David Mitchell - The Cloud Atlas

He put his knife to the last strand and paused. The ground looked funny from the balloon. Really close one minute, really far away the next. He wondered how far the balloon would fly. Would someone come after him? Would his mother be angry? Would he get hungry? Thirsty? He had a stick of gum in his pocket. How long would this take? How long before he saw his dad, down on the beach, on an island, just like this one, but smaller? The boy could see him there. Dad! Up here! I’m coming! He sawed and sawed at this last rope, but it was tougher than the others, took a while, and now he was nervous. He was late. He was expected. He worked faster. His dad was right: it was a good knife, but even with a good knife, this took time. His hand started bleeding again, the same hand that held the knife. Sawing, sawing. The knife was getting dirty, getting bloody, and he thought of his father’s stern face. He stopped sawing for a moment to clean it off, and the knife fell away.

His father’s knife! It took forever to fall, and when it did, he had to strain to hear it land. He could see it, glinting there in some far-off light. He checked the rope. Could he climb back down, back up? He gave it a tug. He was almost done! Dad! The knife! The rope didn’t understand what was happening. The knife was gone, but the rope kept splitting, shredding, tearing, the sound just like that first day at the factory, when he’d slipped and fallen and hurt his leg, torn his uniform. The older boys around him, teasing, yelling, and then his mother there, scooping him up, shrieking at the bleeding, at the boys yelling, then setting him down, taking the cloth from her hair, and tearing it slowly-it was hard to tear-crying as she did, yelling at the boys, and then at the boss when he came, she was crying and yelling while she tied the cloth around his leg, the blood seeping through and then stopping. And then snap, the rope broke, and he was gone, the balloon vaulting up like the moon had been waiting for it, impatiently, and finally just yanked it free like a flower.

It was incredible, wonderful, more wonderful than he could have imagined. His hand didn’t hurt anymore. He wasn’t crying anymore. (When had he started crying? He touched his cheek, wet.) And now he was flying, really flying, just him. Not a sound. Up over the factory, over the town. Where was his house? There? He waved. Bye, Mom! He looked out over the ocean. Where was Dad? How did you steer? Oh, but these were army balloons; they would know where to go.

It grew cold. While he was looking out over the town, for that cat, his mouse, looking out over the houses of all those friends who would be so jealous, a sudden gust of wind pulled the balloon so violently, he almost fell out-again!-and when he finally caught his breath and looked out, looked down-it was all gone. The town was gone. It was somewhere back there, a dark shape, no lights, of course, but the ocean now beneath, dark, too, and invisible. It was like the sky just stretched dark in every direction, above, below, before, behind. It made it hard to breathe, just to think of it, all that dark, all that night. Was the balloon moving? Going higher? Lower? How long would this take?

In the morning, he was frozen. Couldn’t move. His hands curled up tight, little fists, his hair crunchy with frost. He had some trouble opening his eyes, but he did. And he pounded his fists together, pounded and pounded, and they opened up, slowly, like they were made of metal. They hurt, his fingers were stiff, numb, but he was still there. This was wrong, though. His father had gone to an island, where Mother said it was hot. The sun all day long, the heat continuing through the night. And the boy, he was cold, freezing. He pulled his arms inside the coverall, looked around.

But what a world! The sun so bright, you had to squint wherever you looked, even at the clear blue sky. Down below, something green. An island? The island? Or ocean? It stretched for miles. He was sleepy. He’d just woken up, but was sleepy. The sun was everywhere, crowding things out so there wasn’t room for anything-no clouds, no islands, no air. It was hard to breathe, unless you took little breaths, teeny little breaths, like you were sleeping. Little breaths. Little breaths.

Now he was always hungry. Always cold. His feet felt funny-like they weren’t there at all. And his eyes hurt. From the squinting? Just from the air. Just opening them hurt, and he didn’t even look anymore. His father would have to see him first. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine it. His father, looking up, and him, looking down, just drifting down, like a cloud. He could see it, just like that. Eyes closed. Little breaths.

He was a cloud, a little cloud, and he was wet, always wet, and all around him was gray, other clouds, and no matter how the wind blew, he still felt wet and cold. But warmer now, somehow the wet made it warmer, and the ocean looked closer. The island! He must be getting close to his father’s island. But it was so hard to see now, and all he could see was a mottled green scab on the ocean. It stretched along the horizon. And the next day, he looked down, and saw he was above the scab. Now closer and closer. And there were trees, little trees. In the middle of the ocean. And patches of grass. But where was Father? And water, of course, everywhere, a spider’s web of rivers. A fire! There was a fire! And people! Where was Father? It was so hard to see. Little breaths. Father!

He dreamed he’d fallen again, was running in the factory again, his mother running after him, warning him, reminding him what had happened before, but he wasn’t listening, he was running, across the roof, and then leaping, flying, until the ground rushed up at him and he’d landed with a thud.

And what had happened then? He lay there, little breaths, but now the air was thick and wet, you had to open your mouth wide to swallow any of it. And where was the balloon? He looked up. The balloon was gone. How was he flying without the balloon? He crept up the side as best he could, looked out, looked down. The green looked so close now, the ocean was right there. He looked around. The balloon lay in an exhausted heap beside him. Land! He was on land! He tried to stand up, but couldn’t. His whole body was frozen. Not cold, now, but frozen. He needed to get out. He tried rolling out, but his hands wouldn’t work, his feet wouldn’t work. And when he finally tumbled over the side, his hand got caught in something, some of the side rigging, and there was a little flash, brighter even than the sun, and though he could feel the hand still clenched there, he couldn’t see it, his hand. He screamed.

This man wasn’t his father. He didn’t answer when the boy said his name. Wasn’t helping with the hand, just hurting him more. Carrying him to-smelled good. Food. And water, more water, it trickled down his throat and hurt, but not as much as his hand. Had the man brought his hand?

Then it was inside, dark, warm. A woman there, a man there. And bright again, the balloon again, the flash again, crying again. And here was the other man now, coming up to him, picking him up, taking him flying again, the two of them sliding through the water. He would understand. I can explain, the boy said, and began to, talking on and on until he was uncertain he was still awake or if the man was, whether he was part of the man’s dream or the man was part of his.

IT WAS THEN that I opened my eyes and saw them, Gurley and Lily. I didn’t see them from the boat, I just saw them, on the ground, after the blast, a vision. I didn’t see how their bodies had splintered, what had been severed and what had been burned. I only saw how a tiny breeze put a ripple on the water rising around them, and how the thin morning sun slowly lit their two faces, eyes closed, Gurley’s lips just parted and Lily’s a silent seam. They both wore expressions not of anger or sadness, but just the mildest concern, as if they’d been sleeping in of a winter Sunday, and had stirred slightly awake to a sound from somewhere downstairs in that great big house on the hill-the kids-the youngest probably-was crying. Not the sharp cry of pain, just hungry or sad or lonely.