performed in Canada, South Africa and the UK. He was a Writers of the Future finalist in 2002 and has been short-listed for the Carl Brandon Society Parallax Award for the following story.

  1

  The sound of his bedroom door being opened woke Katulo. "What is it?"

  "It's Chama, he's dying." Eyo's voice was an agitated whisper.

  "Get the clinic ready."

  Eyo hurried off and Katulo dressed. He snatched his walking stick and stepped into the humid night. This had been the hottest summer Burundi had seen since 2072. In the last two weeks, Katulo had treated a record number of patients for dehydration and angazi fever. As he walked, he tried to call up a mental image of Chama. He could vaguely recall a loud boy with mud-brown skin who had been terrified of syringes. Chama's father was the chief of village police.

  When Katulo neared the clinic, he heard shouting: "We can't wait for that stupid old man." He recognised the voice.

  "Just wait. He's coming," Eyo replied firmly.

  It made him proud that his apprentice was standing up to someone twice his size— especially a person as intimidating as Osati. Osati's nickname since his teens had been "the leopard". It suited him. He was tightly muscled, and his motions gave the impression he might lash out at any moment. Eyo, on the other hand, had a body that looked like a collection of twigs.

  Osati swallowed his response when he saw Katulo enter.

  The clinic was a circular hovel with little space. In the daytime, patients were received in the yard outside. Eyo and Osati stood between two unpolished wood cabinets and the sleeping cot. Lying on it, Chama's body looked like slaughtered game.

  "Fill a basin with water," Katulo ordered. Eyo scrambled to do as he had been instructed. Katulo turned to Osati. "Bring me bandages and my operating kit. You remember the layout of the clinic?"

  Osati nodded. He had been an apprentice five years earlier but had left prematurely. Katulo still felt anger at his decision. He had shown so much potential. His memory had been impeccable, and he had been able to make terrified patients relax with only a few words. He would have been a gifted healer.

  Katulo worked intently for the next twenty minutes. He cleaned and sterilised the wound in Chama's side before stitching it closed. The boy's breathing went from shallow sporadic bursts to a smoother, though still uncertain, rhythm.

  "Will he live?" Osati asked.

  "Maybe, I have done all I can. How did this happen? This wound was not caused by an animal." It was a single, deep, horizontal slash. A machete?

  "It was those Hutu bastards," Osati spat. "I swear by my ancestors they will pay for this."

  The oath made Katulo flinch. "What happened?"

  "They attacked us for no reason. We were at a rally in Bujumbura." It was because his passion lay in poli
tics that Osati had left Katulo's tutelage. "Some Hutus were watching us and laughing. We ignored them. After the rally Chama, Dengo and I were walking back here alone and they attacked us."

  "Where is Dengo?"

  "He is coming. I ran here carrying Chama. "

  "You ran here all the way from Bujumbura?"

  "We were about half way."

  Still, that was a two-hour walk without carrying a wounded man in your arms. Katulo now noticed that Osati was covered in sweat and blood. His lips were parched and his breathing was irregular.

  "Sit, I will bring you some mango juice."

  "I have no time. The people of the village must be awoken."

  "Why?"

  "They nearly killed him. You said he may die."

  "And rousing the village will do what? Impress the ancestors so much they will help Chama?"

  "You joke about this?" Osati's disgust was unconcealed.

  "If your friend lives it will be because of me. Do me a favour in return. Let your anger cool. There is nothing you can say tonight that you can't say tomorrow. After the wedding…"

  "After this, the wedding will be cancelled."

  "Love is a good reason to postpone anger. The opposite is not true." His words were just aggravating Osati. "Please, hold off. After the wedding I will go to Bujumbura and speak to Minister Kalé. With his help we shall apprehend the ones who attacked you and deal with them. You, Dengo and Chama will all testify."

  "Kalé is one of them; it's a waste of time."

  "Kalé and I have been friends three times as long as you have been alive. Kalé is wise and his word is respected among the Hutus."

  Osati dipped his head but he was clearly insincere.

  Katulo sighed. "I'll tell you how he's doing at the wedding."

  Osati left without a word of thanks.

  "This is called an anaesthetic," Katulo said as he put the half-empty bottle back into his operating bag. "It dulls the body's responses to pain."

  "You want to teach me now?" Eyo was flustered. He was looking out of the window.

  "What better time is there to teach?"

  Eyo pursed his lips. He shifted uncomfortably. "It…it's late. I'm tired."

  "What is the truth?"

  "I told you…"

  "The truth might change my mind."

  "I want to see what Osati does. I think he will wake up some people and they'll talk about this."

  "I should have known. Learning is more important. Long ago healers used to have to rely on—"

  "You can teach me any time."

  As good as he had been at soothing people, Osati was better at working people up into a frenzy. Katulo didn't want Eyo to be exposed to that. He tried a different approach. "Have you ever seen a Waking?"

  The question took Eyo by surprise. "No, of course not. I am not yet sixteen."

  "I will let you go now, no teaching, and if you go straight to bed, then tomorrow, when all the other children are sent away, I will make sure you can stay and watch."

  "Really?" The idea of watching a secret meeting paled in comparison to the chance to see a mystical ceremony.

  "Do you promise?"

  "I promise." Eyo's index finger mapped out a cross shape over his chest.

  Katulo knew that Eyo had no idea what the origin of that gesture was. The worship of that tortured white saviour had faded from Burundi. "Good. You may leave."

  Katulo continued cleaning up. He got out an old rag and mopped up the blood. When he was finished, he threw it and Chama's rent shirt into the dustbin. Finally, he blew out the gas lamp and returned to his house. It took a long time for him to get back to sleep. When he finally managed, he dreamt.

  2

  As with most young boys, obedience did not come naturally to Katulo. When his father had told him to stay behind with the women and other children, he immediately chose to do the opposite. He was too clever to be fooled by his father's placatory, "They need you to protect them." Katulo was fourteen, two years away from his initiation ceremony. He was too old to stay where it was safe. When he asked about the fighting, his father always told him, "You're too young to understand." This angered him. He knew this was about those Hutus. Fenke at school was a Hutu. He was stupid and Katulo knew it wasn't his fault. He couldn't be blamed for being born that way. The fighting is because the Hutus are stupid. What was so hard to understand about that?

  When his father and the other men had left, Katulo sneaked out of the village and followed them. He stayed distant enough that he was not seen. He was a good tracker. He shadowed them for over three hours until they reached a small primary school. Its faded sign depicted a laurel wreath wrapped around a shield and words that were too rain-washed to read. Katulo hid amongst some bushes and watched the adults go into the school.

  Waiting was boring. This entire escapade had been far less exciting than Katulo had hoped.

  He waited for twenty minutes, passing the time by counting how many bugs and birds he saw. He created an imaginary conflict—birds against bugs. Every bug he saw gave the bugs ten points and every bird he saw gave their side the same. A clumsy ladybird that had tumbled from a leaf had just put the bugs sixty points ahead when he heard a loud bang. He heard three more abrasive explosions and knew they were gunshots. His father and the others had probably been ambushed. Katulo ran forwards instinctively. He advanced with no thought for how he planned to defend his father. He just couldn't let it happen. When he reached the school, he pushed open a set of double doors and ran in. Inside, he heard terrible sounds.

  The noise woke him up. This was the point where the nightmare usually ended. Sometimes it would be later. He had not had the dream in a long time, but Osati's rage had brought the memories back. It was those Hutu bastards. I swear by my ancestors they will pay for this. "It cannot happen again," Katulo said aloud. Afterwards, he was unsure whether he'd said this to reassure himself, or as a prayer.

  3

  Weddings in Azamé village were huge. Even poor families slaughtered at least two goats. The Gomozis were a wealthy family so the wedding was even grander. Celebration began at sun up and would keep going through the night. There was loud music, hot-blooded dancing, and the smell of roasting meats saturated the air. Freshly baked pastries and honey-dipped treats were pulled out of ovens and children's faces were soon coated in sticky syrup. There was much laughter and boisterous jesting. The most acclaimed storyteller in Burundi told a wild tale of Hyena the trickster. It had no moral; it was simply for enjoyment. The couple wore costumes that were dyed in multiple colours. Dozens of well-wishers surrounded them.

  Normally, Katulo was in the midst of any celebration, pushing his antique body to the limit by asking pretty young girls to dance. If necessary, he would dance using his walking stick for balance. But today, even with all the pomp and energy, it was impossible for him to relax and enjoy himself. His mind was with the wounded youth in his clinic and his eyes were drawn to things he would not normally have noticed. The Marulas, a family with Hutu blood, sat separately from the rest of the guests and nobody approached them to give greetings. Also, Osati, Dengo and a group of their friends walked around pulling people aside and talking in whispers. After the whispers, nods of agreement would follow. Even people who usually had no time to listen to Osati's denunciations of the Hutus were moved by his words. Chama's injury had made his solicitations much more persuasive.

  Katulo was tempted to leave but he was the last person in the village, in all Burundi, actually, who could perform the Waking ceremony. He had tried to teach many of his apprentices how to do it but had been unsuccessful. Even when his father had taught him, the skill was almost forgotten.

  Eyo approached Katulo twice to make sure he would not change his mind about letting him watch. This, at least, amused Katulo. He had to admit that he drove Eyo harder than his previous apprentices. Katulo was increasingly aware that he did not have much longer to live. With his previous apprentices, he had stuck to teaching medicines and physiology, but
there were other things Katulo wished to pass on. He had seen so many amazing things. He had been there when Burundi won the 10,000 metres in the Olympics, beating the Kenyans and Ethiopians. He had listened to Wana Maisu's final concert. He had survived two droughts and one epidemic. He had also seen Africa become fully independent as Europe and America were torn apart in a succession of wars. He had been part of the Second Revolution and treated President Peneka himself for gout. He had listened to the visionary president blabber to conceal his nervousness. There were so many memories, small things as well—some that he esteemed more than the things worthy of history books: how good it felt to run naked in the forest, the unique taste of roasted groundnuts when eaten after love making, the amazing things he'd learnt about his mother when she finally spoke to him as an equal.

  Every morning, as he and Eyo ate breakfast, he would begin. He would tell the boy the history of Burundi, myths, proverbs, and stories. He told Eyo dirty jokes—oral tradition that would be a crime to forget—with the same passion that he taught the boy herbal remedies and anatomy. Eyo never complained. It was hard for him to absorb a lot of what Katulo taught, but he tried. He deserved the privilege of seeing a Waking ceremony.

  After the wedding vows, the father of the bride called Katulo. The young boys and girls were taken away to eat boiled sweets and spiced cassava. "Not him," Katulo objected when they tried to take Eyo. He winked at his apprentice, which elicited a huge grin.

  Katulo took out his ceremonial mask, put aside his walking staff, and walked unsteadily to the bride and groom. The mask was not actually needed for Waking, but it was tradition. The mask depicted a buffalo's head. The horns were brass and the face was carved out of wood. There were gaps for the eyes and the mouth. When he was standing a few steps in front of the married couple, Katulo spoke loudly. His voice was richer and more musical when he performed the role of Waker. "A river is a droplet of water; a mountain is a tiny pebble; and the two of you are all of Burundi. This union is not only between two people but between two souls and two families. Your love will forever change the community. It will enrich us when we are frightened, sustain us when we are lost, and our community will continue to grow. You will bring us the future but never forget that you are connected always to the past."