Terry Pratchett - Nation

If only she’d been taught properly! If only someone had thought to spend an afternoon teaching her a few things that would be handy to know if she was shipwrecked on a desert island! It could happen to anyone! Even some hints on making scones would have been a help! But no, her grandmother had said that a lady should never lift anything heavier than a parasol and should certainly never set foot in a kitchen unless it was to make Economic Charitable Soup for the Deserving Poor, and her grandmother didn’t think there were very many of them.

“Always remember,” she used to say, far too often, “that it only needs one hundred and thirty-eight people to die and your father will be king! And that means that, one day, you might be queen!”

Grandmother used to say this with a look in her eye that suggested that she was planning 138 murders, and you didn’t have to know the old lady for long to suspect that she’d be quite capable of arranging them. They wouldn’t be impolite murders, of course. There wouldn’t be any of that desperate business with daggers and pistols. They would be elegant and tactful. A block or stone would fall out of someone’s stately home here, someone would slip on a patch of ice in the castle battlements there, a suspicious blancmange at a palace banquet (arsenic could so easily be confused with sugar) would take care of several at once…. But she probably wouldn’t go that far, not really. Nevertheless, she lived in hope, and prepared her granddaughter for a royal life by seeing to it, wherever possible, that Ermintrude was not taught anything that could possibly be of any practical use whatsoever.

Now here she was, with her wrong name, struggling to make afternoon tea in a wrecked boat in the middle of the jungle! Why hadn’t anyone thought this might happen?

And the young man was what her grandmother would have called a savage, too. But he hadn’t been savage. She had watched him bury all those people in the sea. He had picked them up gently, even the dogs. He wasn’t someone throwing away garbage. He had cared. He had cried tears, but he hadn’t seen her, not even when she’d stood in front of him. There had been just one point when his streaming eyes had tried to focus on her, and then he had stepped around her and gotten on with his work. He’d been so careful and gentle, it was hard to believe he was a savage.

She remembered First Mate Cox shooting at monkeys with his pistol when they had moored in that river mouth in the Sea of Ceramis. He had laughed every time a small brown body dropped into the river, especially if it was still alive when the crocodiles caught it.

She’d shouted at him to stop it, and he’d laughed, and Captain Roberts had come down from the wheelhouse and there had been a terrible row, and after that things had gone very sour on the Sweet Judy. But just as she had begun the first part of her journey around the world, there had been a lot in the newspapers about Mr. Darwin and his new theory that people had a kind of monkey as their distant ancestor. Ermintrude did not know if this was true, but when she’d looked into First Mate Cox’s eyes, she’d seen something much worse than any monkey could be.

At which point a spear crashed through the cracked porthole, hissed across the cabin, and left via the porthole on the other side, which had lost all its glass to the wave.

Ermintrude sat very still, first out of shock and then because she was remembering her father’s advice. In one of his letters to her, he had said that when she joined him in Government House, she would be his first lady and would be able to meet all kinds of people who might act in ways she found strange at first, and perhaps would even misunderstand. And so she would have to be gracious and make allowances.

Very well. This was about the time the boy would be here. What had she expected him to do when he arrived? Even on a boat that isn’t wrecked, it’s hard to find a doorbell. Perhaps throwing a spear means: Look, I’ve thrown away my spear! I’m not armed! Yes, that sounds right. It’s just like shaking hands, after all, to show you are not holding a sword. Well, I’m glad that’s one little mystery solved, she thought.

For the first time since the spear had hissed across the cabin, she breathed out.

Outside, Mau was beginning to wonder if something had gone wrong when there were some wooden noises and the ghost girl’s head appeared over the side of the big canoe.

“So kind of you to be punctual,” she said, trying to smile, “and thank you very much for breaking the window, it was getting very stuffy in here!”

He didn’t understand any of this, but she was very nearly smiling and that was a good thing. She wanted him to come into the wreck, too. He did so, very cautiously. The Sweet Judy had keeled over a bit when the wave had dropped her at ground level, so everything sloped.

Inside was just a mess, made of many different messes all jumbled up. Everything stank of mud and stale water. But the girl led him into another space that looked at least as though someone had tried to clean things up a bit, even if they had failed.

“I’m afraid the chairs all got smashed,” said the girl, “but I’m sure you will find poor Captain Roberts’s sea chest an adequate substitute.”

Mau, who had never sat on anything but the ground or a hut floor when he ate, edged his bottom onto a wooden box.

“I thought it would be nice to get properly acquainted, since we haven’t been introduced,” said the ghost girl. “Obviously the fact that we cannot understand each other will be something of a drawback….”

While this gibberish was going on, Mau stared at the fire in its little cave. Steam was coming out of a round black pipe. Next to it was a flat round thing. Pale things on it looked like some kind of bread. This is a Woman’s Place, he thought, and I don’t know the rules. I must be careful. She might do anything to me.

“… and the butter had gone runny, but I threw away the flour that had gone really green. Would you like some tea? I expect you don’t take milk?”

He watched as a brown liquid was poured into a blue-and-white bowl. Mau watched it carefully, while the girl went on talking faster and faster. How do you know what’s right and wrong? he wondered. What are the rules when you are all alone with a ghost girl?

He’d not been alone on the Boys’ Island. Oh, there hadn’t been anyone else there, but he’d felt the Nation around him. He was doing the Right Thing. But now? What were the Right Things? The Grandfathers bellowed and complained and ordered him about and didn’t listen.

He couldn’t find the silver thread either, or the picture of the future. There was no picture now. There was just him and this girl, and no rules to fight the darkness ahead.

Now she had taken the bready things off the fire, and put them on another of the round metal things, which he tried to balance on his knees.

“Most of the crockery got smashed in the wreck,” said the girl sadly. “It’s a miracle I could find two cups. Will you have a scone?” She pointed at the bread things.

Mau took one. It was hot, which was good, but on the other hand it tasted like a piece of slightly rotten wood.

She was watching anxiously as he moved the lump around in his mouth, looking for something to do with it.

“I’ve done it wrong, haven’t I?” she said. “I thought the flour was too damp. Poor Captain Roberts used to keep a lobster in the flour barrel to eat the weevils, and I’m sure that can’t be right. I’m sorry, I won’t mind if you spit it out.”

And she started to cry.

Mau hadn’t understood a word, but some things don’t need language. She weeps because the bread is awful. She should not cry. He swallowed, and took another bite. She stared, and sniffed, not certain if it was too early to stop crying.