The Gradual (30 page)

‘Does it tell you what I went through when I reached home?’ I said. ‘What I found, what I had to discover?’

‘There is nothing. You have heavy detriment now.’

‘How much?’

She held out her arm, where there was a tiny wristwatch. I looked down at it.

‘It is a heavy detriment,’ she said again. ‘You were in Salay, moved between the five islands, did not find me.’

‘I never saw you,’ I said. Then I pointed at her wrist, and showed her my own watch. ‘There isn’t much difference in time.’

She laughed. ‘You want to leave it like this? You think it is not much?’

‘A few minutes.’

‘You are nearly twelve hours ahead of me. That what you want?’

Absolute time, ship time – I had seen the chronometers drifting in the gradual.

‘So what should I do?’

‘First we wait for the ship to dock.’

She stood close beside me at the rail, leaning forward with her weight on her elbows. I could feel the warmth of her arm – she was standing much closer to me than perhaps a mere working acquaintance might stand. I liked the sensation of her near presence, but wondered what she meant by it, if anything. Her manner was casual. A gulf of difference lay between us – age, background, culture, her adeptship. The ferry was manoeuvring slowly in the approaches to the harbour but there were so many small boats milling around us that we were barely moving. The ship’s siren sounded several times, a warning to the boats to make way for us. Nothing much was affected by the noise and the colourful chaos around the harbour continued.

Looking across the water at what I could see of the town I watched the crowds moving about on the streets, the gaily coloured bunting strung from trees and high posts, the profusion of bright electric signs. When I had stayed on Hakerline before we had been in a large hotel on the edge of town, used its private beach and only ventured into Hakerline Promise after dark to visit restaurants and bars. I recalled an infectiously happy place, full of loud music, noise and crowds. Even as we moved into the harbour, amplified music came thundering to us across the water.

‘You like that sort of music?’ I said to her.

I felt her shifting position. Although she remained beside me, leaning forward with her arms across the rail, she was suddenly on her guard.

‘Some,’ she said.

‘You like some of it?’ I said. ‘Or you like it somewhat?’

‘No difference.’

‘Have you ever heard of a young musician called And Ante? He lives on Temmil, Choker of Air.’

‘Are you travelling to Choker of Air?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘Leaving soon? Or staying in Hakerline Promise?’

‘I haven’t decided. There is someone I want to meet on Temmil. That man – Ante. But I need to think about it.’

‘If you stay in Hakerline a few minutes, OK. But here an overnight stay, or part of one day, and you will need me. The time gradual is steep, and erratic. I would have to follow you constantly.’

‘What exactly do you mean?’

‘You could not walk down the street without a detriment. You cannot even cross a room in this town without losing or gaining a few seconds. Even to move while you are asleep is dangerous.’

‘You need to be with me constantly.’

‘Not at night.’

She started telling me a story. At first I expected the short sentences she normally came out with, but for once she was loquacious: this was something she wanted to tell me about. It concerned her parents. They had met as young adults, she said, while they were on holiday, part of a group travelling around this area of the Archipelago, sailing from island to island in a fleet of small boats and staying at hostels or inexpensive hotels. There had been couriers, organizers, who were with them all the way. Kan said that when islanders travelled about the Archipelago, or they went on an organized tour, they did not need the constant attention of adepts. By law, each booking agency, each tour operator, had to be licensed to an adeptive agency. At the end of each journey, or at the conclusion of a tour, the detriments were corrected collectively.

‘Everyone you can see,’ Kan said, pointing across to the crowded street alongside the harbour, where the crowds ambled by. ‘All these people are travelling with that sort of licence. They each have a profile, defined on the licence: which island group they were born in, on which island, the time of day, blood group – everything like that. Before computers it was difficult to calculate groups. They made many mistakes. That was when the staves started to be used. But these days it is centralized. When you buy a ticket, or book a tour, you fill in a form or use a website. The tour operator does the rest.’

‘You were telling me how this affected your parents?’

‘They met each other during their holiday, fell in love and wanted to be together. The tour operator refused to amend their licences, or more likely didn’t know how to. They had to travel on different coaches, or follow separate routes. They had to keep taking different ferries planned in advance for them. When the tour arrived here on Hakerline they ran away from it and went off on their own. I think they found a hotel somewhere. Then at the end, when they went to catch up with the ship, the one booked for the return journey, they discovered they had lost seventy-eight days. The rest of the tour had departed weeks earlier. They were stranded without much money, unable to make contact with home. It was romantic, but it made their lives chaotic. In the end it was sorted out by adepts, but by then they had decided to stay here, on Hakerline. They found somewhere to live, married, found jobs, had me, had my two brothers. They still live here, in the Promise.’

‘Do you live with them?’

‘Not now.’

‘So – why couldn’t I be given a licence too?’

‘You were born in the north. The stave says Glaund.’

‘Yes.’

‘All mainlanders are outside the system. You have to use the stave because even though you’re a mainlander you’re still vulnerable to the gradual. Hakerline is a problem for everyone. This is a gradual vortex within another vortex.’

The ship had passed the harbour arm and was slowly manoeuvring towards the long wall, the engines turning slowly. The familiar, insistent sound of cicadas rasped, but they were for once almost drowned by the ambient noise from the loudspeakers mounted on the town buildings. Without the breeze created by the ship’s motion the air felt sticky and hot. Rich scents drifted from the shore: too strong for flowers, but varied, alluring, illicit, foreshadowing night-time adventures.

Kan straightened. The ship was being secured to the quay.

‘The ship is at the dock,’ she said. ‘Give me your stave and wait here. Do not try to leave the ship.’

She took the stave from me then slipped it into the large bag she was carrying. Without another word she left me. She passed quickly through into the superstructure of the ship.

When I walked back through the ship I saw that most of the other passengers were crowding by the gangways. As soon as the gangplanks were in place they began disembarking, jostling each other in their haste to be off the ship after the three-day voyage. I saw them streaming across towards the Shelterate building, prominently placed on the quay here as everywhere else. I could see the familiar striped awning, with the ambiguous figures of the adepts sitting or standing beneath, affecting not to look closely as the passengers walked past with their wheeled suitcases and backpacks. Every now and again one of the adepts would walk out from under the canopy, apparently at hazard, to speak to a selected passenger.

Money changed hands.

I did not see Kan leave the ship.

I stared across at the town. I had memories of Hakerline Promise, but on the first trip I had only ever visited the town at night. I remembered drinking too much, eating food I found too spicy. It was the end of a long tour. In reality I knew nothing about the place.

A wide road ran beside the harbour in front of a long parade of buildings and this was where most of the crowd was. Everyone I could see was dressed in holiday clothes. Cars and motorbikes weaved slowly through the throng, with a noise of revving engines and rude blasts of horns. Music blared out from several places: a cacophony of sounds and rhythms, in brutal competition with each other. Everyone seemed to be shouting at once. Many of the cafés and restaurants had tables and chairs placed outside on terraces and these were crammed with customers. Neon lights shone from every vertical surface: places to dance, to drink, to eat, to meet people, to watch live performances. When night came those signs would light up the town.

Kan returned unexpectedly, coming up beside me as I stood at the side of the ship. I had not seen her crossing the harbour area although I had a clear view of it and I was watching for her. Once again she stood disconcertingly close beside me. She handed back my stave.

‘We thought you were in transit through Hakerline,’ she said. ‘You wish to stay, so tonight you will remain on board this ship. It is the only place that’s safe for you.’

‘Safe? Wouldn’t a hotel be as safe?’

‘No.’

‘I’m tired of being on boats. I want a normal bed in a room that doesn’t rock from side to side. I want to take a long shower, eat in a proper restaurant.’

‘No choice. The gradient is extreme here. If you went ashore we would lose you.’

‘We?’

‘I have talked with the others. There is one called Renettia. You know her?’

‘I do.’

‘Renettia is my supervisor, my mentor. She trained me. I always go to her for advice. She agrees with me about this – you must stay aboard the ship tonight. Tomorrow will be better.’

I stared back at her, feeling rebellious. So many times I had accepted these directions from the adepts. So many times I believed what they said would happen, or what would not happen.

‘What if I just do what I think is right?’ I said.

‘Can’t stop you. Stay on the boat, though. You can’t leave the harbour without Shelterate clearance. They will want your licence. You don’t have one. They will insist. You will offer your stave. They will take your stave away. Hakerline is different from other islands. No one lands without licence.’

‘You sound certain.’

‘I was born here. I know. No one goes ashore without licence. This is a resort island. This is how it works. No licence, no entry. They would put you back on the ship anyway. Or intern you.’

‘But I came here before. On my first tour.’

‘Then you were licensed.’

‘I couldn’t have been,’ I said, thinking of everything that followed the tour, when I was back in Glaund. But I knew I was losing this argument. A resigned feeling was growing in me.

‘Renettia will try to get you a pass from the Shelterate office, but that can’t be done now. Tomorrow. So you stay aboard here one more night. We’ve arranged that. The cabin is available until tomorrow midday. The ship sails then. Be ready before that.’

It was still only afternoon. The temperature was high, the humidity awful, the noises from the town intrusive. I felt trapped and abandoned by Kan, left on the ship to fend for myself. I felt I might be at risk: maybe the crew had not been told about me, and a routine search of the ship would discover me. Would they think I was a stowaway? I glanced up at the windows of the bridge, but they were half silvered, like those of many of the ships I had been on. It was impossible to tell if any of the officers were there. And because I was no longer on the move, the thought would not go away that some authority figure with a warrant for my arrest might come on board to find me.

I picked up my belongings, which I had brought to the deck ready for my departure, then carried them down to the ship’s passenger decks, looking for the cabin I had been using. Now that the ship’s engines were not running there was no air conditioning, but for the time being it was cooler and the air was more breathable inside than in the open. The narrow companionways were lit only by emergency bulbs, but in my cabin the electrical power sockets and the lights were still working. The water that came out of both taps was lukewarm.

I sat on my bunk, which I had left unmade, and considered what I should do. I was full of inertia: my mind felt blank, my spirits were low.

I explored what I could of the rest of the ship. The passenger areas – cabins, companionways, the stairs, the exits to the boat decks, one of the gangplanks – were all open to me. I realized I could look around for a bigger or better cabin, but after I had looked at a few others I realized my existing cabin was no better or worse than any other. I stayed put.

I did wonder if this was a chance to see if could discover where it was in the ship that the adepts travelled but I soon found that most other areas had been locked.

The ship had a restaurant on board but it closed when the ship docked. I was already hungry. I could not get through until the morning on an empty stomach, so flagrantly breaching Kan’s instructions I went briefly ashore to a kiosk at the end of the quay. I had spotted this earlier from the ship. I bought some bread rolls, processed meat, cheese, fresh fruit, a can of beer and a couple of bottles of mineral water.

As I walked back to the ship I was met by one of the ship’s officers. He confirmed what Kan had told me: the captain had received orders from the company office that I would be permitted to stay on board overnight. The ship would be locked down for the night, he went on, with only a skeleton crew: two men, whom I probably would not see.

I passed the long slow evening alone. After eating some of the food and drinking the beer my mood lifted and I took out my violin. I practised on it for more than three hours, absorbing the music into my system like a recharge of energy. For the last hour I walked slowly along the companionways like a wandering minstrel, listening to the way the sound changed in the narrow, irregular spaces.

I finished playing in one of the large saloons. The huge and empty room, with its multitude of bright surfaces and many fabrics on the walls and floor, had a resonant acoustic. It was an area of the ship soundproofed from outside, so the endless racket from the town was not a problem. I played until my arms and shoulders were aching, then returned to my cabin, restored in spirit.