Karin Maatman

The Descendants

Thirty years ago

Crouched in the undergrowth, the old man and the boy watched the girls in the straw carpeted mouth of the cave. With an air of entitlement only eight-year-olds possess, they laid out a picnic on a red and white chequered blanket by the light of a flickering oil lamp. Having tied the lids of their wicker basket to its handle with a wide, red ribbon, they arranged dainty, crustless, triangular sandwiches on red plastic plates and poured pink lemonade in pink plastic tumblers.

“Look.” The blonde girl put her glass down. She got up and walked to the far wall.

“What is it?” The smaller girl with soft brown curls jumped up, bounding after her with the oil lamp. In the yellow-orange glow, they inspected an irregularity in the limestone – a schism the length and thickness of a hand, like a letterbox tilted by ninety degrees.

The first girl reached inside, feeling around until her arm got stuck just above her wrist.

“Let me.” The second girl picked up a stick and poked around in the crevice.

Outside, the old man inhaled sharply, digging the fingers of his wrinkled hands, nails and ridges ingrained with grime, into his grandson’s shoulder. The boy winced, said, “You forgot to close it.” The man shushed him.

“Boring.” The blonde girl lost interest and returned to the throw. Plucking two fairy cakes from their wicker basket, she said in a blasé voice, “There’s nothing there but big, fat hairy spiders.”

The shorter girl eyed the cakes slathered with thick brown icing eagerly.

“Chocolate-vanilla?” she asked.

“Of course.”

The girl dropped her stick. She scampered over, wiping her hands on her trousers, and plopped down on the blanket. Biting into the soft yellow sponge, her nose got covered in icing. She giggled. So did the other girl.

Outside, the lines in the old man’s face relaxed.

“No one found it, not in five thousand years. Only the Descendants are granted access,” he whispered, looking down on the boy beside him, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile that never reached his eyes. “Remember, Joffer, we are special.”

The boy, not much older than the girls, nodded imperiously. “Who are they?”

“They...” the old man rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “...don’t know it yet, but they are ours. If they pass the test, they will be initiated ten years from now. Shortly before the seal is broken and you are crowned Emperor of Earth.”

Flipping Dangerous

Today, Tuesday, 5 January

Everyone knew it was flipping dangerous. Even Professor Stephen Hawking had said so.

“But, sir, why would you be looking for carbon or oxygen? Or water?” Misha shifted in her seat, impatiently. “Maybe they are completely different from us – physically. Or they don’t want to be found. If they’ve been watching us, they’ll know our track record entering new territories isn’t exactly perfect.” And that was putting it mildly. Respect for Indigenous people had never been top of the agenda.

“Misha Greenwood...” Mr Ochre, who’d dedicated this lesson to the search for extra-terrestrial life as a break from the curriculum, gritted his teeth. “I want you to stop this right now or I’ll need to ask everyone to open their books, page 37, motion with constant acceleration.”

“You’re spoiling it for the rest of us, Mish.” Jenny Waverly flicked her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “Sir, we really want to hear this, please.”

Misha rolled her eyes. Goody Two-Shoes, tall and thin, perfectly straightened glossy locks, big blue doe-eyes. Everyone loved Jenny. Until they came up-close and personal with her alter ego, Miss Two-Faced-I’ll-Make-Fun-Of-You-When-Your-Back-Is-Turned.

“But, sir, I only asked a question.” Only her third in thirty minutes. Wasn’t that what school was all about – questions, challenge, expanding knowledge. “Why assume ET needs oxygen and water? Maybe he thinks chlorine and sulphuric acid are yummier. Or something we never even heard of. And what if they are listening ... and find us? Maybe they like grilled Homo sapiens chops for dinner. Like, Hey, Jim,” Misha shrugged. “It's life, just not as we know it.”

Mr Ochre paled as if she’d punched him in the gut instead of making an innocent joke. He clutched the edge of his desk, his knuckles blanching. “Life on Earth is carbon-based; it requires oxygen and liquid water to survive and evolve. That is what we are looking for. Now, back to SETI—”

“But sir—”

“Enough, Misha! Go and see Mrs White.”

After staring down the grey garden gnome – an addition to the school’s décor which could only be a prank, given the headmistress’s aversion of kitsch – for fifteen minutes, Misha scribbled a note on a piece of paper and pushed it under the door of Mrs White’s office.

Moping down the hall, she pondered SETI’s slogan: ‘Are we alone in the Universe?’ She’d merely wanted to know if they’d recognise life in its most idiosyncratic form, unlike anything witnessed on Earth. If SETI weren’t dismissing planets simply because they couldn’t sustain human life. Sometimes, though, what she said didn’t come out the way she meant it.

Like, It's life, Jim... Mr Ochre seemed upset about it, and it wasn’t even that funny, even if Mr Ochre’s first name was James. And it meant zilch to anyone else. Misha had binged on Star Trek episodes – a prehistoric science fiction series, surprisingly addictive – while she was supposed to be working on a book report. As a consequence, she’d flunked Hamlet, because her English teacher didn’t appreciate brevity and had no sense of humour: ‘Hamlet’s uncle Claudius murders his dad (rude!) and marries his mum (ew!). Hamlet’s like, "To be, or not to be," i.e. "Life sucks." He pretends to be mad and roasts everyone with savage insults and stabs a guy through a curtain. His girlfriend Ophelia has a meltdown and drowns. In the end, basically everyone is dead: Hamlet, his mum, his uncle, even his fencing buddy.’

Halfway down the corridor, Misha glared back at the headmistress’s office. Mum constantly reminded her – usually when another ‘Misha’s done this or that’ missive arrived – she was only accepted at Blue Hill as a special favour, because Mum played badminton with Mrs White. But ... so what!? There were more secondaries in Tunbridge Wells. Maybe if she still had a dad, or grandparents or siblings, Mum wouldn’t be so uptight. But her grandparents died before she was born, her dad when she was three months old. Shivering, Misha wrapped her arms around herself.

Mr Ochre should be the one reporting to the headmistress. He was such a stickler for the curriculum. What if Newton, Einstein and Hawking hadn’t dived headfirst into the deep, dark unexplored lake of science, but instead had continued sedate laps in the sterile, chlorinated pool of the syllabus? There was truth to the adage, ‘Those who can, do; those who can't, teach’. Maybe she should mention that to Mrs White ... If she was ever granted the privilege of an audience.

Turning right, Misha ground to a halt and giggled. Another two-foot-tall garden gnome, an exact copy of the one outside Whitey’s office, stood by the French doors to the courtyard. Someone was playing a prank!

Walking past, a chill ran down Misha’s spine. She looked back, and frowned. She could have sworn the dwarf’s eyes had been closed. Now they were open, silvery almond-shaped, sclera, iris and pupils blended, shimmering, unblinking, staring at her. Which was impossible, of course. It was just an oversized, sculpted piece of rock. Still, Misha increased her pace, casting her mind back to Mr Ochre’s class.

She loved physics, astronomy, astrobiology. The search for extra-terrestrial life. Maybe they’d make contact someday, visit other planets. Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut? Or ... If she’d asked why Stephen Hawking believed extra-terrestrials might be hostile, Mr Ochre wouldn’t have got so angry. Next year, in year twelve, she’d be old enough to join the astronomy club, but Mr Ochre organised it, decided who joined. Fat chance then, Misha sighed, turning left into the canteen. Preoccupied, she walked through the double doors, not noticing that the grey gnome behind her vanished, while beside her a boulder of identical shade and volume materialised.

“Hey, Gemma, any doughnuts left over?”

Misha and Gemma – at nineteen, Blue Hill’s youngest dinner lady – had been friends since the first day of term, when Jenny Waverly, with high-pitched innocence, had accused Gemma of short-changing her. Gemma, a math’s student, saw right through her, and stood her ground. Misha had ‘accidently’ bumped into Goody Two-Shoes, spilling hot chocolate over her brand-new white blouse and maroon-trimmed, light-grey blazer. Jenny’s tirade had penetrated the depths of the kitchen. At the sight of Cookie, a forty-something amateur bodybuilder, stomping out armed with a humongous metal ladle, Jenny cut her losses. She’d retreated to a corner table, where she and her lackeys had sentenced Misha to a lifetime ban in Blue Hill’s social circle’s outermost ring.

“What was it this time?” Gemma grabbed the last blueberry muffin from a wicker basket and marched Misha to a Formica table. “Here, that’s all that’s left. You need to get your act together, Mish. Do you want to end up like me? You’re far too smart for that.”

Misha shrugged, biting into her muffin. “Mr Ochre, he’s got it in for me. I just asked a simple question and then—

“Hey! What’s that?” Misha interrupted herself.

“Nothing,” Gemma said curtly, pulling her sleeves down.

But Misha kept staring at the bruises, bracelets of marbled, red and purple and yellow gemstones that encircled her wrists.

“The door slammed, I tried to catch it,” Gemma crossed her arms on the table, hiding her wrists behind her elbows. “What did Mrs White say?”

“Didn’t see her, she’s on the phone.” Misha frowned – this wasn’t the first time Gemma brushed her off about her bruises.

“Mish?!”

“I left a note – said I was off to lunch.” Rolling her eyes, Misha picked crumbs off her skirt and popped them into her mouth. “Okay, I’ll go, see if she’s got time for me now.”

Misha kicked off her shoes and dropped Mrs White’s letter on the kitchen table. Mum would find it when she got home from the office in an hour or so. Mrs White had treated her to a triple dressing down. One for challenging Mr Ochre, one for the ‘insolent’ note, and a bonus ticking-off for quoting the ‘those who can't’ maxim.

Balancing a tray with mini Battenbergs and a glass of Coke, dragging her backpack behind her, she stomped up the stairs of their semi-detached townhouse. On the landing, her bag banged into the back of her legs and coke soaked the pink-and-yellow cakes.

“Crap.” Grumbling to herself, Misha leaned on the door handle, pushing it down. Her glass sailed across the metal tray as she stumbled into her bedroom. “Jeez!” Misha caught it, but cold, sticky coke sloshed over her hands.

“You’re late.”

The door closed behind her, soundlessly.

Heart beating in her throat, Misha froze, gazing at ...

It.

Worse than a trip to France

Tuesday, 5 January

From her desk, a grey-haired, grey-skinned dwarf-like creature, sporting garments in matching shades of grey to complete its ton sur ton guise, stared straight at her. The tiny-what-ever-it-was’s silver-grey clashed spectacularly with the blue-slate upholstery of her desk chair. As it sat there like a drab garden gnome, glaring at her, unblinking, straight-backed, feet dangling off the edge, Misha flung her tray at... The Thing. Then, her heart racing, she shuffled backwards, hands trembling, feeling for the door handle.

“Sorry. I’m not supposed to frighten you. This better?” The creature morphed into a miniature version of Justin Bieber in his teens. “I was told this person is a trusted and admired figure amongst humans of your age group.”

“Get real, Bieb’s ancient. Nice meeting you, but I really have to go now,” Misha squeaked, catching hold of the door handle. She pulled, yanked, wrenched. It didn’t budge. She pulled again, eyeing It at her desk. Creatures like that didn’t exist, not outside fairy tales, and even then... Whatever this was – dream, nightmare, hallucination –, she wanted it to end. Panic blazing in her chest, cottonwool brain, jelly legs, Misha hung off the door handle.

“Don’t bother, it’s locked,” mini-Bieber grumped, studying a poster over Misha’s bed, morphing into mini-Einstein. “Enough time waisted, you don’t want to be late.”

With surprising speed and agility, the wild-haired-creature jetted to Misha’s side.

Misha kicked, opened her mouth to scream.

“Don’t do that,” It said, before squeaking mockingly, “Help, I’m a damsel in destress. That’s so passé, my dear.” The – goblin, troll, imp? – bounded up, and clutching a fistful of school jumper, stuck like Sticky Willy. “By the way, my name is Quade.”

Trying to shake off Quade, Misha lost her balance. She tumbled back against the bedroom door, her soggy socks sagging, as he lifted her off the moist carpet, into a funnel that burrowed through the ceiling, the roof, clouds, and way, way ... way beyond.

The walls of the funnel twisted and turned like an errant giant kaleidoscope. The colours were dazzling and dizzying. Misha wanted to close her eyes, but the polychromatic gallimaufry was hypnotising. The glow and the intensity were soothing and electrifying simultaneously. Every colour, every shade, every hue Misha had encountered in the full fifteen years of her existence was there. And more. Much more. A rainbow augmented with everyone of Earth’s pigments – earth, sea and sky – wouldn’t come close. Despite her queasiness, Misha reached out to feel the warmth of the ambers, the chill of the arctic blues, the sting of the neons on her outstretched hand.

The funnel widened and spewed Misha out onto a rich brown-ochre stage-like elevation with a dull plop. She glimpsed around her, into the vast, empty auditorium. It swayed, nauseatingly so, she tried to blink it away. Mini-Einstein clung on, straining the neckband of her jumper against her windpipe. Misha tugged at her collar, dry-heaving. This was worse than being carsick. Even her trip to France with Mum, last year for her fifteenth birthday, on a ferry in stroppy weather, hadn’t been this bad.

“Everyone gets sick the first time.” The knee-high creature, back to its grey dwarf appearance, let go and landed beside her. Taking a precautionary step back, it straightened its jacket and bowtie. “Don’t be sick on me. And don’t eat before I collect you, you weren’t supposed to have that muffin. If they sign you on, it might be a good idea to stay away from Gemma anyway. Follow me.”

“No.” Like hell, she was.

“Suit yourself. But I’m going.”

Against her better judgement, Misha trudged after Quade. Off the podium, across the auditorium, through tall double doors into a seemingly endless, high-ceilinged moss green corridor, leaving behind a trail of size-four, sticky-coke sockprints.

“What’s Gemma got to do with it? And I’m not sick.” Misha swallowed. Trying to breathe away her nausea, she sniffed ... And sniffed again. This place smelled like a forest. Earthy, fresh, and real – unlike her mum’s plug-in air fresheners. Stalling, she scanned the tall green walls for windows, but spotted none.

“This way.” Never slowing down, Quade turned right into an azure corridor that smelled of the seaside – silty and slightly fishy, like freshly washed-up seaweed. “Hurry up. We have no use for loafers.”

“You shouldn’t have taken me then,” Misha gruffed. Instead of jogging after Quade, she should have stood her ground. If she’d refused to leave that podium, he’d’ve had no choice but to take her home.

At a reception area, Quade stopped abruptly. “Wait here,” he instructed, scooting behind a semi-circular desk and through a door tall enough for a giraffe to mosey through without stooping.

Misha looked around her. No receptionist, no papers, no screens. No phone, no company logo. Not even the obligatory Ficus or orchid.

“Where am I?” she demanded, when Quade reappeared after a couple of seconds.

“Parsidus. BASTA – Basic Audit Selection and Testing Agency. I got you here on time.” Stamping his grey-booted feet impatiently, Quade glared at the door. “They’re running late. Why don’t you park your bum...” He nodded at a row of silver-grey wooden seats that lined the area’s halfmoon-shaped wall. “...and wait like the good girl you’re supposed to be. I have better things to do than babysit applicants.”

“Applicants—?”

Misha blinked as Quade vanished, transposing himself halfway down the blue corridor.

“Don’t go looking for food.” Quade turned on his heels. “There isn’t any.”

Then he was gone.

Basta ... Parsidus ... Applicants? A grey dwarf who liked Bieber? Left on her own, Misha stared down the empty hallway and pinched the sensitive skin of her lower arm.

Ouch.

If she was asleep or unconscious or otherwise imagining this, pinching wouldn’t be real either, she scolded herself. If this was real, she was in for a whopper of a bruise and not – she blew a lock of light-brown hair from her face – a hairbreadth closer to home. Sliding on her socks over the gunmetal, stone floor, she stole back into the corridor.

“Hi there.”

Misha spun back around, as the door opened and a stubby, dark-haired boy her age, with an accent that darted between American and English, came out.

“Has Quade been giving you a hard time? Don’t take it personally. Quade’s always cranky, but he’s worse since his boyfriend dumped him. Besides, it’s Pimullio teatime. I’m Ethan, by the way.”