“Get it together then,” says Zeb, “because we’re leaving right after we eat.”
Rhino starts to say something, stops. Katuro is gazing upwards. “I think it will not rain,” he says.
Rebecca looks over at Toby, lifts her eyebrows. Toby keeps her own face as flat as possible. Swift Fox is eyeing her sideways.
Fox by name, fox by nature, she thinks. Handle a spraygun, indeed.
Snowman’s Progress
“Oh Toby, come and see! Come now!” It’s little Blackbeard, tugging at her bedsheet.
“What is it?” says Toby, trying not to sound irritated. She wants to stay here, say goodbye to Zeb, even though he’s not going very far, or for long. Just a few hours. She wants to put some sort of mark on him, is that it? In front of Swift Fox. A kiss, a squeeze. Mine. Stay away.
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.