Tabula Rasa

It was Forkner’s fault, you could say, and mine.

We were escorting wagons; salt and bog-cotton and the mails from the tribes on the islands, over the Glenveagh Mountains to Derry before the dust came and everyone had to shut themselves up for months, Forkner and me and about eight younger riders from the Guild. It was a pleasant one; three-days in good weather, on a clear road, with the smell of maturing heather, and decent company. It was one of Beth Doherty’s trains, and she was quick to pay the Sleevers, the mountain men, so that none might end up with a bullet or a blade in their belly, or mine. Her wagoners knew their trade and were as likely to share a song and a skin of potch with you than anything else.

We camped above Letterkenny. The town wasn’t dangerous really, but the Guild weren’t strong there. The Clans sometimes raided that far, and being under the Guild’s pay, we’d be obliged to fight or forfeit, which didn’t appeal this late in the season. It was best for us to hook around then take a ferry at the river to cross over to the Guildlands around Derry.

After setting camp there was little to do except tend to Cara, eat, and drink, then swap gossip until nightfall. In this season, the day died late, and then everyone would take a lens and sky-gaze. The old sa’llites had been falling for years now, and folk found much to think on in how and when they fell.

We’d spent our saddle-time separately that day and I wanted to hear another voice apart from my own. Three-hundred yards behind the wagons in those hills, the silence can be lonely, so I had spent the day singing to myself. There is nothing as bleak as hearing an off-key version of ‘The girl from Ipanema’ bounce back at you from three different angles. Gino, the wagoner, and his wee girl Sorcha were always great for some stories and song though, he played the drum and would spin wonderful tales while chanting. I always wondered why he didn’t just set up as a seanchaí, a sort of story-teller-historian, but that was not to be for Gino, he liked the wagoner’s life, and the many ladies he visited in the towns and forts along the road.

Tonight's tale was the old favourite, ‘The Lights Went Out’. Everyone knew some version of it, one of those tales that seemed to spring out of the ground, with nobody able to say who composed it. Some tellers made the story sound tragic, like a lost battle. Others, a tale full of ghosts and bugs and demonic fishermen who robbed men’s food and caused armies to attack themselves. Some, a magical tale like ‘The Salmon of Knowledge’, of the days of the internets, when everyone could know everything at once and remember nothing soon after. Gino chanted and drummed as we digested our food:

“I’ll tell you of the maiden blonde,

And mark me now my word is bond,

Who stood and told outrageous lies,

And fluttered her pretty, soft-blue eyes.

A chain of gold she each day wore,

A locket that, my mother swore,

When fingers brushed the heart-shaped thing,

T’was her lips move, but the voice of the king.

The burning sky was gentle sun,

And wars abroad just rowdy fun,

The sickness was a summer flu,

And sleeping infants pink, not blue.

Her ailing king was wise, not mad,

The people happy, no-one sad,

The fishermen for best, not worse

Had sucked the gold from each man’s purse.

These words she spoke each single day

So that her hair turned blonde to grey

Thus spoke the spokes-maid ‘til the night

That the fever peaked and dowsed the light…

The chanting continued with the usual nods from the wagoners. Those of us over thirty summers were wee'uns when the lights went out, and my memory, what with work and life, and Marie and the baby, forgets a lot. My Mama and Papa were always nervous, I remember, then the baby Aoife not waking up for a morning feed, riots outside the front door of the house and the pop-pop of the rifle, and Mama coming home alone, and a night journey on the backroads to Granny in Derry. Then the Hunger… my wee girl would never know that. I looked forward to wishing on a sa’llite that those days were gone.

Past the firelight I saw Forkner standing, his arms crossed and his face a-scowl. I rose to offer him my potch-skin.

“What’s hurting ye, man?” I asked, trying to smile despite the foul weather of his face.

He spat and looked at me with a sadness. “Those songs, Jackie, those bloody songs always get it wrong.”

I had never suspected that his memory was so long, but he wasn’t a great talker at the best of times, so I gave him the humour, and threw in the skin of potch for good measure.

“How so, Eamon?”

He took a gulp, beckoned me to follow, and marched off towards where he’d propped his cloak for the night. He disappeared under it for a second and came out with a little bag. I felt like a falling sa’llite myself that he might produce a Reclaimer pamphlet from the bag, or else one of the letters from the cathedral in Armagh, one of those ‘Become God’s warriors’ screeds. I didn’t like the Guild pairing me with Forkner, but I’d be even less inclined to go out if he were to start spouting religion.

“Here,” he said, “look at this then tell me if Gino’s stories don’t boil you.”

I shook the bag and out spilled a little solar charger and an old computer tablit.

“You’re not into tech now are you?” I asked nervously. It wasn’t wise to have one of these if you were to go through a customs search.

“No chance. I got this from one of the lads on the plunder-boats off the islands. It’s been worrying me.”

“What’s on it, music? A fillum?”

“Something far worse.”

I thrust it back to him. “I don’t want it, Eamon, not with Marie and the baby.”

His face was a cloud of fear. “Just take a look when the rest are sky-gazing and put these in your ears so they can’t hear it.” He nodded to the ear plugs, took the skin of potch and shuggled under his cloak.

I sat by the embers with the bag under my cloak, with a skinful of worries that hit me worse than any potch, and I found myself thinking about the tablit. The Guild masters could order a hanging, but I already knew what I was going to do. I feigned a gut-gripe, and when I was far enough away, I put the earplugs in, woke the machine and tapped on the arrow on the screen.

A male voice, and a still image of a lectern, lit up like the dawn. I tried to follow the man’s speech but the sound dipped and swooped in the earplugs.

“Today in Denver, Colorado, Spokeswoman Beverley Peakes did little to calm fears that the Dreisner administration was suffering from a crisis of leadership…

President’s incapacity…

cyber and biological attacks…

erratic exit from the Taipei peace conference in early April.”

Then the image moved, and a blonde woman walked onscreen. She smiled, at me it seemed, and talked in the twangly accent of the old fillums.

“This administration is confident that the attacks are nothing more than a cowardly attempt to de-rail the peaceful negotiations…”

I couldn’t follow what she was saying, the language was tricky, and my eyes were so fixed to the woman that my ears stopped. She was pretty and blonde, and when asked a question, would smile, and finger a little locket that hung from her neck. As I saw the heart shape, the blood seemed to thicken in my ears. Her eyes didn’t flutter, they flashed, as if someone had caught her cheating at bones. She was terrifying.

Then the image changed to another room, this time in somewhere called ‘Boulder’, and she came out again, looking older, thinner. Similar words. Then another room, and another room. Words like ‘strong’ and ‘retaliation’ and ‘critical’. Hearing names of places that seemed to change. ‘Sawlake City’, ‘Boysie’, ‘Portland’, ‘Eugene’. Some curse seemed to be ageing her as she travelled.

And then there was a long pause, the screen dark but still alight, and the image was shaking, and the woman was sitting directly in front of me. There was no lectern, no herald, just her sad face staring into mine, her hand clasped around her locket, sitting in a dark room. When she spoke, I could tell that the music had left her tongue.

“Under presidential order four-one-six, pursuant to the Martial Law Act, the President of the United States, Eric Dreisner, has authorised myself, Miss Beverley Amelia Peakes, to initiate the implementation of Operation Zecariah Two-Five, in an effort to maintain the integrity of the United States of America from foreign and domestic enemies and to ensure the future of our great nation from further attack.”

She grasped the locket at her neck and with a sudden snap, the golden heart lay in her hand like a blossom. She thumbed it open and from within it, read out a series of numbers and letters. With each of these, a 'clack' could be heard, undoubtedly a scribe or such recording the sequence. With the final word ‘zulu’, she dropped the locket from shaking hands and looked over her shoulder.

“Is it ready?” she asked.

“Press at any time ma’am.” A twangly voice, male.

She looked back at me. Her face now defeated and haunted, as I sat gripped by ice.

“I do this for our great nation. God bless America, and God bless you all.”

With that, her finger came down on to the desk in front of her, and she let out a slow breath. Nothing happened for a moment, and she turned around to address her scribe.

“Is tha-“

And the screen went black. The video finished.

I watched the story many times that night, and only stopped when the tablit said ‘10% battery’. A little red bar on the screen showed me that the machine would need to sleep soon, as I had failed to.

At first light, as we got our gear, I saw that Eamon Forkner had gone. I wondered if he had played a joke on me, or run mad, or if this was a ploy from someone who had lined his pockets. The Clans in Galway? The Reclaimers? I’m ashamed to say I spent that day rather drunk. Cara clopped along with her head bowed. I barely noticed the ferry crossing.

Gino clearly felt my mind that day, and he and Sorcha watched with concern. I knew they felt there had been a ruckus between me and Forkner. I was thinking about Marie, and the baby, and the dust months to come, and the woman’s blonde hair and blue eyes. I was considering whether to throw the tablit in the river or keep it hidden and watch again.

“We’re nearly there, daddy!” came Sorcha’s voice, much later, which broke me from the grasp of dark thoughts. We were on the main road going into Derry, and the way was lined with the hanged who had always tried to disturb the peace of the Guild. Further along the road, I saw the dust of riders coming to greet us, escorts from the city guard perhaps, and felt the tablit poking against my chest. Still the decision to make.

“How about a song Jackie, something lively to guide us home?” asked Gino.

“Sure thing, Gino, something lively.” I called.

“How about, ‘The Lights Went Out’?”

The plume of dust would reach us in a few minutes.

“Not that one, Gino, something else.”