3. Dreams and Dreamers
A/N: Took some time to write this chapter. I'm not trying to add a bit of Iris feelings into it, so the first part of the chapter's more of a deep recollection. I've tied to make it as real as I could, taking some stuff out from my own memories as well. I'm also trying to work on songs, attempting to write some just for the story. But I'm quite busy with exams at the moment; once they end, I'm devoting all my writing time to continuing this story.
Special thanks to Rys and Kerrie Tuck, I must add, for their compliments. Hope this chapter's good enough for you. Part of it was thought up during this fever I had over the last week.
There is bungalow at the end of a track off the main road. I have forgotten its name; I dream of my home often, and every time after I wake, my eyes are stinging with tears.
In my dream everything is opague and whitewashed. I am on the front porch of the house, looking across the garden lawn, towards the gates. The two Chinese lions perched atop the pillars on each side of the gate always catch my eye; they made of jade, their eyes made to look fearsome so that they safeguard the family house they protect. Their stare focuses on the gate, so any visitor will see their eyes before he enters our house.
In my dream I can see everything. The garden is large and green, with the exception of the exposed soil under the fruit tree and the coy pond tucked away to the brick wall by the side. The feel of marble is cold and hard beneath my feet, and occasionally someone will call me to come in.
The voice belongs to my Grandmother. Her face is wrinkled, her hands weathered and adorned with jade bangles that her mother gave to her before they came down from China. She walks with a certain lop-sided limp, because her left leg is weak. I obey her orders, and rest beside her on the kitchen table as she pounds chilli or cuts long beans for the meal at night. Her eyes are bright but she never smiles. She is a serious woman who, after years of child rearing, demands her children take care of her until she dies.
Always, she will sit in silence as she does her daily duty. Somehow, there is constantly a vegetable that needs to be chopped, garlic that requires dicing, or chilli to be pounded. Even when these are not available, she will preoccupy herself with sewing, mending her old pair of sandals. She cannot read. But instead listens to the wayang when it airs on the radio.
When she thinks I deserve a treat, she will accompany me out of the silvered gates and into the track. Houses flank us as we walk, but none are as large or eminent as ours. The rest are simply two-storeys with small patches as gardens. Children play badminton in the patios, television echoes from within them in a language I have yet to master. Cars roll by sometimes and crows scavenge from dustbins that have fallen over. Cats prowl along the storm drains; their tails always disappearing before I can see them, but Grandmother insists they are there.
At the end of the track I can hear the traffic. The track ends and the main road begins. I have never gone any further than the main road; to me it has always been busy and dangerous and loud. But here there is a small coffee shop where the smell of frying and the presence of cats is more appealing than the traffic.
A man is standing there, and he greets Grandmother in dialect. He is fat and slouches, tufts grey hair still present on his balding head. Sometimes he looks at me and praises my Grandmother for having such beautiful grandchildren. Other times he is smoking and talking to another man seated lazily across a table. But whenever I see this man, my heart leaps for joy, because I know he gives me a stick. A sweet stick, which is coloured, called ice-cream.
They leave me to my own devices at the moment, while they talk. Their conversation is always the same. They talk about the old times: wayang coming to the neighbourhood, shopping and the latest lottery numbers. Sometimes their talk goes as far back as the time Mother was born, and the year they moved into the neighbourhood. I only catch phrases and bits of it, though now I wish I had caught more. Most of the time my attention is focused on the cats, as they rub against my legs in hope of getting a bite. Grandmother shoos them away sometimes; she thinks they, especially the black ones, are a nuisance.
In the end we are walking home, my face sticky with pandan or red bean flavour the ice-cream contained and Grandmother is struggling to keep me from wiping my face on my dress. The sun is setting, casting a silhouette of the trees behind us, and darkening the old quarry on the hill that looms above our house. A chunk of the hillside has been blown apart because of that quarry, which Grandmother says I should never go near because of the deep pools and ledges.
We arrive home, and it all ends there.
My eyes open to darkness – in a faraway, alien land, in a dark, empty room.
The remaining memories – of my family bungalow under the old granite quarry, of the neighbourhood and its stark contrast with the wealth I lived in, of the feel of being in a place you know so well – evades me. The dream recurs, and each time more vividly than ever. When I stare up at the ceiling, I can almost feel Grandmother's wrinkled hand clutching mine, even smell the frying and the lush of the garden and asphalt on the roads after a rainy day.
Then other feelings, other thoughts hit me like a falling raindrop, splattering all the fondness and warmth of my memories.
There will never be a bungalow on the edge of the track under an old granite quarry. Not because we abandoned it, but because Earth is no more. There will never be the small neighbourhood ever again; on the day we left we a friend of Father's drove us from the back because he said the houses were being looted. And there will be no more Grandmother. The ship she was in, along with Father's friend and my second uncle, was incinerated attempting to leave Earth.
The memories and feelings are like a flood, both good and bad, which washes away all reason for you to hang on to this miserable life that descended from the past. It is still hard for me to remember the escape; all I can picture in my mind are hundreds of people, loaded like cattle onto ships, and blasted away into space.
I remember, with stories from other friends, how soldiers had to fire to keep back the crowd. Many of these soldiers could not live with themselves afterwards, Doug told me, and many just ended their lives because of all the painful memories. Everyone in our ship made it safely to a nearby planet when we escaped; other ships were rife with plague and death. But we were lucky.
We were very lucky.
I was too young to remember the entire escape. Maybe someday it'll return to my dreams and I can recall everything. But now Mother won't tell me about it; neither will Aunt Cheng, who escaped on a different ship and had her baby die on board. There is too much despair behind our past, too much trauma lurking in every family's history. Releasing it would do no one any better.
Sometimes I think strange things. It is no secret that our wealth saved us. If it weren't for Father's inheritance, we wouldn't have the bungalow. We wouldn't have had enough money to secure a place in a ship either. The money saved us; Mother said it was a huge sum. Father must've have used the remaining assets to buy our way into Solbrecht, like so many others did. It is clear who we are: the wealthy, the rich, the once affluent humans who prospered on Earth and survived to start over on a different planet.
But look where we are now. All our money has bought us is a place to exist, surrounded by dissent and hatred for our kind. Father was once an auditor, now he is a moneychanger who owns a portion of a corner in the docks. Many, even humans, say we are swindlers, always bribing others for pardon while living off others like parasites. We never face the problem face-to-face, they say.
Sometimes I feel they are right. If it weren't for our money, we would be living in drifter colonies like everyone else. But we were privileged; we were able to sway people with riches and wealth. And all this jeering, extortion and exerting of their influence over us is the price we have to pay. For running away like gutless rats.
Eventually the thoughts face away. I try to remember some more memories but they all come in a blur to me. I was too young back then, and as I grow older, time is bleaching these memories from my head. I want to get to sleep now; I feel it's the only thing that can bring comfort. Yet my bed feels hard and uninviting, the room cold and devoid of any warmth. As much as I try to shut my eyes, darkness is enclosing me from all sides. Not the darkness you get in blissful sleep, but a sudden, blank blackness.
Good things are always over in a flash; Christmas day passes, then Boxing Day, finally life returns in full swing, and reality with it. Father has his duty at the docks while Michelle, Liwei and I have school to return to.
On this morning Mother awakens us earlier than usual. The sky is still dark, and groggily, I put on my clothes. Michelle and I take a morning shower; sure enough, the freezing water jolts us awake. Our breakfast, one of hot soup, is simple but enough to keep our minds off food and focused on learning all day. I pack all that I need in my guitar bag, and without further delay, we are sent off for classes.
The air, heavy and damp, feels cold in my chest, yet the community is readying itself for the day ahead. Alvin's apothecary is already open, an oil lamp illuminating his wares as he pounds on precious saffron powder and weighs salt. Jeffery, though he has been given a cold shoulder by several others since the incident during Christmas, is repairing a hover scooter in full view of anyone coming by the street. He greets us, with the enthusiasm of being awake for hours already. Doug, like a silent sentinel, is perched on his balcony, the ember of his cigarette visible, in deep thought.
There is a certain glint of malice in his eyes as he greets us. His salutation isn't as warm as before. Eyebrows raised, he eyes us through the dim light of the morning. Perhaps he has been thinking too much again.
I see the school building up ahead, and at once I feel relieved to be out of Doug's steely glare.
Our school does not have gates. It was once a home; with only three-storeys to spare, the elders say it was abandoned by the original residents of this street, who dwelled here even before we came. Its height allows it to stand out from the other dwellings, and its walls are dirty grey with moss and soot. It overlooks the square, and the road dividing the two neighbourhoods further ahead. There is a small yard within the compound, where several others are milling around.
Iain is not among them, but Vanessa is.
I hardly step through the invisible barrier separating street from school when I am challenged. Vanessa obstructs my path; I try not to look her in the eye, for I know it provokes her. Instead, I keep my head bent low, bangs covering my eyes, just as if I was facing Arhleus or Glein. She is a head taller than me, but lanky and lacks meat, Aunt Cheng reckons. No one questions her, except Iain or myself. Sometimes she doesn't even have patience for me.
"So you keep your head low," she sneers, "ashamed, aren't you, from entertaining a drunkard?"
I hold my tongue, trying not to retort. She can be wrathful, violent sometimes, but ultimately a good friend to those whom she tolerates. No one knows this reason for her queer behaviour, but all the students understand she's suffered more than most of us.
"What do you have in that case?"
Strange question. I raise my head, trying not to look defiant, and look her in the face. She has been crying again, I know it: her eyes are shadowed in deep red gullies. She tries to act tough but we know it is merely a cover-up for something more personal. Her eyes, though, are like lasers, burning into mine. The stud on her right eye catches the light for a second, and holds it steady, and I take care not to further damage her feelings.
"A problem, Vanessa?" I question.
The other students are watching nervously. Without our teacher present, I may be in for a good thrashing.
"You don't seem so tough without the teacher's son here beside you, aren't you, Iris?"
"Watch your tongue," I caution, hoping my false threat will deter her. "Can't ever fight the urge to spite Iain, can't you?"
"Me? Spite Iain? Now why would I do that here?" Vanessa puts on a face, in mock innocence. "Did he tell you about the rehearsal?"
Now she has caught my undivided attention. I haven't seen Iain for three days, and Vanessa, who lives closer to the Niels than I do, would be bound to have heard something. My eyes glance to my case, where my guitar lies, untouched since Christmas night. If there is a rehearsal, I haven't done much practice.
"Is this all about a rehearsal?" I demand.
"Just making sure you make it worth my time with you guys," she adds maliciously. Us! Worth her time! She should be glad she's part of our group. Iain thought we'd need a good drummer, and she has yet to prove her worth.
I see a figure approaching from the corner of my eye, and Vanessa's shadow backs away from me at once. Turning, I see Clarissa Sinclair, the daughter of one of Keane Greening's friends. She is preoccupied in a conversation with Mr. Niel, looking serious today with his grey overcoat. And right behind them, is haversack slung under the weight of a bass guitar, is Iain.
This is the way I remember him before Christmas. He only has one guitar, but he hardly bothers to keep it safe, just hauling it around by its oversized neck. He looks more rock-band material than I do anyway; I've seen how all those people which played our kind of music in the past looked like, and Iain comes straight out of one of them. His head is always in a rakish tilt when he plays and his blonde hair moves with the music.
"Hey Iris," he greets me, his eyes glinting with warmth, "did you hear about our rehearsal?"
I try not to turn back to Vanessa, who's probably lurking behind me in the state of sub-satisfaction. Iain has said it: there will be a rehearsal today. Just the three of us.
"Yeah, of course I did."
Mr. Niel herds everyone else into the school building and shuts the door. In the normal schools, classes are much bigger, with several teachers taking one class. But here it's only Mr. Niel, whom most people think is the only qualified person for the job; all the subjects we learn are human subjects anyway.
With only thirty-four pupils, Iain and I take the desks at the back of the classroom; sometimes we get caught talking, sometimes we don't, but it's a gamble worth taking. As the class settles down, Mr. Niel sets a thick, hardcover volume on the table beside the board. Human history again, but I remind myself we aren't exactly spoiled for choice. Mr. Niel teaches us the basics: history, languages, some economics and science, with literature sometimes thrown in for good measure.
"Your books out, class," he says to all of us. "History first today, and this lesson will be on the human space project development after the 21st century."
I wearily take out my notebook and listen as Mr. Niel begins. I've been in his class for almost five years now, and he's been teaching Human history from back to front. There's no fixed syllabus, we're all just taught what we should know. At first it was all quite interesting, with all the empires and wars and politics. Then it seemed as if someone put a stopper to all human bloodshed, and we began learning about peace and diplomacy. You'd think after being a human invention, it would've spread to other parts of this universe.
My thoughts sidetrack, and I ask Iain, "Did you ask Vanessa to come along to that rehearsal you were talking about?"
His eyes widen. "Yeah, of course, I did. We need a good drummer, don't we? Of course, I hope you've practised, because I've got another song here for you to try out."
Mr. Niel has launched into a full lecture about humankind's first discovery of the hyper drive engine. As much as I find this lesson meaningful, I don't feel in the least interested. All I can think of is the rehearsal later; Vanessa, Iain and myself, together attempting to perform, for only the second time. The thoughts, warm, fill my head, though they can't seem to block out the lesson.
Iain, too, doesn't take our history lesson that well. As his father drones on, he gives me a playful look – and how I wish I could kiss that mischief in his eyes! I return him another look, and all we seem to be able to do is to stare at each other all day.
The rehearsals were Iain's idea. He thought it would be something for a bunch of us to come together and perform, or at least try to perform, the old songs. His father's infinite access to old records existing in Solbrecht and the drifter colonies has no doubt helped a lot. The result: we have an endless amount of songs, old songs written before Earth's destruction, and new ones composed after, in the time we call AfterEarth.
So in some ways, yeah, we are a band.
A really rag-tag one at that. We don't practice often because we don't have enough cells for the amps. It's one thing to have an amp, and another thing to keep it running. We don't have much support idea, although Mr. Niel thought this would make a good project. Few people listen to human music, just all their trashcan remixes and Solbrecht grunge. But human music's beyond all that; it soars.
At the thought of playing again, my mind is awakened, alert with adrenaline that comes from playing a good song. The moment Mr. Niel announces classes are over, everyone is glad; I hope everyone clears out, so we can use the classroom. As usual, Michelle and Clarissa are asking Mr. Niel questions but Iain is already tuning his bass guitar, drawing some attention from the other students.
I remove mine from out of the guitar case. She's a beauty; slick and black and four feet long, I handle her with care. I tuned it a few nights ago, so the chords should still be in place. My amp, charged with carefully hoarded cells, stands up to be knees. I flick the switch, and get nothing but static. The plug, polished and shiny, goes into the back of my guitar – and the static is replaced by the eager hum of an instrument tuned and raring to go.
I slump into my chair, as Vanessa arranges her drums.
"First rehearsal in three months," Iain grins, "let's see what you got."
My hands go towards the strings, plucking them gently as I keep one finger on the bass. At the touch of metal on skin, my fingers dance, somehow managing to produce a tune. It goes on and on softly, with the amp volume turned down. I pull one sting, then my other fingers descend, my thumb always poised over the bass. The tune intensifies, catching pace, ending as I strain the pulled string.
"Not bad," Iain remarks, his eyes are still glinting playfully, "is that a wrong note I hear?"
"Hey," I counter, insulted, "I practised!"
A group of students have gathered, watching, while others are milling around, pretending they're not dying to watch us. Michelle seems to have gotten an upper hand in some debate Mr. Niel and Clarissa seem to be having. Their voices, raised loud, are the only sounds apart from my chords in the classroom.
Vanessa straightens her drum set. She keeps in the school. "So what song are we playing today?" she asks.
"How about 'Rabbit Hole'?" Iain suggests. "Iris, what do you think?"
I sift through the old song sheets Iain brought along. All of the songs have complicated chords, some I haven't seen before, and I'm not game to show I can't play them in front of our first audience. One song catches my eye; the chords are easy, and I can almost feel the music in my ears as I examine the chords again.
"Why don't we try this one," I gesture to Iain.
His eyes widen. Glancing at the chords, he readies himself. "Your intro," he grins.
The chords seem simple enough. At my own timing, I begin to strum. It comes out raw, pure music from the loud amp. As I still attempt to play the tune, Iain's bass notes have cut into mine, a deep-voiced accompaniment. Vanessa is just waiting for the signal.
The music is slow at first; I keep my strumming gentle to suit the mood of this song and its quiet intro. But gradually it picks up tempo, and my hands are moving fast to keep up with the chords I picture in my head as I read the music keys. The bass glides gently in and out of everything, while Vanessa picks along with her snare drum beats. One more line, I tell myself…
Finally the song reaches a climax and I hit the strings with all my might. A long, growling, sneering, rasping note emits from the amp and Vanessa joins in, a smash of cymbals to mark her addition. At first, as I struggle to come back in to song, all our notes get mixed u in a ragged rhythm. But gradually, we find each other, and the sound hits everyone there as a smooth, powerful wall of music.
Even Mr.Niel's intrigued; he has stopped the debate as Clarissa and Michelle look our direction, Michelle grinning slightly. I pick the strings again, letting a note hang before my fingers slip down in a rasp of metal. Iain his hands picking his bass carefully, breaks into song.
His voice changes it all. A song without a voice may be music, but a song with one is poetry. By the way Iain sings, I know this is a sad song, heavy with a feeling which courses through my fingers as regret. It was a song written during the AfterEarth, and it tells of how we are wanderers, in a hostile, unfriendly land. That's the beauty of music; no matter how small-minded the musician is at heart, the music offers a voice from the writer, and a voice from a different heart.
As the song trails away, my part is the longest. The bass fades, slow but eventual, and Iain's singing voice dies off into silence. But the chords still go on, and I am compelled to continue playing for the audience. Even Vanessa has taken note of the change in beat, and she has stopped. My guitar solo is more of a bridge, repeating the same chords over and over again, as they soften to a finality. My hands strumming, my thumb hits the bass note, before silently, so silently now, the music fades into nothingness…
I am surrounded by amazed faces, which break into applause. The rehearsal, judging by the look on Iain's face, was a success. He smiles broadly, pretending to accept the applause as he straightens his guitar. Even Vanessa is smiling; she puts on a weak smile as she says to me, "Beautiful."
"Well, you followed right up till the very end," I tell her. Now I have heard her play. "You're the good drummer Iain said you were."
As we are ushered out by Mr. Niel, the sky is darkening, and I stay for a while to talk to the others. They all say the same thing: beautiful music. I can't help being flattered by their compliments. Iain, his guitar dangling by his back, gets the praise of his father.
But the joyous mood is dampened by something else. There is a mob assembling in the square. We nervously disperse, the night sinister and a feeling of foreboding in the air. It's a good thing Michelle and Liwei went home first; the streets are deserted as I walk with Vanessa. But then, I hear noises, coming from all around. They are not human voices, closing in from the streets, carrying flaming torches. As we hurry, I suddenly realise it. There can only be one outcome, on a night like this.
As we round the corner, the street explodes. A mob attacks the store on the roadside, setting a cart of fruit in flames. They smash the makeshift tarps of the store, sending them crashing down. A rock, smooth and spinning, is thrown inside the owner's house.
"Come out, you blood drinkers!" they taunt.
"Filthy human!"
The fires from the torched cart illuminate their faces. They are Solbrecht natives, set on a rampage for the traditional holiday uproar. Other aliens, standing behind them and somewhat amused, watch them the youths tear apart another tarp. After all, youngsters will be youngsters.
I watch, the fires setting ablaze my face, as they slam into Alvin's cart of spices and torch it as well. Someone turns my direction, and immediately my blood freezes.
"There! There's a human! Get them!"
Vanessa and I run one direction, while Iain and Mr. Niel run another. Hoping to confuse them, the breath burning in my lungs, I dodge as rocks land against the wall, scattering fragments onto my face and littering the street. My house is up ahead. If we can reach there, we will be safe.
But the moment I step through the door, a rock smashes into the back of Vanessa's head, and she falls, spread-eagled across the street. Fearing nothing all of a sudden, I seize her, as another rock crosses my line of sight. Her body is limp, and motionless, with fresh red blood oozing from the wound.
"Human scum!"
"Filthy vermin!"
"Come on! To the cemetery! Let's dig up their ghosts!"
And with a loud ruckus, the mob is gone. I slump in the doorway of my own home, as Mother and Michelle arrive to help. My guitar is still in its case, but it doesn't matter now. Guilt, heavier than exhaustion, wells up in my chest. We failed to see this coming, and my friend Vanessa has to be pay the price.
Written by shelter