Last night I dreamed I was
on a gargantuan horse cantering and galloping across hills and down into deep,
green valleys. We raced with the clouds and shied with the wind; he tossed his
mane amidst the tree tops, shaking heavy fruit loose from drooping branches
with his shudders, scattering birds to the four winds; he whinnied and ran with
herds of other horses that joined us from forests, moors, and deserts. We were
without a care in the world; and I hung on, without reins or saddle, laughing
at our vitality, our power and speed. Nymphs, the daughters of the great king
of the forest, called me to them, tempting me with dance and song, hiding in
bushes and laughing as I approached; but we didn’t care, I was the emperor of
the night and my horse the equine king of the land; they could wait till we
were ready for them.
Such dreams are we made of these days, when all is shackled and the dream world is our only escape, our only freedom, the only place we have where we can be unregulated – let loose in fantasy.
I awake with a painful realisation that the horse is not real, that the adventure is not real, that my quest for freedom is not real, but I find kindled deep within an energy and a direction that now is the time for things to change.
I shall find a horse; I shall ride a horse; I shall own a horse. That will be my quest. Then I begin to laugh, that fully energised laugh of the love for life, love for challenges, love for potentiality recognised, and love for purpose and adventure! Ah, the vestiges of freedom.
What was I reading last night? Hmm, several books lie scattered on the bed next to me. Hah. I sit up and feel awake from years of slumber; awake to seek and to explore. Yet a quest for horses! Such things are illegal, extinct, long gone in this shackled and mollycoddled land. But what is the point of living, if you cannot enjoy adventure or take a risk?
œ œ œ
I am thinking over this driving along the M-607 to Melton later that day in my old fossil-fuel auto; in front of me, I see a bright blue, lightly armoured Guards’ cellauto with its golden €U logo on its doors trundling along at an unstately twenty kph. I overtake, smiling smugly; those betty buggers won’t appreciate it. Cellautos, running on batteries, are “slo”, as it explains on the road in large yellow letters coming into a curve: SLO, SLO, SLO.
Tuff. Hah hah. Out of the curve and zoom zoom belly belly boom, touching the max sixty kph ooh, I love these little old fossils! One day, we’ll all be fossils – interstellar smudge fuelling another star system. I ken that, but few others do. That probably explains why they put up with so much – they think they’ll live forever.
The road is empty, the weather sunny and calm. Either side, vast hedges border a ragged forest edge. I know that the woods weren’t there a hundred years ago; I ken this from old forbidden maps of the area. It was a golf course.
Golf was a game that took up too much living space, the eurogime said fifty years back. It went the way of all games and the competitive spirit, for statisticians – eurogime number crunchers who quantified life and death – announced that the competitive spirit was strongly correlated to crime, deviance, perfectionism, belligerence, objectification of the other, self-abuse, drug taking, perversion, euroheresy, and war. Gone for good along with croquet, cricket, and cards. Yet manon – the ubiquitous ‘they’ – did not take over the land; it was left to spoil, and nature has taken back that which once belonged to mensh. The greens are now weeds, the fairways sprouting young fir trees, the verges thick with older trees, gorse, brambles and shrub.
A man in a long brown, waxy cloak is striding along the road – an unusual activity; he’s got a long walking stick that propels him with a potent rhythm, I note in my mirror as I pass. He appears fit, fifty perhaps, broad-shouldered, short dark beard speckled with grey on a ruddy face – there’s certainly a sketch in him, I think as his mirror image recedes, imprinting him on my memory.
I spy with my observant eye another cellauto a quart ahead. I should have time to overtake after the sharp left. Then I spot another auto coming towards us, driving on our right-hand side. It’s not overtaking anything that I can see; in fact, he’s speeding up. The cellauto in front of me begins to wobble indecisively and perhaps with a dash of panic, the driver apparently unsure as to how to outmanoeuvre the obvious, on-coming disaster, finally taking the decision to veer to the left, just as the other returns to his side; and, in what seems an elongated spatiotemporal-distortion, the two autos clip each other creating a spinning and sparking gymnastic display, one flipping, the other twisting, and a sickening squeal of metal on metal reaches my ears.
I brake as the two sullenly end their dance as if the viddigraph’s on pause; one lying wheels up like a long dead beetle, the other hugging a tree in silent prostration.
This is a fishy start to the day.
The wheels are still spinning of the inverted auto. It is fossil-fuelled like mine. Halting, I jump out and race over to check for injuries and to cut the fuel flow. The engine is still purring; this could be dangerous for me. I can not see inside, but I can hear screams or is it sobs from the other auto; so this one needs my help first.
The door is jammed, crumpled at the top; I try the other side; it opens and I reach in and cut the engine. A scrawny youth is crumpled in a heap, and, now I notice, blood is pouring from his head, his left arm seems distorted at the ulna; black blood-matted hair, sweaty face, eyes closed, lips quivering; I need to get him out. Behind, I hear the peeeewah of the Guards’ auto reaching the scene. Oh nay ... two brown-shirted mensh get out, which means they’re nay better than clerks. I can never tell whether these mensh are male or female. They approach slowly.
“Helf me rite this auto,” I shout. “This yute’s in tod-danger!”
I take off my coat and, diving back into the inverted cockpit, O! I hear Shakespeare, wrap it around his shoulders and neck to take the blow for when we right the car.
But the brown sheissheads have not moved. Neither Eurosprick nor a bleeding mensh will move them.
“Cum on! He’s in serius truble!”
The electronically neutralised, monotonic voice of one of the Guards speaks out of his visor.
“Can’k do that. We can’k tamper mit an accident scene.”
‘Can’k’ – having replaced ‘can’t’ in dialogue, short for ‘can nik’, ‘nik’ for ‘not’, sounding like a canker growing on the end of every word, or more appropriately, ‘wort’, as Eurosprick has it. He “can’k do that”, can’t help or give assistance to one in need: against the rules. Nurses can’t nurse, doctors can’t doctor properly so they doctor the results needed to secure eufunding. Blast it! I’m dumbfounded by its response. I knew this though; I knew they wouldn’t lift a finger – against Eunion rules they’d say – but how could anyone be so inhumane; in my earnest to assist, I’d forgotten this. Yet how could anyone conscientiously ignore this inhumanity?
“Then ficking get sumun who can helf, ye useloss fished-up bastardos,” I swear in Eurosprick.
“Five-hundred penny for swering at a Guard,” says the other Guard in the same drone, scanning my auto details and sending the “penny” – penalty – through to the Provincial HQ to be deducted from my bank account.
No time for incredulity. I heave the car, it rocks gently but gets no momentum from my pushing, but what am I expecting? Herculean endeavour, or just some help? I glare at the impotent brown sentinels and sprint over to the other auto – un green, egg-like cellauto. Puffing hard, I realise I’m carrying more weight around these days.
An elderly fem, sixty plus, long white hair caught in a pony, fashionable from the 2070s, is sitting tranquilly, staring ahead, muttering some things, still holding the wheel. A typical host of contemporary plastic and fluffy idols adorns her thin dashboard stuck down with coloured glitter tape; such icons are so symbolic of the increasingly ignorant and superstitious commoners of the gamma and delta social strata, of which, I can tell from her ID colour, she is a member. Her talismans have just proved their pointlessness, but not to a fem like her, whose mind has been numbed by a life of obedience, highly low-intensive mental activity, free entertainment, the weekly eulottery, eusoaps and gossip in the eumarkets. I surmise quickly that she’ll be fine, just in shock, a shock that should jolt her out of her simplistic beliefs, but I doubt she’ll change anything. Just put it all down to bad luck and buy more icons.
Back to the youth. The Guards I note are now halting traffic either side of the accident. Impressive acts from lobotomised brutes.
“Oi!” I shout with a building anger in my voice. “Have ye called for the accident teem?”
“Yah,” comes an eerie, stereo reply from the two brown akratic sentinels.
No way can I right the car, but I need to make the youth comfortable or get him out. I ken the other drivers will not help – no mensh helps his neighbour any more. Why should he, if his neighbour exists to snit on his every move and report him to the Euroburo?
“Wot’s yur nom?” I ask him, shaking him gently.
He looks at me with extraordinarily bright blue eyes. “Tom.”
“Tom?”
“The piper’s son.” He splutters, his eyes closing in ecstatic pain and mirth.
“Dock?” I laugh. “I need to get y’out of hier. Wot can ye move?”
“Cars. Wine. Cod, if you wish. Books, old music discs. I can get my hands ... ohh ... on anything.”
For a moment, I don’t understand. “Can ye move yur legs? Nay? Yur arms? Gud. A bit? That’s gud. Ye’re in shock. I need to get y’out. Make ye mer comfortable. Can ye helf me?” He nods. “Gud, gud. Cum on then.”
I take his arm and pull him towards me, but I have no momentum whatsoever and he has nothing to offer; I pull harder and he visibly winces.
“Spider spy, don’t ask why,” he sings quietly, now humming the same phrase while I get my hands under his armpits and pull; he loosens, I drag, pull, heave, twisting his twisted frame, till I have him out onto the road surface; there is heavy bleeding from the back of his head. Pressure, pressure, I put pressure on the gaping wound. He shudders, his throat gurgles. The Guards are still halting traffic and this youth needs help now!
“Vehr’s the accident teem?” I scream at them.
“On it’s weg,” one of the turds replies without turning its head.
I must keep him warm. I take off my jumper and lay it over his chest. I check his neck pulse – slow; he’s bleeding more profusely from his head. The back of his auto has a variety of objects and boxes, some sticks and poles for something or other – any of those could have jammed into his head on impact.
Need his name – yet he does not possess an ID tag on his sweater! “Wot’s yur reel nom?” I ask.
“I go by many,” he replies, swimming in and out of consciousness from the manner in which his eyes dance. “I don’t live here ... Keep those bastards away though. They want me dead.”
He speaks old English, I’ve just realised.
“Why?”
“I deal in the illegal.”
“Smuggler?”
He nods.
“Gud for ye. I grate ye. I’ll do wot I can. Try and keep still; denk on positif dings.” I sprint over to one of the Guards.
“Listen, the yute has minuti ... vehr’s yur first aid pack? Ye must helf.”
“We cannik.” It says from behind its tinted visor. It’s as if I’m speaking to myself. Still, I’m not sure whether it is male or female. It doesn’t even vue me. Well, the robots have inherited the world after all, Marx.
“Duz anymensh ’ave a first aid kit?” I shout at the halted cell autos patiently waiting for the road to be opened by the authorities. No response, but I hear the peeewah of the accident teem. I run back to the youth.
“Helf’s cuming.”
“They won’t let me live,” he splutters.
“Dock, they will.”
“No. You don’t understand ...” His hand reaches up and grasps my forearm with a desperate strength, his head rising imploringly. “Get me out of here.”
“Ye’ll be fine. They’re hier nunc.” I know he won’t. A lie to a dying man. But surely humanity prevails at times like this?
Two white coated mensh jump out of their white cell van with its red cross on the bonnet. The Guard, whom I’d last spoken to, points to the fem in the other auto.
“Hey! Uber hier, this yute needs yur immediate attenshun,” I call out.
They ignore me. The white coats run over to the other auto, their blue €U €U logos on their backs taunting me like a tribal chant.
“Told you,” says the youth, coughing.
“Then I’ll get y’out of hier. Can ye stand at all?”
He shakes his head. “I can’t feel my legs.”
“Cum on, tell me your nom. I’ll do wot I can.”
“Frank. Frank MacIntyre. Keep it to yourself though. It may be ...” He spits blood, his voice cracks, lungs wheeze. “Useful.”
“Cum on, Frank, let’s get yur legs working.” I attempt to lift him up onto his feet, but he’s a deadweight. I encourage and encourage, but he’s not got the strength. I ask him where he lives, where his parents are, but he shakes his head. He’s becoming increasingly groggy and his eyelids are fluttering maniacally.
A voice behind me commands that I let him be.
“Leeve him to us,” says the Guard who is now approaching finally, but menacingly.
“No ficking weg, he’s toding and he needs proper attenshun.”
Suddenly I’m thrown sideways, or is it backwards? I cannot tell, but the sky is spinning and my arm is throbbing and I’m winded. He’s wapped me with an e-stunner. Bastardo. He’s standing over Frank, doing sod all. I’m dazed, but I can see the accident team slowly escorting the old fem over to the white van. I can neither speak nor shout. My arm throbs, and while my breath comes back in short spurts, that’s all I savvy. Do I hear words? Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt. Something I played earlier? Where am I?
Minutes pass from what I can tell of the clouds swimming above, then the two white clad mensh are standing over me, touching my neck and arms.
“Pulse is strong. Stand him up, he’ll be fine.”
“Wot about the yute?” I ask, keeping his name. I cannot focus, but the world is suddenly moving again and I’m up on my feet, other hands are under my armpits steadying me.
“Dead. Duo minuti ago,” replies one.
I shake my head and struggle to get free, but they hold my useless arms fast.
“Nay, nay, ye let him die! Ye bastardos! Ficking bastardos!”
Through my anger, through the carmine throbbing in my temples, I can hear orders to put me in my auto and to drive me back home. I’m too confused to do anything. I’m dragged, I stumble, I walk, I sit, I am driven home by one of the accident crew, a tight-lipped freaky fem with spiky orange hair and a pain of earrings in her right ear that I look at dumbly as she drives. I say nix. I have nix to say. She says nix. I don’t think I’m missing any great conversation. I am dropped off at my door and somehow I manage to let myself in; I fall asleep on the bed and dream of horses being shot by Guards in brown uniforms.