The Raintree Rebellion Page 3
I am a poor, wayfaring stranger
Travelling through this world of woe,
But there’s no sorrow, no pain, no hardship
In that far land to which I go.
I’m going there to see my mother,
I’m going there, no more to roam,
I’m just a-going over Jordan
I’m just a-going over home.
Lots of street kids perform for money. For most, it’s just a way to dignify begging. But this child’s voice is sweet and true. The melody is haunting and her lyrics touch me to the core.
“Erica,” I say when the song is finished, my voice weak. “It’s all right,” she whispers quickly, and she crouches down. “Are you hungry, sweetheart?” The child nods.
Erica turns to the noodle cart, but the vendor protests.
“You shouldn’t encourage them,” she says.
“Please,” I say, “we just want to feed her.” I’ve said “please,” but I realize I’ve shouted.
The woman looks frightened for a nanosecond, then her faces goes blank. She does not want the trouble I’m causing. She quickly scoops noodles into a disposable container, covers it, and gives it to Erica, who pays. The child is gone the instant the container touches her hand.
I watch her scamper across the park. But when she stops, my heart does too. Some older kids are waiting for her. Even at this distance, their deliberately shredded clothing and elaborate hairstyles show they are Tribe members. The one with tattoos on her face is a leader. She says something to the child, who puts the bowl of noodles behind her back in response, as if trying to hide it. Older kids laugh and grab the bowl. Then the leader stands over the little girl, hands on her hips, and starts to lecture. We’re too far away to hear words, but the tone of voice carries, angry, hectoring.
Erica starts forward but I grab her shoulder. “Don’t,” I say quickly. “This is their turf. We’re outnumbered and they won’t hesitate to come at you.” Erica stops, reluctantly. She knows I’m right. “We’d better get out of here,” I say. As we leave the park, I take a quick look back, just in time to see the child take a cuff on the ear. I’m sorry we tried to help her now.
4
The homeless kids who run the Tribes are very strict and brutal. When they tell you to do something, you do it. That was the most difficult year of my life. I did things I still can’t talk about, things I have to shove into the darkest places in my mind so I can pretend they never happened.
—From the victim statement of Blake Raintree
Erica is subdued in the taxi home, disturbed by what we’ve witnessed. The child haunts me, too. “What was that song?” I ask.
“‘Wayfaring Stranger.’ I think it was sung by the African-American slaves, back in the nineteenth century,” Erica says.
Well, that’s appropriate. That little girl is a slave to her Tribe, just as I was, once.
Afternoon light floods the hall when we get home. The university was a disappointment. Against all logic, I’d hoped to find something that would connect me to my past, but it wasn’t there. Still, I feel a lift as soon as I walk through the door. “Do you think houses have personalities?” I ask.
Erica smiles. “I think they might. What kind of a personality does this one have?”
I look around. The house has been retrofitted with the latest technology, but it looks exactly as it would have when it was built in the early twentieth century, with bookcases full of real books and overstuffed armchairs. This style, Erica has told me, is called Early Consumer, named after the ones who consumed the resources that should have sustained the lives of those who came after them.
“If this house were a person, it would be an old aunt, like someone out of a book, generous and welcoming, with just a few quirks. Someone who would give tea parties.”
Erica laughs. “I think I know what you mean. This place fits like a slipper. Have you decided on a colour for your room yet?”
“I’m down to two, a light yellow and a light blue. I’ll show you how they look after supper. I still can’t believe the wall colour changes so easily. How does it work?”
“It’s biotechnology, I think. I seem to remember something about cells taken from giant squid, but you’d really have to ask William.”
I feel a pang of homesickness. “I wish he could be here,” I say.
Erica sighs. “So do I. We’ve never spent so long apart.
But he’s doing good things in St. Pearl, sitting in the new House of Assembly. It’s so strange, neither of us living in Kildevil. I hope we get a holo-conference line connected soon so we can at least see one another.”
In the kitchen, Erica prints the schedule for the minibus on the network console. It comes out in a wildly elaborate font, with graphic flourishes. “I’ll post this and put the micro-disk in here in case you want to download the times to your scribe. Now, I’ll just check the console for messages.” After a moment, she smiles. “William sends his love. He says Fraser would like to hear from you.”
My shoulders tense involuntarily. “I know,” I say, too quickly and too forcefully. Then I recover myself. “I do know. “Fraser is working as William’s parliamentary aide, so news of him is inevitable. Fraser swears he fell in love with me the first time he saw me, when I was sixteen and he was fifteen. I don’t understand how anyone could do that. I don’t really understand that kind of love. It makes me want to run away. When I came home from St. Pearl to Kildevil to prepare for this trip, I avoided being alone with Fraser as much as possible. I’m terrified of needing anything or anyone as much as I might need him. And yet, if his love vanished from my life, I’d be devastated.
Erica notices something’s wrong. “Is he pressuring you for some kind of commitment, Blake?”
This is one reason I feel so badly. He isn’t. Fraser never pressed me, turning away to hide his disappointment when I pretended to be too busy to spend time with him. “Not really,” I tell Erica, “I just—I’ll talk to him when I’m ready, but not yet. Could you tell him for me?”
“I’ll tell him something. I think you’re being very sensible.” Erica approves, but I’m not sure I do. What looks like maturity to her seems more like cowardice to me.
Erica keeps checking messages. A few minutes later, she says, “Here’s one from the Transitional Council. Our office is in the Queen’s Park legislature building, a suite of offices actually, so we can hire more people when the work gets heavier. They want us to start setting up tomorrow, probably so they can say they’ve accomplished something before the reception tomorrow evening. Have you decided what you’re going to wear yet?”
I groan. “I’ve been trying not to think about it. Those dresses the weavers made for me are beautiful, but they make me feel like an imposter. I don’t belong in clothes like that.” I don’t tell her how nervous I am about meeting the other people on the Justice Council.
“Nonsense. You look lovely in them.”
I knew when I took this job I’d have to meet new people, and sometimes dress in expensive clothes, but inside me there’s a street kid who can’t believe anyone would take me seriously in this new life. It’s not like being a student in St. Pearl, where I dressed as I pleased. I’m dreading tomorrow.
We eat supper in comfortable silence, but when we finish, I’m too restless to sit still. Except for the grocery shopping we did on Sunday and our trip today, I’ve been in this house constantly, getting things unpacked and organized. I’m starting to feel trapped.
“Erica,” I say as we finish eating, “I’d like to go out for a walk.”
“Oh, Blake, I’d love to, but I have so much reading to do.”
We have to have this conversation sometime. “That’s fine. I can go alone.” I brace myself.
Erica frowns. “I don’t think it’s safe—” she begins, but I cut her off.
“Erica, I’m eighteen. I lived in St. Pearl for two years. I’m used to being in a city.” I don’t even mention all the years I spent fending for myself.
“I don’t want you out after dark,” she says.
“That’s fine. I still have a couple of hours.” I’m trying to show I’m willing to compromise.
She stands and picks up her dishes. “Take your scribe and use your common sense.” She sounds a little sharp. Then she looks helpless. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to you going out without me. You’re too old to be treated like a child. I’ll watch for a message in case you need me.” I can see she’s fighting the desire to keep me home. She takes her dishes to the kitchen. “When you come hack, we’ll decide which dress you’ll wear tomorrow. Go now, while there’s still lots of daylight.”
I wouldn’t mind helping her clean up, but I know she’d rather have me back before dark, and I don’t want to give her time to reconsider.
Being out in the city without Erica for the first time makes me feel giddy. I go to the end of our street and walk north, toward Bloor, retracing the route we’ve taken before so I don’t get lost. The scribe in my pocket has maps for Toronto, but I want to see how long I can navigate without help. High Park is just across the road; the sun slants low through the trees beyond the far side. What should I do? Maybe I can see where the ghost library was.
At Bloor, I cross the road heading west along the north edge of the park. The sidewalk on this side is empty, but across the street people are walking, loitering, talking in groups. I’m so interested, I forget it’s unwise to look around too openly. Before I know it, I’ve caught the eye of a man in tattered clothes who is lounging against a post. I look away, but not quickly enough.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he calls across the street. “Wanna have some fun?” His speech is slurred. He starts to follow me. The busy traffic divides us, but there are traffic lights ahead and behind where he could cross. I don’t want to show how frightened I am, so I keep walking, even though each step takes me farther away from Erica and safety. Maybe I could escape by going into the park, but it’s already darker than the street. I feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare.
Then, incredibly, by the main gates ahead, I see someone I know. It’s Hanif, with a pretty young woman by his side and a turbo-pram between them. I’m so relieved, I greet him like an old friend. “Hanif, do you live around here?”
He doesn’t answer me directly. “The park is pleasant for the baby. This is Shauna.” The woman smiles shyly at me, but says nothing. From the corner of my eye, I see the man who was following me turn away.
“Would you like to join us?” Hanif asks. Away from the minibus, he seems like a different person, more serious and formal.
“Yes, I would,” I say.
Just inside the gates, I catch the smell of cooking food and I see a kind of camp under the trees, with tents, lines of laundry, even a few vehicles. I had assumed no one from the ghost library would be here, but I was wrong. There are adults, but many more children, some sitting in small groups, others juggling clubs and balancing on a slack rope. They look well fed and clean. Everyone seems busy, happy. I stop to watch.
“No tourists,” someone says in a commanding voice. It takes a moment to find him. He’s sitting with a child on a bench under a tree. This is the man I saw in the centre of everything when we drove past the ghost library. Everyone turns to stare at me, following his gaze.
“I’m not a tourist,” I say. I want to sound bold, but my voice is timid. From the corner of my eye, I see Hanif and his family slip away. But I can’t join them. I can’t back down.
The man passes the strings on his fingers to the child beside him. He rises and comes toward me. He’s an imposing figure. My heart pounds but I find I can’t look away. His voice is angry. “No tourists, no gawkers, no children of the privileged come to see how the homeless survive. Away.” He dismisses me with a theatrical wave of his hand.
When I speak, my words sound choked. “Who are you to call me privileged? I spent most of my life homeless.”
He looks shocked, then skeptical. “I’ve seen every homeless child in this city at one time or another. I’ve never seen you.”
“I lived in St. Pearl, in Terra Nova. My mother went there to escape the technocaust, but she died in a concentration camp.” I stop in disgust. “This is crazy. I don’t need to explain myself to you.” I turn away.
“Wait, wait,” he cries behind me. “I have misjudged you.”
I turn around, still furious. I’m unwilling to leave, but I seem unable to forgive him. I throw him a challenging look, but his eyes are filled with compassion now. “I call myself Prospero,” he says, “and these are my children. I make a place for all who have suffered as you have. Come, join us.” He holds out his hand. He’s magnetic. I can’t stop myself from going to him. “Who are you?” Prospero asks. “And what brings you here?”
“My name is Blake Raintree. I saw the ghost library on Saturday, when we arrived, and I wanted to see it again.”
“Come back next Saturday and help, if you like. We always need volunteers. But why are you so far from home?”
I tell him briefly about the Justice Council and Erica. “She was a leader of the resistance in Kildevil,” I tell him.
“Is Kildevil near St. Pearl?” he asks.
“No, it’s on the other side of the island, about seven hundred kilometres away.”
“How did you get there, then?”
“When the government opened up work camps for homeless children I gave myself up. They moved me to a work camp in Kildevil. That was how I got away from the Tribe that had me in St. Pearl. Life with the Tribe was too . . . difficult.” I falter. Even the memory still frightens me.
Prospero nods. “We try to find our children before the Tribes get them.”
I remember the little girl by the noodle vendor. This place would be perfect for her. “What if they’ve already been taken by one?”
He frowns. “That would be more complicated. So, you lived in the work camp until the Uprising?” It seems he would rather talk about me.
“I was taken out of the work camp before the Uprising by Erica and her husband. I was almost like a servant at first, but then we found there was a micro-dot in my arm. That helped us find out how I lost my mother in the technocaust. They made me part of their family, because they’d suffered in the technocaust too.” He’s such a sympathetic listener, I’m telling him things I would never normally tell a stranger. “After the Uprising, we helped run the work camp when the government staff abandoned it. We turned it into something like a school, then we tried to find homes for the children. Most of them have families now.”
“A victim of the technocaust,” Prospero says, almost to himself. Then he smiles, and his face is like a beacon of light. “But you found your way and you helped others. That’s what I like to hear. Let me show you around.”
He makes a sweeping gesture. “Our children are becoming performers. We teach them to juggle, tell stories, work with puppets, mime, do magic tricks. We give them food and shelter while they learn to make a living. Anything they earn while they live with us is saved until they’re ready to set out on their own. Then we send them off with a bit of money. Many travel to other cities. The most talented stay here to teach others.”
We watch the children for awhile. Everything is so interesting, I’m surprised when I notice it’s almost dark. “I’d better go. Erica expected me home before now. She’ll be worried.”
“But you’ll come back,” Prospero says.
I smile. “I’ll come to help with the ghost library on Saturday.”
“Good,” Pro spero says. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
The streetlights are already on. At the park gates, fumble with the scribe and send Erica a message to tell her I’m on my way, wondering how I’ll get home safely. Then I see Hanif and his family. They almost look as if they were waiting for me.
“We’ll walk you
home,” Hanif says.
5
. . . even now, when I meet new people, I expect them to despise me because of what I have been.
—From the victim statement of Blake Raintree
“If you really want me to tie your hair back, Blake, you’ll have to stay still longer than ten seconds.”
I know I’m trying Erica’s patience, but I can’t actually make myself sit still. I smooth the fine woven cloth on my knees in an effort to calm myself. “Are you sure this colour looks good on me?”
“It’s perfect. The red makes your hair look almost black.” All day, setting up in Queen’s Park, I tried not to think about this evening. Our suite has five offices and a reception area, all accessed through a main door, so it was easy to spend all day in there, hiding from everyone else. I even packed a lunch. I’m not looking forward to meeting the other aides. My experience with the children of privilege has not been good. I’m sure they will look down on me when they know I was homeless.
“There,” Erica says, stepping back to examine her work.
“What do you think?”
“You’ve done a good job,” I tell her. I wish I could sound more enthusiastic.
She gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. “You’re going to be fine. Now, I have to dress.”
Am I so transparent? Erica sees my anxieties even when I try to hide them. I take a deep breath and look around my new room. I loved it the moment I first saw it. I’ve settled on pale yellow for the walls now, and the skymaker has created the illusion of a dome-shaped ceiling. I’ve set it to project the sky as it would actually appear over Kildevil far to the east of us, so it’s already starting to deepen into night. The evening star shows near the virtual horizon.
I want to turn off the lights and lie back on my bed, to watch the stars appear, faint lights that seem to wish themselves into being, but I’ll wrinkle my dress if I do. Tomorrow, I tell myself, I’ll be able to do this tomorrow. In fact, I could reset the program to start again when I come home tonight, but somehow, that seems like cheating. I like to think I can see exactly what people in Kildevil will when they look up tonight. I don’t allow the thought of clouds to interfere with my fantasy.