Hari Kunzru - Gods Without Men

Checking her work took time, and he stayed at the camp longer than he intended. He had business in town, letters to write and send to Washington, and now it was too dark to drive across the desert. He told Eliza to find a spot by a fire and went to the car to fetch his bedroll. The cold was bitter. A fierce wind was blowing across the basin, the kind that cut through clothing and made its way deep into the bones. His hands already felt cramped, and he had no expectation of sleep.

When he came back, he was surprised to find that Eliza hadn’t waited for him. It took a few moments to spot her, just one shape among the dozen or so huddled inside the largest wickiup. He shook her and asked what she thought she was playing at. She told him flatly to go away. The figure lying next to her propped itself up on an elbow. It was Willie Prince. Deighton was taken aback by the frankness of the man’s stare. Indians usually avoided one’s gaze. This buck looked impassively out of his broad flat face, entirely unafraid of being caught lying next to a white man’s wife.

Deighton’s first instinct was to strike them both, but he mastered it. He was not about to have an argument in front of a research subject.

“Come outside, right now.”

Reluctantly Eliza got up, but not before a look passed between her and Prince that was unmistakable in its import. Deighton felt physically sick. Eliza was a half-educated girl. He’d worked hard on her, made her fit to assist him in his labor. He’d shown her every consideration. He expected if not gratitude, then at least a recognition of the distinction he’d conferred on her by asking her to be his wife.

They stood opposite each other, shivering in the cold.

“What in heaven’s name is going on?”

She shrugged. “Something’s happened.”

“Your vagueness is always infuriating. Now tell me precisely and clearly. I don’t want to hang about all night.”

“I can’t be your wife anymore.”

It was unthinkable. He couldn’t in good conscience call the man a savage, for he had too much respect for the People’s culture. Primitive would be the term, a consciousness whose horizons were limited in unimaginable ways. He had always considered himself tolerant, but now that he was forced to contemplate miscegenation as a real physical act, a wave of disgust rose up in his throat. She might be (what had his mother written in that foul letter?) a “little shopgirl,” but she was still a white woman.

While he struggled for a response, she told him she was going back to bed. They would talk properly in the morning. He rubbed the smooth scar tissue on his chin, unable to marshal his thoughts.

He commandeered Segunda’s ramada, spreading out his blankets as close as possible to the dying fire. Whether it was an effect of stress, or his general poor constitution, he felt a sudden need to evacuate his bowels and walked out into the desert to find a spot. Before he squatted, he looked warily around. As expected, several of the camp dogs had followed him and were sniffing about, waiting to eat the fresh excrement. He’d never been particularly bothered by the squalor of Indian settlements, but this he always found supremely disgusting. There was one animal in particular, a big black mastiff that sometimes tried to knock him out of the way even before he’d finished. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to be among the pack, and he threw a couple of stones at the others, which trotted out of range and loitered, waiting their chance.

He exhaled, trying to relax his sphincter. There was just enough light to see the little plume of his breath before the wind snatched it away. He’d been squatting a few minutes when he caught sight of something moving out in the desert. It gave off a faint greenish-white glow, and he indulged the momentary fantasy that he was on an ancient seabed, fathoms deep, watching some eerie bioluminescent fish. He stared, unable to decide what it was. Curiosity aroused, he buttoned himself up and set off to find out.

He walked into the teeth of the wind, shivering and wrapping his arms ineffectually over his chest. When he got closer he was amazed to be confronted by an Indian walking along hand in hand with a white child, a boy about five years of age. Neither seemed to be carrying any luggage, and though both were dressed in light clothes they didn’t look as if they were feeling the cold. They weren’t making for the camp. There was no settlement in the direction in which they were heading, nothing but barren desert for at least a hundred miles. Strangest of all, the child appeared to be the source of the glow.

The pair paid no attention to him. They didn’t even seem to register his existence. Hypnotized, he followed in their wake. Afterward he wouldn’t be able to say why he didn’t try to speak to them. Something prevented him. Not fear or shyness exactly. The feeling that he would be intruding. He trailed behind, trying to match their easy stride across the flat moonlit sand. He was walking quickly, fast enough to feel sharp stabs of pain in his chest, but he never seemed to gain on them. There was only one credible explanation: He was dreaming. The glowing boy and the Indian were just fragments, shrapnel thrown out by his restless brain. He slackened his pace, and the strange couple disappeared into the darkness.

The glow. Deighton couldn’t be sure. The moon was bright. Perhaps it was just reflecting off the child’s pale skin.

As he walked back to the camp, the world started to feel real again and with the return of normality, he began to be afraid. Every few paces, he felt compelled to look behind to check if he was being followed. At the edge of camp, he found Pete Mason carrying a load of kindling. Had he seen anything? Pete shook his head. Joe Pine was passing a bottle with Serrano Jackie. As Deighton came up they hid it. He waved his hands, trying to show he didn’t care about the whiskey. An Indian and a white boy? No, sir, no one like that.

Finally he shook Segunda Hipa awake.

“Segunda, there was a man and a boy here.”

“Go away!”

“A man, and a little white boy.”

“I didn’t see anything. I’m sleeping.”

“Yes, yes. But you must know something. Who has a white child?”

“White mothers have white children. Go away now.”

“I saw them, Segunda. The boy was glowing.”

She muttered irritably and rubbed her eyes. “Go to bed, you two-headed sheep. You didn’t see anything special.”

And she pulled the blanket over her head. He swore under his breath and put his head into the fug of the large wickiup. Picking his way over grumbling bodies, he found Eliza. The space beside her was vacant.

“Where is he? Where’s Willie Prince?”

“Go away. Please leave me alone.”

She rolled over. Exasperated, he went back to his spot under the ramada. Around him the camp was silent. He filched a few branches from Pete Mason’s kindling pile and sat up for a while in front of a desultory fire, trying to work out what he’d seen. After a while he gave up. It was just too cold to think. He wrapped himself up in his blankets and tried to go to sleep.

He was back in the Bois de Belleau. It was early in the morning and he was standing in a trench on the northern edge of the woods. It was a shallow trench, recently and hastily dug, and water was seeping through its unlined sides, pooling in a deep puddle at his feet. Across the field floated long white scarves of mist and the dawn chorus was in full swing, though when he looked up he couldn’t see any birds, just the charred, broken branches of the trees. High overhead hung a German observation balloon, a bloated eye looking balefully down on him. As he walked along the trench, the mud sucking at his boots, he realized he was completely alone. His unit had abandoned the position. Afraid, he watched for movement among the trees, signs of an advance. About the blackened stumps flowed a disembodied luminescence, an eerie algal glow.