“Okay, let’s put it on the crisis list. One pregnancy. Call a group meeting. But if the MaddAddams don’t know what’s likely to happen, I guess it’s wait and see?”
“It’s wait and see anyway,” says Toby. “It can’t be aborted; no one here has that skill, and it would be way too risky to try it. There’s some herbs, but if you don’t know what you’re doing they can be toxic. Nothing else to be done, unless someone at the group meeting has a brilliant suggestion. But before that, I need to do some consulting.”
“With who? None of our brainiacs are doctors.”
“Don’t laugh at me for what I’m about to say.”
“Tongue bitten, mouth stapled. Fire away.”
“Okay, this is going to sound demented: with Pilar. Who, as you know, is dead.”
A pause. “How you planning to do that?”
“I thought I could pay a visit to her, you know, where we …”
“To her shrine? Like a saint?”
“Something like that. Do an Enhanced Meditation. Remember where we buried her, in the park? On the day of her composting? We dressed up as park keepers, we dug a hole in the …”
“Yeah, I know the place. You wore those green parkie overalls I stole for you. We planted an elderberry bush on top of her.”
“Yes. That’s where I’d like to go. I know it’s a bit crazy, as the Exfernal World would have said.”
“First you talk to bees, now you want to talk to dead people? Even the Gardeners never went that far.”
“Some of them did. Think of it as a metaphor. I’ll be accessing my inner Pilar, as Adam One would have put it. He’d be right onside with this.”
Another pause. “Well, you can’t do it alone.”
“I know.” Now it’s her turn to pause.
A sigh. “Okay, babe, whatever you want. I volunteer. I’ll get Rhino and Shackie to come. We’ll keep you covered. One spraygun, plus your rifle. How long you figure it’ll take?”
“I’ll do the short-form Enhanced Meditation. I don’t want to hog too much time.”
“You expect to hear voices? Just so I know.”
“I’ve got no idea what I’ll hear,” says Toby truthfully. “Most likely nothing. But I need to do it anyway.”
“That’s what I like about you. You’re game for anything.” Some rustling, some shifting. Another pause. “Something else eating you?”
“No,” Toby lies. “I’m good.”
“You’re into prevarication?” says Zeb. “Fine with me.”
“Prevarication. That’s a lot of syllables,” says Toby.
“Let me guess. You think I should tell you what happened out in the wilds of the shopping strip with what’s-her-name. Little Miss Fox. Whether I groped her or vice versa. Whether sexual congress took place.”
Toby thinks about it. Does she want bad news about what she fears or good news she won’t believe? Is she turning into a clinging invertebrate with tentacles and suction cups? “Tell me something more interesting,” she says.
Zeb laughs. “Good one,” he says.
So. Stalemate. It’s for him to know and for her to try to refrain from finding out. He loves encryption. Even though she can’t see him in the dark, she can feel him smiling.
They set out the next morning just at sunrise. The vultures that top the taller, deader trees are spreading their black wings so the dew on them will evaporate; they’re waiting for the thermals to help them lift and spiral. Crows are passing the rumours, one rough syllable at a time. The smaller birds are stirring, beginning to cheep and trill; pink cloud filaments float above the eastern horizon, brightening to gold at the lower edges. Some days the sky looks like old paintings of heaven: there should be a few angels floating around, their white robes deployed like the skirts of archaic debutantes, their pink toes daintily pointed, their wings aerodynamically impossible. Instead, there are gulls.
They’re walking along what is still a trail, through what is still recognizable as the Heritage Park. The little gravelled paths leading off to the side have vines creeping across them, but the picnic tables and cement barbecues have not yet been obscured. If there are ghosts here, they’re the ghosts of children, laughing.
Every one of the drum-shaped trash containers has been tipped over, the lids pried off. That wouldn’t have been people. Something has been busy. Not rakunks, though: the trash containers were made to be rakunk-proof. The earth around the picnic tables is rutted and muddy: something’s been trampling, and wallowing.