Margaret Atwood - Oryx and Crake

Late in the evening, they came at last to the shore. The leaves of the trees were rustling, the water was gently waving, the setting sun was reflected on it, pink and red. The sands were white, the offshore towers overflowing with birds.

“It is so beautiful here.”

“Oh look! Are those feathers?”

“What is this place called?”

“It is called home ,” said Snowman.

Snowman rifles the storeroom, packs what he can carry—the rest of the food, dried and in tins, flashlight and batteries, maps and matches and candles, ammunition packs, duct tape, two bottles of water, painkiller pills, antibiotic gel, a couple of sun-proof shirts, and one of those little knives with the scissors. And the spraygun, of course. He picks up his stick and heads out through the airlock doorway, avoiding Crake’s gaze, Crake’s grin; and Oryx, in her silk butterfly shroud.

Oh Jimm y. That’s not me!

Birdsong’s beginning. The predawn light is a feathery grey, the air misty; dew pearls the spiderwebs. If he were a child it would seem fresh and new, this ancient, magical effect. As it is, he knows it’s an illusion: once the sun’s up, all will vanish. Halfway across the grounds he stops, takes one last backward look at Paradice, swelling up out of the foliage like a lost balloon.

He has a map of the Compound, he’s already studied it, charted his route. He cuts across a main artery to the golf course and crosses it without incident. His pack and the gun are beginning to weigh on him, so he stops for a drink. The sun’s up now, the vultures are rising on their updrafts; they’ve spotted him, they’ll note his limp, they’ll be watching.

He makes his way through a residential section, then across a schoolground. He has to shoot one pigoon before he reaches the peripheral wall: it was just having a good stare, but he was certain it was a scout, it would have told the others. At the side gate he pauses. There’s a watchtower here, and access to the rampart; he’d like to climb up, have a look around, check out that smoke he saw. But the door to the gatehouse is locked, so he goes on out.

Nothing in the moat.

He crosses No Man’s Land, a nervous passage: he keeps seeing furry movement at the sides of his eyes, and worries that the clumps of weeds are changing shape. At last he’s in the pleeblands; he wends his way through the narrow streets, alert for ambushes, but nothing hunts him. Only the vultures circle above, waiting for him to be meat.

An hour before noon he climbs a tree, conceals himself in the shade of the leaves. There he eats a tin of SoyOBoy wieners and finishes the first bottle of water. Once he stops walking, his foot asserts itself: there’s a regular throbbing, it feels hot and tight, as if it’s crammed into a tiny shoe. He rubs some antibiotic gel into the cut, but without much faith: the microbes infecting him have doubtless already mounted their resistance and are simmering away in there, turning his flesh to porridge.

He scans the horizon from his arboreal vantage point, but he can’t see anything that looks like smoke. Arboreal , a fine word. Our arboreal ancestors , Crake used to say. Used to shit on their enemies from above while perched in trees. All planes and rockets and bombs are simply elaborations on that primate instinct.

What if I die up here, in this tree? he thinks. Will it serve me right? Why? Who will ever find me? And so what if they do? Oh look, another dead man. Big fucking deal. Common as dirt. Yeah, but this one’s in a tree. So, who cares?

“I’m not just any dead man,” he says out loud.

Of course not! Each one of us is unique! And every single dead person is dead in his or her very own special way! Now, who wants to share a bout being dead, in our own special words? Jimmy, you seem eager to talk, so why don’t you begin?

Oh torture. Is this purgatory, and if it is, why is it so much like the first grade?

After a couple of hours of fitful rest he moves on, holing up from the afternoon storm in the remains of a pleebland condo. Nobody in it, dead or alive. Then he continues on, limpity-limp, picking up speed now, heading south and then east, towards the shore.

It’s a relief when he hits the Snowman Fish Path. Instead of turning left towards his tree, he hobbles along towards the village. He’s tired, he wants to sleep, but he’ll have to reassure the Crakers—demonstrate his safe return, explain why he’s been away so long, deliver his message from Crake.

He’ll need to invent some lies about that. What did Crake look like? I couldn’t see him, he was in a bush. A burning bush, why not? Best to be nonspecific about the facial features. But he gave some orders: I get two fish a week—no, make it three—and roots and berries. Maybe he should add seaweed to that. They’ll know which kinds are good. And crabs too—not the land crabs, the other kinds. He’ll order them up steamed, a dozen at a time. Surely that’s not too much to ask.

After he’s seen the Crakers, he’ll stow away his new food and eat some of it, and then have a doze in his familiar tree. After that he’ll be refreshed, and his brain will be working better, and he’ll be able to think about what to do next.

What to do next about what? That’s too difficult. But suppose there are other people around, people like himself—smoke-making people—he’ll wish to be in some kind of shape to greet them. He’ll wash up—this one time he can risk the bathing pool—then put on one of the clean sun-proof shirts he’s brought, maybe hack off some of his beard with the little scissors on the knife.

Damn, he forgot to bring a pocket mirror. Brainfart!

As he approaches the village, he hears an unusual sound—an odd crooning, high voices and deep ones, men’s and women’s both—harmonious, two-noted. It isn’t singing, it’s more like chanting. Then a clang, a series of pings, a boom. What are they doing? Whatever it is, they’ve never done anything like it before.

Here’s the line of demarcation, the stinky but invisible chemical wall of piss renewed by the men each day. He steps across it, moves cautiously forward, peers from behind a shrub. There they are. He does a quick head count—most of the young, all of the adults minus five—must be a fivesome off in the woods, mating. They’re sitting in a semi-circle around a grotesque-looking figure, a scarecrowlike effigy. All their attention is focused on it: they don’t at first see him as he steps out from behind the shrub and limps forward.

Ohhhh , croon the women.

Mun , the men intone.

Is that Amen ? Surely not! Not after Crake’s precautions, his insistence on keeping these people pure, free of all contamination of that kind. And they certainly didn’t get that word from Snowman. It can’t have happened.

Clank. Ping-ping-ping-ping. Boom. Ohhh-mun .

Now he can see the percussion group. The instruments are a hubcap and a metal rod—those create the clanks—and a series of empty bottles dangling from a tree branch and played with a serving spoon. The boom is from an oil drum, hit with what looks like a kitchen mallet. Where did they get these things? Off the beach, no doubt. He feels as if he’s watching his day-care rhythm band of long ago, but with huge green-eyed children.

What’s the thing—the statue, or scarecrow, or whatever it is? It has a head, and a ragged cloth body. It has a face of sorts—one pebble eye, one black one, a jar lid it looks like. It has an old string mop stuck onto the chin.

Now they’ve seen him. They scramble to their feet, hurry to greet him, surround him. All are smiling happily; the children jump up and down, laughing; some of the women clap their hands with excitement. This is more energy than they usually display about anything.