David Mitchell - Cloud Atlas

I asked him why he din’t jus’ kill Meronym himself.

Why-why-why? Old Georgie micked. I want you to do it, an’ here’s why-why-why. See, if you don’t cut that rope, inside o’ three moons your dearsome fam’ly be dead, I vow it! I vow it. So you got a choosin’. On one side you got Brave Ma, Strong Sussy, Bright Jonas, Sweet Catkin, all dead. Cowardy Zachry’ll live on an’ regret’ll flay him till his dyin’ day. On th’ other side you got jus’ one dead offlander no un’ll miss. Four you love ’gainst one you don’t. I may even magick Adam back from Kona .

No bolt-hole out o’ this. Meronym had to die.

Yay, no bolt-hole, boy. I’m countin’ to five …

I got my blade. A seed sprouted thru the crust o’ my mem’ry, an’ that seed was a word Georgie’d speaked jus’ then, augurin’ .

Quicksharp I chucked my blade down after my spiker an’ looked that devil in his terrorsome eyes. He’d got the s’prised curio, an’ his dyin’ smile’d got a bucket o’ dark meanin’s. I spat at him, but my spit boom’ranged back on me. Why? Was I crazed’n’loonin’?

Old Georgie’d made a diresome mistake, see, he’d mem’ried me o’ my augurin’s from my Dreamin’ Night. Hands are burnin’, let that rope be not cut . My decidin’ was settled, see, my hands was burnin’, so this was that rope Sonmi’d say-soed me not to cut.

My blade chimed on the ground an’ time started an’ the mil’yun hands’n’screams o’ that devil’s blizzard tore’n’pummeled me but cudn’t hurl me off the ’closure wall, nay, somehow I pulled up Meronym an’ got us down the other side too with no bones busted. We leaned ’gainst the furyin’ white’n’dark snowstorm back to the ’stron’mers’ village, we staggered’n’tripped an’ got back more freezin’n livin’, but a dry faggot was waitin’ by Sonmi’s grace an’ I somehow got a fire cracklin’ an’ I vow that fire saved our lifes all over again. We boiled ice to water an’ unfroze our bones an’ dried our furs best we could. We din’t speak none, we was too icy’n’drained. Did I regret spurnin’ Old Georgie?

Nay, not then, not now. Whatever Meronym’s cause was for scalin’ this cussed mountain, I din’t b’lief she’d ever judas no Valleysman, nay, not in my heart, an’ the Kona’d o’ done to the Valleys what happened sooner or later anyhow. That was in the future that first night from the summit. My friend gived us both med’sun pills after grinds an’ we sleeped the no-dream sleep o’ the ’stron’mer king.

Now, gettin’ back to the Valleys weren’t no summery stroll neither, nay, but tonight ain’t the time to yarn them ’ventures. Meronym’n’me din’t talk much goin’ down, a sort o’ trust’n’un-d’standin’ tied us now. Mauna Kea’d done its cussed best to kill us but we’d s’vived it t’gether. I cogged she was far-far from her own fam’ly’n’kin, an’ my heart ached for her lornsomeness. Abel welcomed us in his garrison dwellin’ three evenin’s later an’ sent word to Bailey’s we’d come back. Ev’ryun’d got jus’ one question, What did you see up there? It was lornsome’n’hushly, I telled ’em, with temples o’ lost Smart’n’bones. But I din’t breathe a word ’bout the ’stron’mer king nor what Meronym’d telled me ’bout the Fall an’ speshly not my knuckly with Old Georgie, nay, not till years’d come’n’gone.

I und’standed why Meronym’d not said the hole true ’bout Prescience Isle an’ her tribe too. People b’lief the world is built so an’ tellin ’em it ain’t so caves the roofs on their heads’n’maybe yours.

Old Ma Yibber spread the news that the Zachry what came down off Mauna Kea weren’t the same Zachry what’d gone up, an’ true ’nuff I s’pose, there ain’t no journey what don’t change you some. My cuz Kobbery ’fessed that mas’n’pas thru the Nine Valleys was warnin’ their daughters ’gainst frolickin’ with Zachry o’ Bailey’s ’cos they reck’ned I must o’ bis’nessed with Old Georgie to ’scape that shrieky place with my soul still in my skull, an’ tho’ that weren’t the hole true, it weren’t the hole wrong. Jonas’n’Sussy din’t mick with me like they once did. But Ma got weepy to see us home an’ hugged me— My little Zachaman —an’ my goats was gladsome an’ Catkin din’t change none. She’n’her bros at the school’ry’d made a new game, Zachryn’Meronym on Mauna Kea , but Abbess say-soed ’em not to ’cos times are pretendin’ can bend bein’. A whoah game it was, said Catkin, but I din’t want to know its rules nor endin’.

By’n’by Meronym’s last moon in Nine Valleys swelled up, an’ time it was for the Honokaa Barter, the biggest gath’rin’ o’ Windward peoples, jus’ once a year it comed round under the harvest moon, so for many days we was hard at work loomin’ goatwool blankies what was our dwellin’s bestest bart’rin’. Now, since my pa’s killin’ we’d trekked to Honokaa in groups o’ ten or more, but that year there was twice that number ’cos o’ the spesh Prescient loot we’d got, thanks to us hostin’ Meronym. There was handcarts an’ pack mules for all the dried meat’n’leather’n’cheese’n’wool. Wimoway’n’Roses was goin’ to trade herbs what din’t grow near the Valleys, tho’ Roses’n’Kobbery was spoonyin’ by then an’ that was fine by me. I wished my cuz luck ’cos luck he’d need an’ a whip’n’iron back’n’all.

Crossin’ Sloosha’s Crossin’ I’d to bear watchin’ journeyers put fresh stones on Pa’s mound, so our custom was my pa’d got a bucket o’ friends’n’bros what loved him truesome. Up on Mauna Kea that devil was sharp’nin’ his nails on a whetstone to feast on this cowardy liar, yay. After Sloosha’s came the zigzag up to Kuikuihaele. One handcart busted’n’tipped so slow’n’thirstsome goin’ it was, yay, noon was long gone b’fore we reached the scraggy hamlet sittin’ up the far side. Us young uns shimmed the cokeynut trees for grinds, an’ ev’ryun welcomed that milk, no frettin’. Trampin’ southly the buckin’ Old-Un way t’ward Honokaa Town, the ocean breeze turned freshly an’ our spirits was mended so we telled yarnies to shrink the miles, with the yarner sittin’ backwards on the leadin’ ass so ev’ryun could hear. Rod’rick yarned the Tale o’ Rudolf the Red-Ringed Goat Thief an’ Iron Billy’s Hideous Spiker, an’ Wolt sang a spoony song, “O Sally o’ the Valleys-o,” tho’ we pelted him with sticks ’cos his singin’ busted that liltsome tune. Then Unc’ Bees asked Meronym to teach us a Prescient yarnie. She hes’tated a beat or two an’ said Prescience tales was drippin’ with regret’n’loss an’ not good augurin’ for a sunny aft’noon b’fore Barter Day, but she could tell us a yarn what she’d heard from a burntlander in a far-far spot named Panama. We all yaysayed, so up she sat on the lead ass an’ a short’n’sweet yarn she spoke what I’ll tell you now so all you shut up, sit still an’ someun fetch me a fresh cup o’ spirit-brew, my throat’s gluey’n’parched.

Back when the Fall was fallin’, humans f’got the makin’ o’ fire. Oh, diresome bad things was gettin’, yay. Come night, folks cudn’t see nothin’, come winter they cudn’t warm nothin’, come mornin’ they cudn’t roast nothin’. So the tribe went to Wise Man an’ asked, Wise Man, help us, see we f’got the makin’ o’ fire, an’, oh, woe is us an’ all .

So Wise Man summ’ned Crow an’ say-soed him these words: Fly across the crazed’n’jiffyin’ ocean to the Mighty Volcano, an’ on its foresty slopes, find a long stick. Pick up that stick in your beak an’ fly into that Mighty Volcano’s mouth an’ dip it in the lake o’ flames what bubble’n’spit in that fiery place. Then bring the burnin’ stick back here to Panama so humans’ll mem’ry fire once more an’ mem’ry back its makin’ .