Not that it would be any use. She would make a fool of herself.
"Oh Toby, Snowman-the-Jimmy is waking up! He is waking up now," says Blackbeard. He sounds both anxious and supercharged, the way kids used to sound if it was a parade or a fireworks display - something brief and miraculous. She doesn't want to disappoint him, so she allows herself to be piloted. She looks behind once: Zeb and Rhino and Katuro are sitting at the table, forking up their breakfasts. Swift Fox is hurrying away, to shed that stupid hat and the lookit-my-legs shorts and don some bottom-hugging camouflage.
Toby. Take charge of yourself. This is not high school, she tells herself. But in some ways, it more or less is.
Over at Jimmy's hammock there's a crowd. Most of the Crakers are gathered around, adults and children both, looking happy and as excited as they ever look. Some of them are already beginning to sing.
"He is with us! Snowman-the-Jimmy is with us once more!"
"He has come back!"
"He will bring the words of Crake!"
Toby makes her way to the hammock. Two of the Craker women are propping Jimmy up. His eyes are open; he looks dazed.
"Greet him, Oh Toby," says the tall man called Abraham Lincoln. They're all watching, they're listening intently. "He has been with Crake. He will bring us words. He will bring a story."
"Jimmy," she says. "Snowman." She puts her hand on his arm. "It's me. Toby. I was there at the campfire, down near the beach. Remember? With Amanda, and the two men."
Jimmy looks up at her. His eyes are surprisingly clear, the whites white, the pupils a little dilated. He blinks. There's no recognition. "Crap," he says.
"What is this word, Oh Toby?" says Abraham Lincoln. "Is it a word of Crake?"
"He's tired," says Toby. "No. Not this word."
"Shit," says Jimmy. "Where's Oryx? She was here. She was in the fire."
"You've been sick," says Toby.
"Did I kill anyone? One of those ... I think I had a nightmare."
"No," she says. "You didn't kill anyone."
"I think I killed Crake," he says. "He had hold of Oryx, he had a knife, he cut ... Oh God. There was blood all over the pink butterflies. And then I, then ... I shot him."
Toby's alarmed. What does he mean? More importantly, what will the Crakers make of such a tale? Nothing, she hopes. It will make no sense to them, it will sound like gibberish, because Crake lives in the sky and cannot possibly be dead. "You've had a nightmare," she says gently.
"No. I didn't. Not about that. Oh fuck." Jimmy lies back, closes his eyes. "Oh fuck."
"Who is this Fuck?" says Abraham Lincoln. "Why is he talking to this Fuck? That is not the name of anyone here."
It takes Toby a moment to figure it out. Because Jimmy said "Oh fuck" rather than plain "fuck," they think it's a term of address, like "Oh Toby." How to explain to them what "Oh fuck" means? They would never believe that the word for copulation could mean something bad: an expression of disgust, an insult, a failure. To them, as far as she can tell, the act is pure joy.
"You can't see him," says Toby a little desperately. "Only Jimmy, only Snowman-the-Jimmy can see him. He's -"
"Fuck is a friend of Crake's?" asks Abraham Lincoln.
"Yes," says Toby. "And a friend of Snowman-the-Jimmy."
"This Fuck is helping him?" says one of the women.
"Yes," says Toby. "When something goes wrong, Snowman-the-Jimmy calls on him for help." Which is true, in a way.
"Fuck is in the sky!" says Blackbeard triumphantly. "With Crake!"
"We would like to hear the story of Fuck," says Abraham Lincoln politely. "And of how he has helped Snowman-the-Jimmy."
Jimmy opens his eyes again, squints. Now he's looking at the quilt covering him, with its Hey-Diddle-Diddle motifs. He strokes the cat and the fiddle, the smiling moon. "What's this? Fucking cow. Brain spaghetti." He raises his hand to blot out the light.
"He would like you to move back a little," says Toby. She leans in close, hoping she'll block out whatever Jimmy says next.
"I fucked it up, didn't I," he says. Luckily he's almost whispering. "Where's Oryx? She was right here."
"You need to sleep," says Toby.
"Fucking pigoons almost ate me."
"You're safe now," says Toby. It's not uncommon for someone waking from a coma to hallucinate. But how to describe "hallucinate" to the Crakers? It's when you see something that isn't there. But if it isn't there, Oh Toby, how can you see it?
"What almost ate you?" she says patiently.
"Pigoons," says Jimmy. "The giant pigs. I think they did; sorry. It's all spaghetti. Inside of my head. Who were those guys? The ones I didn't shoot."
"You don't need to worry about anything right now," says Toby. "Are you hungry?" They'll have to start with small quantities, it's best after a fast. If only there were some bananas.
"Fucking Crake. I let him fuck me over. I fucking fucked up. Shit."
"It's okay," says Toby. "You did fine."
"Fucking not," says Jimmy. "Can I have a drink?"
The Crakers have been standing respectfully at a distance, but now they move forward. "We must purr, Oh Toby," says Abraham Lincoln. "To make him strong. In his head there is something tangled."
"You are right," says Toby. "There is something tangled."
"It is because of the dreaming. And the walking here," says Abraham Lincoln. "We will purr now."
"After that he will tell us the words of Crake," says the ebony woman.
"And the words of Fuck," says the ivory woman.
"We will sing to this Fuck."
"And to Oryx."
"And to Crake. Good, kind ..."
"I'll get him some fresh water," says Toby. "And some honey."
"Got any booze?" says Jimmy. "Crap. I feel like shit."
Ren and Lotis Blue and Amanda are sitting on the low stone wall near the outdoor pump.
"How's Jimmy?" says Ren.
"He's awake," says Toby. "But he's not very lucid. That's normal when you've been out so long."
"What did he say?" says Ren. "Is he asking for me?"
"Do you think we could see him?" says Lotis Blue.
"He said the inside of his head feels like spaghetti," says Toby.
"It was always like spaghetti anyway," says Lotis Blue. She laughs.
"You knew him?" says Toby. She's aware that there was a connection between Jimmy and Ren in the early days, and then between Jimmy and Amanda. But Lotis Blue?
"Yeah," says Ren, "we figured it out. She did."
"I was his lab partner at HelthWyzer High," says Lotis Blue. "In Bio. Intro to Gene Splicing. Before I took the bullet train out west with my family, that time."
"Wakulla Price. He told me," says Ren, "that he had such a crush on you! He says you broke his heart. But you never came across for him, did you?"
"He was so full of bullshit," says Lotis Blue. Her tone is fond, as if Jimmy is a naughty but adorable child.
"And then he broke my heart," says Ren. "And God knows what he told Amanda, after he dumped me. Most likely he said that I broke his heart."
"I'd say he had a commitment problem," says Lotis Blue. "I knew guys like that."
"He used to like spaghetti," says Amanda: more words than Toby's heard her speak since the night of the Painballers.
"At high school it was fish fingers," says Ren.
"Twenty per cent real fish, remember?" says Lotis Blue. "Who knows what was really in them." They both laugh.
"They weren't all that bad, though," says Ren.
"Labmeat goo," says Lotis Blue. "But what did we know? Hey. We ate them."
"I wouldn't mind one of those right now," says Ren. "And a Twinkie." She sighs. "They were so retro-nouveau revival!"
"You felt like you were eating upholstery," says Lotis Blue.
"I'm going over there," says Amanda. She stands up, straightens her bedsheet, pushes back her hair. "We should say hello, see if he needs anything. He's been through a lot."
Finally, thinks Toby, a sign of the former Amanda, the girl she'd known at the Gardeners. Some of that energy, that resourcefulness: backbone, it used to be called. It was Amanda who'd been the initiator, the transgressor of boundaries. Even the larger boys had given her space, back then.
"We'll come too," says Lotis Blue.
"We'll say, Surprise!" says Ren. The two of them giggle.
So much for broken hearts, thinks Toby: Ren's doesn't appear to have anything fractured about it any more, or not in connection with Jimmy. "Maybe you should wait a little," she says. What will it do to Jimmy's state of mind if he opens his eyes and sees three of his former beloveds bending over him like the three Fates? Demanding his everlasting love, his apologies, his blood in a cat food saucer? Or worse: the chance to baby him, play nursie, smother him with kindness? Though maybe he'd like that.
But she needn't have worried, because when they get there Jimmy's eyes are closed. Lulled by the purring, he's gone back to sleep.
The gleaner team has moved off along the street, or what used to be a street. Zeb first, then Black Rhino, then Swift Fox, with Katuro bringing up the rear. They're moving slowly, carefully, in and around the rubble. They'll be scoping out possible ambushes, taking no chances.
Toby wants to run after them, like a left-behind kid - Wait! Wait! Let me come with you! I have a rifle! - but no point in that.
Zeb hadn't asked if there was anything he could bring for her. If he had, what would she have said? A mirror? A floral bouquet? She should have requested at least the paper and the pencils. But somehow she couldn't.
Now they're out of sight.
The day moves on. The sun travels up and across the sky, the shadows flatten, food appears and is eaten, words are spoken; dining table objects are gathered together and washed. Sentries take turns. The cobb-house wall rises a little higher, the fence around it gains a coil of wire, weeds are removed from the garden, laundry is deployed. The shadows begin to stretch again, the afternoon clouds gather. Jimmy is carried inside, and the rain rains, with impressive thunder. Then the skies clear, the birds resume their contests, the clouds begin to redden in the west.
No Zeb.
The Mo'Hairs and their shepherds return, Crozier and Beluga and Shackleton, adding three hormonally charged males to the in-camp population mix. Crozier is dangling around Ren, Shackleton edging up to Amanda, Zunzuncito and Beluga are both eyeing Lotis Blue: the intrigues of love are unfolding as they do among the young, and as they do as well among the snails on the lettuce and the shiny green beetles that plague the kale. Murmurings, the shrug of a shoulder, the step forward, the step back.
Toby proceeds through her tasks as if in a monastery, steadily, dutifully, counting the hours.
Still no Zeb.
What could have happened to him? She blots out the pictures. Or she tries to blot them out. Animal, with teeth and claws involved. Vegetable, a falling tree. Mineral, cement, steel, broken glass. Or human.
Suppose he were suddenly not there. A vortex opens: she closes it. Never mind her own loss. What about the others? The other humans. Zeb has valuable skills, he has knowledge that can't be replaced.
They're so few in number, so necessary to one another. Sometimes this encampment feels like a vacation of sorts, but it isn't. They aren't escaping from daily life. This is where they live now.
She tells the Crakers there will be no story tonight, because Zeb has left the story of Zeb inside her head, but some of that story is hard to understand and she needs to put it in order before she can tell it to them. They ask her if a fish would help, but she says not now. Then she goes to sit by herself in the garden.
You've lost, she tells herself. You've lost Zeb. By now Swift Fox must already have him, firmly clamped in her arms and legs and whatever orifices appeal. He's tossed Toby herself aside like an empty paper bag. Why not? No promises were given.
The breeze dies, damp heat rises from the earth, the shadows blend together. Mosquitoes whine. Here's the moon, not so full any more. The hour of the moth comes round again.
No moving lights approach, no voices. Nothing and no one.
She spends the midnight watch with Jimmy in his cubicle, listening to him breathe. There's a single candle. In its light the nursery-rhyme pictures on his quilt waver and swell. The cow grins, the dog laughs. The dish runs away with the spoon.
Drugstore Romance
In the morning Toby avoids the group at the breakfast table. She's in no mood for lectures on epigenetics, or for curious glances, or for speculation about how she's taking the defection of Zeb. He could have said a firm no to Swift Fox, but he didn't. The message was clear.
She goes around to the cooking shed, helps herself to some cold pork and burdock root from yesterday that's withering under an upside-down bowl: Rebecca doesn't like to throw out food.
She sits down at the table, checks the neighbourhood. In the background the Mo'Hairs mill around, waiting for Crozier to let them out and lead them off to eat the weeds along the pathways. Here he comes now, in his biblical bedsheet getup, holding a long stick.
Over by the swing set Ren and Lotis Blue are walking Jimmy to and fro in an awkward six-legged assemblage. His muscle tone isn't great, but he'll build up his strength quickly enough: underneath the wear and tear he's still young. Amanda's there too, sitting on one of the swings; and several of the Crakers, nibbling on the ubiquitous kudzu vines and watching, puzzled but not frightened.
From a distance the scene is bucolic, though there are off-notes: the missing or escaped Mo'Hair is still escaped or missing, Amanda is apathetic and gazing down at the ground, and from the set of Crozier's tight shoulders and the way he turns his back on Ren, he's jealous of her Jimmy-pampering. Toby herself is an off-note, though she must appear calm to anyone watching. It's best to look that way, and through long Gardener training she knows how to keep her face flat, her smile gentle.
But where is Zeb? Why isn't he back yet? Has he found Adam One?
If Adam's injured, he'll need to be carried. That would slow them down. What's happening out there in the ruined city, where she can't see? If only the cellphones still worked. But the towers are down; even if there were still a power source, no one here would know how to repair the tech. There's a hand-cranked radio, but it ceased to function.
We'll have to learn smoke signals all over again, she thinks. One for he loves me, two for he loves me not. Three for smouldering anger.
She spends the day working in the garden, on the theory that it will be soothing. If only she had some beehives to care for. She could share the daily news with the bees, as she and old Pilar used to do, back on the God's Gardeners' rooftop garden before Pilar died. Ask them for advice. Request that they fly out and explore and then report back to her, as if they were cyberbees.
Today we honour Saint Jan Swammerdam, first to discover that the Queen Bee is not a King, and that all worker Bees in a hive are sisters; and Saint Zosima, eastern patron of Bees, who lived the selfless monastic life in the desert, as we, too, are doing in our own way; and Saint C. R. Ribbands, for his meticulous observations on Bee communication stratagems. And let us thank the Creator for the Bees themselves, for their gifts of Honey and Pollen, for their priceless work of fertilization among our Fruits and Nuts and our flowering Vegetables, yes, and for the comfort they bring to us in times of stress, with, as Tennyson once wrote, the murmuring of innumerable Bees ...
Pilar had taught her to rub a little royal jelly into her skin before working with the bees: that way, they wouldn't see her as a threat. They'd walk on her arms and face, their tiny feet touching as gently as eyelashes, as lightly as a cloud passing over. The bees are messengers, Pilar used to say. They carry the news back and forth between the seen world and the unseen one. If a loved one of yours has crossed the shadow threshold, they will tell you.
Suddenly, today, there are dozens of honeybees in the garden, busying themselves among the bean flowers. There must be a new wild swarm nearby. One bee alights on her ha
nd, tastes the salt on it. Is Zeb dead? she asks it silently. Tell me now. But it lifts off again without signalling.
Had she believed all that? Old Pilar's folklore? No, not really; or not exactly. Most likely Pilar hadn't quite believed it either, but it was a reassuring story: that the dead were not entirely dead but were alive in a different way; a paler way admittedly, and somewhere darker. But still able to send messages, if only such messages could be recognized and deciphered. People need such stories, Pilar said once, because however dark, a darkness with voices in it is better than a silent void.
In the late afternoon, once the thunder is over, the gleaner team returns. Toby sees them walking down the street, weaving in and out among the abandoned trucks and solarcars, backlit in the declining sun, and counts their silhouettes even before she can identify them. Yes, there are four. Nobody's missing. But also, no one's been added.
As they approach the fence around the cobb house Ren and Lotis Blue run to meet them, with a posse of Craker children following. Amanda runs too, though not as fast as the others. Toby walks.
"It was intense!" Swift Fox is saying as she comes up. "But at least we made it to the drugstore." She's flushed, a little sweaty; smudged, jubilant. She sets down her pack, opening it. "Wait'll you see what I got!"
Zeb and Black Rhino look wiped; Katuro less so.
"What happened?" Toby says to Zeb. She doesn't say, "I was worried sick." Surely he knows that.
"Long story," Zeb says. "Tell you later. I need a shower. Any trouble?"
"Jimmy woke up," she says. "He's kind of weak. And thin."
"Good," says Zeb. "Let's fatten him up and get him walking. We could use some more help around here." Then he's moving away from her, over towards the back of the cobb house.
Toby feels a blip of rage travelling through her body. Gone for almost two days and that's all he has to say about it? She's not a wife, she has no nagging rights, but she can't stop the images: Zeb rolling around in the aisles of the deserted drugstore with Swift Fox, tearing off her camouflage outfit among the bottles of conditioner and shampoo-in colour, more than thirty exciting tints; or were they a couple of aisles over, near the condoms and sensation-enhancing gels? Maybe they'd squashed themselves in beside the cash register, or over by the baby products - finished off with a whole box of wet wipes. Something of the sort happened. It must have happened, to bring out that smug look on the face of Swift Fox.