Oryx and Crake (MaddAddam, #1)(11)

“Yeah, if you can ignore the burnt twigs and roots and crap. There’s no caffeine in it, but I’m counting on the placebo effect. I see you brought a whole mob back with you last night. Those – what would you call them, anyway?”

“They’re people,” says Toby. Or I think they’re people, she adds to herself. “They’re Crakers. That’s what the MaddAddam bunch calls them, and I guess they should know.”

“They’re definitely not like us,” says Rebecca. “No way close. That little pisher Crake. Talk about fouling up the sandbox.”

“They want to be near Jimmy,” says Toby. “They carried him back here.”

“Yeah, I heard that part,” says Rebecca. “Tamaraw enlightened me. They should go back to – to wherever they live.”

“They say they need to purr on him,” says Toby. “On Jimmy.”

“Excuse me? Do what on him?” says Rebecca with a small snort of laughter. “Is that one of their weird sex things?”

Toby sighs. “It’s hard to explain,” she says. “You have to see it.”





Hammock


After breakfast Toby goes over to take a look at Jimmy. He’s suspended between two trees in a makeshift hammock fashioned from duct tape and rope. Over his legs is a child’s comforter with a pattern of cats playing fiddles, laughing puppies, dishes with faces on them holding hands with grinning spoons, and cows with bells around their necks jumping over moons that are leering at their udders. Just what you need when you’re hallucinating, thinks Toby.

Three Crakers – two women and a man – are sitting beside Jimmy’s hammock on chairs that may once have belonged with the dining table: dark wood, with retro lyre backs and yellow-and-brown-striped satiny upholstery. The Crakers look wrong on these chairs, but they also look pleased with themselves, as if they’re doing something quietly adventurous. Their bodies gleam like gold-threaded spandex; huge pink kudzu moths are fluttering around their heads in living halos.

They’re preternaturally beautiful, thinks Toby. Unlike us. We must seem subhuman to them, with our flapping extra skins, our aging faces, our warped bodies, too thin, too fat, too hairy, too knobbly. Perfection exacts a price, but it’s the imperfect who pay it.

Each of the Crakers has one hand on Jimmy. They’re purring; the hum gets louder as Toby walks over to them.

“Greetings, Oh Toby,” says the taller of the two women. How do they know her name? They must have listened more carefully than she’d thought last night. And how should she reply? What are their own names, and is it polite to ask?

“Greetings,” she says. “How is Snowman-the-Jimmy today?”

“He is growing stronger, Oh Toby,” says the shorter woman. The others smile.

Jimmy does look somewhat better. He’s pinker, he’s cooler, and he’s sound asleep. They’ve fixed him up: tidied his hair, cleaned his beard. On his head is a battered red baseball cap, on his wrist a round watch with a blank face. A pair of sunglasses with one eye missing is perched awkwardly on his nose.

“Maybe he’d be more comfortable without those things on him,” says Toby, indicating the hat and the sunglasses.

“He must have those things,” says the man. “Those are the things of Snowman-the-Jimmy.”

“He needs them,” says the shorter woman. “Crake says he must have them. See, here is the thing for listening to Crake.” She lifts the arm with the watch on it.

“And he sees Crake with this,” says the man, pointing to the sunglasses. “Only he.” Toby wants to ask what the hat is for, but she refrains.

“Why have you moved him outside?” she asks.

“He did not like it in that dark place,” says the man. “In there.” He nods towards the house.

“Snowman-the-Jimmy can travel better out here,” says the taller woman.

“He’s travelling?” says Toby. “While he’s asleep?” Could they be describing some dream they imagine Jimmy is dreaming?

“Yes,” says the man. “He is travelling to here.”

“He is running, sometimes fast and sometimes slow. Sometimes walking, because he is tired. Sometimes the Pig Ones are chasing him, because they do not understand. Sometimes he is climbing into a tree,” says the shorter woman.

“When he gets to here, he will wake up,” says the man.

“Where was he when he started this travelling?” says Toby cautiously. She doesn’t want to convey disbelief.

“He was in the Egg,” says the taller woman. “Where we were, in the beginning. He was with Crake, and with Oryx. They came out of the sky to meet with him in the Egg, and to tell him more of the stories, so he can tell them to us.”

“That is where the stories come from,” says the man. “But the Egg is too dark now. Crake and Oryx can be there, but Snowman-the-Jimmy cannot be there any more.” The three of them smile warmly at Toby, as if certain she’s understood every word they’ve said.

“May I look at Snowman-the-Jimmy’s hurt foot?” she asks politely. They have no objection, though they keep their hands in place and continue with their purring.

Toby checks the maggots underneath the cloth she wrapped around Jimmy’s foot the night before. They’re busily at work, cleaning up the dead flesh; the swelling and oozing are diminishing. This batch of maggots is nearing maturity: she’ll have to get hold of some rotting meat tomorrow, leave it in the sun, attract flies, create new maggots.