Apocalypse Now Now (5 page)

‘Do you know what a Siener is?’ I blurt out and then instantly regret it.

He looks at me suspiciously. ‘What the
fok
do you want to know about that for?’

‘It’s, um, for a project I’m doing.’

‘
Fokking
use Google like everyone else,’ he says with a disgusted shake of his head.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I just thought …’ Jesus, why the hell did I open my mouth?

He looks closely at me. ‘If you’re making fun of me,
Engelsman
, I swear I’ll –’

‘I’m not, I swear.’

He nods and we smoke a bit more in silence. ‘They were like religious leaders,’ he says eventually. ‘The only one I know about was Niklaas van Rensburg, who rode with De la Rey’s commando. He was able to see things. You know, about what the English were doing. They were like psychic or something.’

I nod. ‘OK, cool, thanks.’

He finishes his cigarette and stubs it out against the tree. ‘I don’t need to be a Siener to know if you screw me over,
Engelsman
.’

I smile. ‘Dirkie, you have the word of this bastard that I won’t.’ He snorts and gives me a long stare as if to back up his threat. I return it without flinching. He nods, then leaves me and gets into the van. The tyres screech as it speeds away from the Westridge gates.

THE DEW ON
the veld sparkles in the sunlight. The man next to me walks slowly, using a tree-branch cane to navigate through the rough crags and hollows. I jump nimbly between the rocks, relishing the chance to be away from the wagons after our relentless, feverish flight – our eyes constantly searching the horizon for a sign of the invaders.

The man, my father, smiles at my exuberance. ‘Careful, little klipspringer,’ he says in Afrikaans. ‘Don’t fall.’

‘I never fall,’ I say proudly and jump between two rocks to prove my prowess.

‘Just like your mother,’ he says with a laugh.

We reach a rocky outcrop overlooking a vast plain, the browns and greys of the veld meeting the white and blue of the sky in the distance. I look back toward our laager of wagons but all I can see is the white flag with the red eye of the Sieners flapping in the wind.

‘Beautiful, Papa,’ I say, clasping his hand. I know he loves mornings like these. He says they put the fire back in his blood.

‘Yes, beautiful,’ he says softly. ‘But I didn’t bring you here to admire the land, my dear one, however radiant she is this morning.’

I peer up at him, his face as hard and strong as the hills and crags that surround us.

‘How are the dreams?’ he asks, placing a large hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently.

‘Scary,’ I say with a shudder. ‘About a strange boy with spectacles, and a huge animal with many arms trying to grab me.’

He nods grimly.

‘It’s trying to get me,’ I whisper.

‘It’s trying to get all of us,’ he says. ‘Our enemies have found the Beast and it strains on its leash to get at us.’

He sits down heavily on an uneven rock. I crouch next to him and look at my toes, bare and dirty like little pink worms in the dust. A hot wind whips across the crags, lashing dirt and silt across our bared skin.

‘Papa, I’m scared,’ I say and grab his arm, clinging to it like a life raft in a raging river.

He looks at me with the eye. It bores into me, bringing my soul twisting and writhing onto the hot, dusty ground. ‘You must find the chariot of Ezekiel,’ he says softly. ‘If they find it we are lost.’

I bury my face in his arm. ‘I can’t,’ I croak. ‘I don’t know how.’

He pushes me away roughly. ‘You are a Siener, child,’ he says, hauling himself to his feet. I stumble backwards, tears stinging my eyes.

‘A Siener like your grandmother, like me and your Uncle Niklaas. You must learn to transform your sight into a sword that will turn back the Devil himself.’ He reaches into his waistcoat and pulls out a small medicine bottle filled with liquid. What a liquid! It shines and glistens in the morning sun like the tears of angels.

‘What is it?’ I say, wiping my tears with my sleeve.

‘Blood,’ he says. ‘Some call it the Blood of the Saviour but that is just superstition. It is the blood of those who would help us find the chariot.’ He hands the bottle to me. I take it and turn it so that the shimmering liquid pools at the bottom of the bottle.

‘When the time comes you must drink it,’ my father says. ‘It will allow you to see further than you thought possible. My sight has dwindled and
Niklaas is slowly losing his mind. You are our only hope. You must find the chariot or die trying. You are the last.’

‘I’m the last,’ I mumble. My face is stuck to the pillow like a giant postage stamp. I peel it off groggily and fumble for my clock. It’s seven thirty in the evening. I must have fallen asleep on my bed when I got home from meeting Dirkie. My throat is parched and I feel like I’m dying of thirst in a vast, unforgiving veld.

I wander down the stairs, past the embarrassing professional studio family portraits (my dad carrying my mom on his back, Rafe and I dressed in matching shirts with our arms around each other’s shoulders), the embroidered Khalil Gibran quotations and the brass ornaments that my mother collects. Rafe is in the living room watching TV. I make a detour around him and into the kitchen for some orange juice.

My mother is leaning her elbows on the kitchen counter and thumbing through a glossy magazine. ‘Bax, I want to talk to you about what happened this morning,’ she says when she sees me. I scowl and fling open the fridge, grab a carton of orange juice and take a gulp.

‘Glass,’ she says.

I sigh, grab one from the cupboard and fill it to the brim with juice. ‘Do we really have to do this now?’ I say between sips. ‘I’ve got homework to do.’

‘It’s never a good time for you,’ she says. ‘This is important and I want to talk about it. Now.’

Her tone doesn’t exactly leave much room for negotiation. My fight with Rafe is the last thing on my mind but apparently my mother has had a less eventful day.

I pull up a stool at the counter and slump forward onto my
elbows. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Let’s get in touch with our inner spirit guides.’

My mother frowns. ‘That was one time, Baxter, and I apologised for that. I had no idea that Barbara’s guru would turn out to be so –’

‘Flaky,’ I finish for her.

‘Eccentric,’ she says primly. ‘Anyway, that’s not what I’m talking about. It just worries me that you show no consideration for your brother’s special needs.’

‘But I do,’ I say. ‘He needs a weekly beating and I’m happy to take on that burden.’

‘Baxter!’ my mother says sharply.

‘Relax, I’m joking,’ I say. ‘He just gets on my nerves.’

She sighs and runs a hand through her brown curly hair. It bounces around like a club full of dancing Slinkies. ‘It’s more than that,’ she says. ‘You’re lashing out more and more at him lately. You’ve become really antisocial. I worry that you don’t seem to be interested in doing anything with your life.’ Like running a highly successful retail business for instance? Sometimes I wish the Spider was legit just so I could get her off my back.

She licks her thumb and flips through the pages of the magazine. ‘I’ve been reading this article –’

‘No!’ I groan. ‘Mom, please. Every time you read an article you diagnose me with some kind of syndrome, disorder or disease. Enough already, I’m fine.’ With Rafe’s autism and my grandfather’s insanity my mom has become totally paranoid that I am hiding some kind of deep-seated mental disturbance. Even with my visits to Dr Basson she regularly subjects me to quizzes, tests and games in an attempt to try and diagnose me with whatever syndrome, phobia or disease is the flavour of the month in one of her mags.

‘No, it’s not like that,’ she says pleadingly. ‘It’s just that some teenagers have emotional problems and diagnosing them can really help to avert any –’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Vivian,’ my dad says from the kitchen door.
‘Give it a rest, will you?’ My dad hasn’t gotten out of his pyjamas today, which is usually a warning sign that some kind of parental skirmish is about to happen.

‘Well, here he is,’ my mother says with a sarcastic smirk. ‘The great social media “journalist” has finally decided to come out of his Batcave and see his family?’ My father grimaces. Truthfully, that was a bit of a low blow for an opening volley from my mom. Usually they start small and work up to the truly hurtful stuff. My father was retrenched from hos job as a senior editor on a local newspaper and has taken to writing a blog from home. The power of social media to bring people together clearly hasn’t worked on my parents’ marriage.

‘Well, I’ve got homework to do,’ I say as I get up. ‘So I’ll probably just head on up again.’

‘No,’ my mother says fiercely. ‘You’re taking the test.’

Another losing hand and I’m getting tired of having to fold. ‘Fine,’ I say with a theatrical sigh.

‘Good,’ she says, smiling. ‘It’ll be fun.’

I suppress a laugh as my dad rolls his eyes at me.

‘Right,’ my mom says, clearing her throat. ‘Question number one. Do you sometimes feel that you’re better than everyone else?

We go through the lame-ass litany of questions; mostly about communication, empathy and the plight of our fellow man. She ticks the boxes as I answer, arching her eyebrows and nodding meaningfully at everything I say. At the end she tallies the score.

‘How did I do?’ I say chirpily. ‘Am I irrevocably sad and broken?’

‘Well, there are no wrong answers,’ she says carefully.

‘That’s a total lie,’ I say.

‘Baxter, I’ve been thinking that it might not be a bad idea if you allow Dr Basson to give us reports on how you’re doing.’

‘Having my psychiatrist spy on me for you. Gee, that sounds like a blast,’ I say.

‘Vivian, leave him alone,’ my dad says wearily, tightening the belt of his robe like a karate sensei preparing for mortal combat. ‘He’s allowed to be cynical of your little pop psychology quizzes. It doesn’t make him crazy.’

‘Those are not normal sixteen-year-old answers,’ my mom says, slamming the magazine down onto the counter.

I leave them to fight, hearing the argument degenerating into their usual relationship routines as I leave. As far as I can tell, daily tasks are marked on an invisible ‘who is contributing most to this relationship?’ scorecard. My dad unpacked the dishwasher last night but this was nullified by the fact that my mom had to spend most of the day rearranging their bedroom. ‘If you don’t fucking care about this relationship then maybe we should just forget about it!’ is the last thing I hear my mom scream.

My dad’s too soft. When they fight my mom will erupt with a string of curses that would make a taxi driver proud. But no matter how much they argue he never swears. He probably submerges himself in the pool and screams into the blue nothingness when nobody is around.

I slam my door and fall dramatically onto my bed, then feel a bit stupid because there’s nobody to see me. I prop myself up against a pillow and stare at the shrine of superhero posters I’ve built on the far wall – Rasputin, Machiavelli, Gordon Gekko and Robert Greene. ‘Bet you guys didn’t have to put up with this shit,’ I say to them as I turn on my computer.

I’m checking emails when Esmé’s avatar pops up in the corner of my screen:

VampireLust:
I’m wetter than a housewife’s cheeks during TITANIC.

Bax74:
Well, I’m harder than a trigonometry exam, baby.

VampireLust:
So why don’t you, you know, come over?

Bax74:
On my way.

I ninja my way down the stairs, carefully open the garage door, and finesse my bike past the cars. My parents are in their room attempting to put a Band-Aid on the third-degree burn that is their marriage. There’s no more screaming which means they’ll probably end up having gross middle-aged sex to a song by Toto and won’t leave their room for the rest of the night. Bless the rains down in Africa all you want, old people, I’m going to get some real action.

I skirt the edge of the dirty canal which leads behind my house toward the railway tracks. It smells like wet dog and puke. One thing I love about the canal is its honesty; like a sick, swollen artery beneath the Botox of suburbs. The homeless wash here listening to the sounds of rich people frolicking in their garden jacuzzis. Through the windows you can see lawyers watching TV or bankers furtively looking at PornTube, while drunks have sex in the long grass that borders the canal. I pull my grey hoodie over my head and pedal faster.

After exactly seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds of fast cycling, during which I picture myself piloting a heavily armed interstellar craft, I steer my bike into the driveway of number 14 Grove Close and tap the door of the garage. There’s the aching sigh of steel on steel as the door opens halfway and I slide my bike through the gap, ducking under to where Esmé is standing in the dim light holding a pair of garden shears and pulling a psycho face. ‘Nice,’ I say.