David Mitchell - Cloud Atlas

Get up now, boy , my pa biffed me anxsome, this ain’t no mornin’ for slug-gybeddin’, cuss you . That bubbly dream popped an’ I waked proper under itchy Kolekole blankies. The dark girl’n’me was twined, yay, like a pair o’ oily lizards swallowin’ each other. She smelled o’ vines’n’lava ash an’ her olive breasts rose’n’fell an’ watchin’ her I got the tenderlies like she was my own babbit slumb’rin’ by me. Blissweed was foggin’ me still, an’ I heard near-far shouts o’ wild partyin’ tho’ a misty dawn was ’ready up, yay, it happens so at harvest barterin’s, times are. So I yawned’n’stretched, yay, achin’n’feelin’ all good’n’scooped, y’know how it is when you shoot up a beautsome girl. Smoky brekkers was bein’ cooked nearby, so I put on my pants’n’jacket’n’all an’ the Kolekole girl’s eyes opened fawny an’ she murmed, Mornin’, goatman , an’ I laughed an’ said, I’ll be back with grinds , an’ she din’t b’lief me so I settled I’d prove her wrong an’ see her smile when I bringed her brekker. Outside the Kolekole storehouse was a cobbly track runnin’ by the Town Wall, but northly or southly I din’t cogg, so I was puzzlin’ my path there when a Honokaa guard dropped from the rampart an’ missed killin’ me by inches.

My guts shot half up an’ half down.

A crossbolt shaft stuck out his nose an’ its point thru the back o’ his head. Its iron point jolted that mornin’ an’ ev’rythin’ into, oh, its horrorsome place.

That near-far wild partyin’ were battlin’n’fightin’, yay! That smokin’ brekker was thatch burnin’, yay! Now my first thinkin’ was my people, so I backrabbited t’ward the Valleysmen’s store in the town hub shoutin’, Kona! Kona! Yay, the dark wings o’ that dreadsome word beat furyin’ thru Honokaa an’ I heard a thund’ry splint’rin’ an’ a diresome shout kicked up an’ I cogged the town gate was busted down. Now I got to the square, but whackaboom panickin’ blocked my way an’ fear, yay, fear an’ its hot stink turned me back. I roundybouted the narrow roads, but nearer’n’nearer Kona roars an’ horses an’ bullwhips came, fillin’ them misty’n’burnin’ alleys like a tsunami an’ I din’t know what way I’d come nor was goin’ an’ ker-bam! I got shoved into the gutter by a milk-eyed old ma clubbin’ thin air with a roller pin bansheein’, You’ll never lay your filthsome hands on me , but when I got up again she was still’n’pale, see, she’d got a crossbolt blossomin’ her bosom an’ suddenwise whoah a whip binded my legs t’gether an’ whoah up I flew an’ whoah down my head dropped an’ aieee the pavestones smashed my skull, yay, fiercer’n a chop from a cold dammit chisel.

When I waked next my young body was an old bucket o’ pain, yay, my knees was busted an’ one elbow stiff’n’bruised an’ my ribs chipped an’ two teeth gone an’ my jaws din’t fit no more an’ that lump on my head was like a second head. I was hooded like a goat b’fore slaught’rin’ an’ my hands’n’feet binded cruelsome an’ laid flat on’n’under other sorrysome bodies, yay, I hurt like I’d never knowed b’fore nor since, nay! Cartwheels was groanin’ an’ iron shoes clip-cloppin’ an’ with each sway pain sloshed round my skull.

Well, there weren’t no myst’ry. We was bein’ slaved an’ carted back to Kona jus’ like my lost bro Adam. I weren’t speshly gladsome at livin’ still, I weren’t nothin’ jus’ achin’ an’ helpless as a strung-up lardbird bein’ bled from a hook. A squirmin’ foot squashed my balls, so I murmed, Anyun else awake here? See, I thinked I may yet manage to rabbit out o’ that hole, but a rook-raw Kona voice yelled jus’ inches away, Shut your mouths, my strappin’ lads, or I vow on my blade I’ll slit the tongues from ev’ry last dingo-shat one o’ you! A warm wet quilted my arm, as someun lyin’ on me pissed, what cooled to a chill wet as beats went by. I counted five Kona speakin’, three horses, an’ a cage o’ chicklin’s. Our slavers was discussin’ the girls what they’d torn open’n’shooted up durin’ the Honokaa raid, so I knowed I’d been hooded half the day or more. I din’t have no hungry but, oh, I was thirsty as hot ash. One o’ the Kona voices I cogged but I din’t see how. Ev’ry long beat’d bring a thund’rin’ o’ war hoofs ’long the road an’ there’d be a Howzit, Captain! an’ a Yay, sir an’ The battlin’ goes well! an’ so I learned the Kona’d not made jus’ a reccyin’ raid on Honokaa but was seizin’ the hole o’ northly Big I, yay, an’ that meant the Valleys. My Nine Folded Valleys. Sonmi , I prayed, Mercysome Sonmi, minder my fam’ly’n’kin .

Fin’ly sleep dragged me off an’ I dreamed o’ the Kolekole girl, but her breasts’n’flank was made o’ snow’n’lava rock, an’ when I waked in that cart again I found a died slave under me was suckin’ all the warmness out o’ me. I shouted, Hey, Kona, you got a died un here an’ maybe your cart horse’d thank you to lose some draggin’ heavy . A boy on top o’ me yelped as the Kona driver whipflicked him to reward him for my oh-so-kindly consid’ration, he was the pisser maybe. I knowed by the birds’ lilts evenin’ was near, yay, an’ all day we’d been carted.

A long beat later we stopped an’ off that cart I was hauled an’ pricked by a spiker. I yelled an’ wrigglied, heard a Kona say, This un’s still livin’ anyhow , an’ was lifted off’n’leaned ’gainst a hut-size rock, an’ after a beat my hood was taken off. I sat up an’ squinted in the mournsome dim. We was on the drizzly Waimea Track, an’ I cogged ’zactly where, yay, see it was by the slopin’ pond an’ that hut-size rock we was leaned against was the selfsame rock where Meronym’n’me’d meeted Old Yanagi jus’ a moon ago.

Now I watched the Kona sling away three died slaves for the dingos’n’ravens, an’ I knowed why I’d cogged a fam’liar voice b’fore, see one of our capturers was Lyons the storyman bro o’ Leary. Storyman an’ spyer, may Old Georgie cuss his bones. There was no Valleysmen ’cept me in the s’vivin’ ten, nay, mostly Honomu’n’ Hawi I reck’ned. I prayed one o’ the slinged three wasn’t Kobbery my cuz. All of us was young men, yay, so they’d killed the older uns back in Honokaa, I s’posed, Meronym too, I reck’ned, ’cos I knowed she cudn’t s’vive nor ’scape such a furyin’ attack. One o’ the Kona poured a slug o’ pond water on our faces, we opened our mouths for ev’ry brackish drop but it weren’t ’nuff to damp our parchin’. The chief say-soed their horse boy to tent up an’ then spoke to his trembly catches. Since this mornin’ , said the painted buggah, your lifes, yay, your bodies are Kona b’longin’s, an the sooner you accept this, the likelier you’ll s’vive as a slave o’ the true inheritors o’ Big I an’ one day Hole Ha-Why . Chief telled us our new lifes’d got new rules, but luck’ly the rules was easy learnin’. First rule is, slaves do your Kona masters’ say-so, quicksharp an’ no but-whyin’. Bust this rule an’ your master’ll bust you a bit, or a lot, d’pends on his will, till you learn better obeyin’. Second rule is, slaves don’t speak ’cept when your master asks ’em. Bust this rule an’ your master’ll slit your tongue an’ I will too. Third rule is, you don’t waste no time plottin’ scapes. When you’re sold next moon you’ll be branded on your cheeks with your master’s mark. You’ll never pass for pureblood Kona ’cos you ain’t, true-be-telled all Windwards are freakbirthed shits. Bust this rule an’ I vow it, when you’re catched your master’ll blade off your hands an’ feet, blade off your cock to gag your mouth, an’ leave you by the wayside for the flies’n’rats feastin’. Sounds like a quick death you may think, but I done it sev’ral times an’ s’prisin’ slowsome it is, b’lief me . Chief said all good masters kill a bad or idlin’ slave now’n’then to mem’ry the others what happens to slackers. Last, he asked if there was any complainers.