Other Worlds Were Possible, page 26
Sunny had only brought Buffalo and Butterfly to act as porters.
He left them among a patch of trees, promised to return once he had gathered their food, and told them not to follow him under any circumstances.
He said his goodbyes and headed into town, thinking of nothing but the task at hand.
It came as quite a surprise, therefore, when he realised he had veered off track. He was inside Songbird’s home, as was becoming a bit of a habit. But he could not be sure how he had arrived there.
There were some new items in this place: Something large, which Songbird would later call a “Table”, and four smaller items, which she would refer to as “Stools”. But Songbird was missing. She only returned after a tinny sound had reverberated six times, explaining:
“That ding-dong machine has enslaved the lot of us, even the Wogies. It chimes seven times in the morning, and we must all rush off to work. We can only leave when it chimes another six times in the evening. It’s the most stubborn of chiefs. Protest, argue, fight, run for your life… Still it chimes! Ding dong, ding dong, ding dooly dong! And still the people obey.”
Sunny was certain this was a joke. People might make things, or hunt, or gather, or fish; so long as there was an actual need. But you would have to be crazy to do something simply because you had heard a noise, or because it was a particular part of the morning.
Yet it was not a particularly funny joke. It made him frown, but it did not make him want to giggle.
Songbird did chuckle, however, when Sunny explained the plan.
“Ha!” she cried. “You’re just going to walk into a store, gather enough food to feed a clan, and be off on your merry way? The who, the what and the why! You know they’ll catch you? You know they’ll punish you, like they punished my baby girl?”
Sunny supposed she was right. He had been having similar thoughts himself. And so it did not require much persuasion, to convince him to wait until the darkest part of the night. Songbird said the mission would still be fraught with danger. A vicious gang, who called themselves the “Nightwatchmen”, would be out on the prowl, searching for people like Sunny. But it would still be safer than proceeding in the daylight, in front of hundreds of prying eyes.
Songbird prepared dinner as they waited; chopping onions, tossing them into a pot, adding mustard seed and chicken. Wisps of white steam meandered upwards; aromatic, sticky and cerebral.
They got to talking…
Sunny asked about Songbird’s daughter, and was alarmed to discover that she had been taken away. “Not to be punished or enslaved. But to attend something the Wogies call a ‘Boarding school’.”
According to Songbird, native children were being snatched from their mothers, and taken to that distant place. They were being made to cut their hair, wear Woggy-style cloths, eat with something called a “Fork”, and worship Chief God. Apparently, this was a good thing. “Kill the savage,” they said, “And you’ll save the man.” Those children were being taught to speak the same language, adopt a singular culture, and pass identical “Exams”. Songbird had heard that they were not being taught to read and write, because the Wogies wanted to “Keep them in their place.” And she had heard that they were being taught to read and write, because the Wogies wished to “Raise them up.” She did not know what to believe.
Sunny knew exactly what to believe: He wanted to challenge the idea that they were the ones who needed to be “Raised up”. But Songbird had already changed the subject, explaining what had happened to their indigenous art…
Each tribe in the region had their own artistic style; creating sculptures, carvings and pendants; carrying these items wherever they went. Some possessed artworks which were hundreds of generations old; communal heirlooms, which provided a bridge between them and their ancestors. According to Songbird, the Wogies had said these were “Heathen artefacts”. They had claimed they were against the will of Chief God, stolen them, smashed them, and thrown them onto a fire.
Again, Sunny wished to question these events. And again, he was denied the opportunity. Songbird had moved the conversation on; explaining that the Wogies had also destroyed their instruments. Native music had been banned. The Wogies had introduced their own style of music, but Songbird was not a fan:
“That screechy racket makes me want to bite off my ears and eat them.”
***
Songbird’s monologue continued until after the sun had set. Sunny supposed it was cathartic. Left here alone, without her daughter, Songbird must have felt a need to unload her thoughts. She had performed her soliloquy to Sunny, because he was the first person who had deigned to listen.
He was wrong. Songbird did have a companion; a native man, who entered without uttering a word, soon after the bell had chimed another seven times.
As soon as his buttocks landed on a stool, a meal landed before him; placed there by Songbird, who had timed this routine to perfection.
The man began to eat, using a knife and fork, without even looking up.
He was rather startled, therefore, when Sunny said “Hello”.
“Ah gazump. What on God’s green earth?”
The man’s torso recoiled, instinctively, but his feet were unable to follow. This caused his stool to tip back, and his chin to tip up; revealing the full scope of his expressionless face. It was an unreasonably normal kind of face. No feature was too pronounced. His nose was neither too big nor too small. His lips were neither too fleshy nor too thin. For all the logic in the world, his features should have merged to produce the archetype of a beautiful face. Yet they did not. They were too uniform. It was as though he had been painted by an artist who lacked imagination. His face was plausible, as far as faces went. But it did not look realistic.
Sunny had to squint, to be sure he was speaking to a real person; not an ancestor or a spirit; not a Woggy who had donned a disguise, or a woman who was wearing a mask.
“Hello… Are you… Umm… A person?”
“A person? Oh, fiddlesticks. How very rude of me. Yes, young gentleman, I’m Mister Jacobson.”
Sunny had never heard of a “Jacobson”.
“I say, that’s my moniker nowadays. You can call me Starlight… Actually, you’d better not call me that! Call me Jack.”
“Jah… Jah… Jack? Jackfruit?”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance. And with whom, may I ask, am I speaking?”
“Err… I mean… You may ask.”
“Haha! What rollicking banter! My oh my. Do pray tell, young sir. Your name, dear chap. Your name.”
“Oh. I’m Sunny. But you can call me… Err… Sunny.”
“Yah, yah. I thought as much. You’re still using your savage name?”
Sunny attempted a nod, which was only partially successful. His head moved upwards, but it got stuck and refused to return. Sunny had never considered his name to be a “Savage name”. It was simply his name; the only one he had ever required.
“Yah, yah. It takes some getting used to. Like with Katie and myself. We’re family now.”
“Oh… Who is ‘Katie’?”
“Why, who the deuce do you think has been hosting you all the while? My fellow, this is Katie.”
Jack pointed his finger at Songbird, who responded with the faintest of shrugs.
“Young Sunny. Actually, no. That doesn’t quite cut the mustard. Let’s call you ‘Steve’. Okay? Splendid! Ra!... Young Steve: Do you know about ‘Family’?... No?... Okay, let me see… Yah. In savage times, we lived among our clans. Ghastly things, where no-one knew their own father… Well, not anymore! No, no, ruddy well no! If one doesn’t know which children are their own, how in Jesus and Joseph’s name can they pass their possessions onto their offspring? One might work their entire life, building up a nice little portfolio, die, and then puff! It’s all gone up in smoke. And one wouldn’t want that, would one? Heavens, no! So you see, Master Steve, it’s devilishly important to commit to a single woman, and ensure that she commits to you. That way you can be certain that her children are your children, and that your property will be passed onto smaller versions of yourself.”
Sunny could not understand why Jack cared so much about what might happen to a few material objects, once his spirits had travelled to their ancestral forest. But the arrangement seemed to please Jack, which he supposed was an end in itself.
Still, this did little to explain why Songbird had agreed to this arrangement.
“What’s in it for you?” He asked his friend, who had retreated into the shadows. “I mean… You know which children are yours.”
Songbird raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth. But her words coagulated in her throat, forming a blob of mucous and spite.
She took comfort, embraced by the neutrality of silence, up until the point at which she caught sight of Sunny. Accosted by the compassion in his eyes, her words began to melt. They turned to steam, ascended, and escaped through her lips:
“I thought I could re-gift… Repay the mortgage, by making those pots. But the Wogies added ‘Interest’ to that debt. I have to gift more than I owe. And the merchants reduced my wage. I get gifted… I get paid by the ‘Hour’ now. That’s the period between each set of ring-a-dings. And there’s not enough of these hours in a day. They really ought to make more.
“So, I was going to lose the house. But then Starlight came to the rescue. He gets gifted more money than me, for working with oxen. We pool that money, and use it to re-gift… To repay the mortgage.”
Sunny rattled his brain:
“But you used to raise oxen yourself. You gave me one, back when you were free… Why couldn’t you raise them here, instead of making pots?”
“That’s men’s work now.”
“What’s ‘Men’s work’?”
“Work for men.”
“Oh.”
“Men work outside the home. They come into regular contact with the chiefs. But most women stay at home, or close to home. They aren’t seen, they have less influence, and so they get gifted less money. Hmm… They must get themselves a man, to get the money they need to survive.”
“Oh, I see. Women have to enslave themselves to men because of money?”
“No.”
“Because of cargo?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“I’m not a slave to any man!”
Sunny would have replied, had he not been struck by the change in Jack’s appearance. If he was more attentive, he might have noticed the way in which Jack’s eyes had become deeper, darker, and more dismal. But the change had been so gradual, and Sunny had been so engrossed in his conversation with Songbird, that he had not spotted the transformation.
If anything, Jack’s features looked even more nondescript than before. His lips were even more average. His nose was even more central than seemed good for his health.
“No!” Jack shouted. “Excuse me… No, Master Steve, you’re mistaken. Indubitably! You’re the real slave. You’re enslaved to your base instincts; fornicating with anything that moves, without good old-fashioned self-control. You’re enslaved by the present, without a thought for the future. You’re a slave to destiny. You don’t clear your own path. You’re a slave to the darkness. You haven’t stepped into the light.”
Sunny could tell he had caused offence. Jack’s breath felt hot upon his cheek. But he had no idea what he had said to spark such indignation.
“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to… I just want to understand: Songbird… Katie made clan… Made family with you, so she could keep this hut… This house. And you made family with her, so her children could keep this house… Have I got that right?”
“Good heavens, no! Actually, yes. Yah. But no! Ruddy well no!... Master Steve: Katie and I married for love. For love, old chap. The most beautiful of God’s creations. We married because marriage is a sacrament that honours the Lord.”
“Oh.”
Sunny was lost, but he tried not to let it show. This Jack fellow looked like a native, but he spoke like a Woggy. It was a combustible mix, which had to be treated with caution:
“Please enlighten me. I’m just an ignorant savage, after all… So, these muggled… These married people… They protect each other? Like clans-folk? Like members of a tribe?”
“Actually, yes. Yah. Families are like little tribes. But one relies upon the state for protection.”
“The ‘State’?”
“Indubitably, old sport: The king. The queen. Politicians. Civil servants. Judges. Police. Armies. Laws. Rights. Prisons. Territory. Borders... The state! The bedrock of civil society.”
“Oh.”
Sunny had been besieged by a barrage of grunts, which he supposed were probably words. They certainly sounded like words. But they weren’t like any words he had ever used.
“And taxes! Like the one announced today... Katie, sweetheart: Did you hear of this spiffing new idea? This Moralising Tax? It’s a bit different to the previous tax. The one which reimburses the master race, for the expenses they incurred whilst civilising this land… Yah… This will be our tax. It’ll raise the funds we need to be self-supporting. To stand on our own two feet, so to speak; building our own highways, bridges, schools, and so on and so forth.”
Sunny was confused:
“Tah… I’m ever sorry. You lost me at tah…”
“Taxes?... Oh, golly gosh! Of course, you don’t have taxes. You’re not civilised. How terribly presumptuous of me to forget… Now, taxes are a sort of fee. One pays taxes to the state for one’s own protection.”
“Pay?”
“Yah. One gifts money.”
“So, hang on… The Wogies make money. Then you have to make real stuff, with an actual use, just to get those beads. Then you have to give those tokens back, to protect yourselves from… From whom?... From the Wogies?”
Jack’s face was unintelligible; a more aggressive shade of its original colour, with slightly more placid features, which were slightly less defined. He was clearly emotional. But it was hard to tell if he was reacting positively or negatively.
Sunny adopted an inoffensive tone:
“I thought you gave the Wogies the money they made, in order to get back some of the things you made.”
“Yah, yah.”
“But you also have to give them taxes, so they can get the things they want to make for themselves?”
“The things they want to make for us all! We all pay, and we all benefit.”
“Oh… So they need this money, to make things which benefit us all?”
“Exactly.”
“But they make this money themselves?”
“Yah.”
“So why don’t they just make some more money, and then use that money to make the things which benefit us all?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why do they need a tax? Why do they have to take money from people like you, when they can make new money, and avoid all the hassle?”
“Ah! Old bean, why I do believe I’ve caught your drift. Yah, yah. I say, this is exactly what the savages need to learn. Nail on the head. Bravo!
“The clue is in the name: The Moralising Tax. It’s educational. It’s designed to teach the value of an honest day’s work… It’s genius, when you think about it: Even the most primitive farmer, in the furthest-flung corner of the bush, can harvest and sell a crop; garnering the money they need to pay their share. So long, that is, that they work hard, throughout the year; tending the fields which the ruling classes have been so generous to bestow upon them… Although they must sell their crops when prices are low, which is a dreadful shame, because they can end up selling too much. And then they must buy food to eat, when prices are high. But one digresses… Yah. Those fellows can always apply for a loan. They can always find work on a plantation. No-one needs to starve. There’s always a way, old mucker. There’s always a way… Now, the point is a simple one, Master Steve: There’s always a way to pay, so long as one is righteous. So long as one works hard. And we’ll all benefit from that hard work in the end. I say, just look around you. We live in a house! A house, old bean. A house! We eat meat two times a week.
“We’re going places. We’re creating a consumer culture. New products. New habits. Everything new! Everything better than before. With luxury items for the first time in our history. With imported goods, which bind us to the fatherland. Yah! Yah, yah, yah! Everything interconnected. Everything a part of God’s plan.”
***
It took almost three “Hours” for Jack to speak himself unconscious.
His head flopped onto the table, mid-sentence, and his body embarked on a curiously mediocre form of sleep; a rest which was not too deep, and not too light, but somewhere in the middle. Jack’s slumber was only interrupted by the occasional blast of sleep-talk. Every now and again, he shouted a random word, like “Work” or “Savage”. But he did so in the most moderate of fashions; in a manner which was far too restrained to shake him from his slumber.
Sunny had barely uttered a word. It would have been rude to interrupt the man, whilst he was having so much fun. And it would have been foolish to mention the mission. Who knew how this man would react?
He got more sense from Songbird, whom he took to calling “Katie”, purely as a tease.
Songbird let her feelings be known, soon after her husband fell asleep; saying that she would rather not be a part of this “Blasted marriage”, just as she would rather not be a slave to that “Tyrannical clock”. But what choice did she have? The alternatives were worse.
Songbird admitted that she had known of the old tax, when Sunny had visited before. She had never raised the subject, because Sunny had never asked. Sunny protested: How could he have asked, when he never heard of such a thing as a “Tax”? But Songbird was unfazed: “Not my jungle,” she stated. “Not my trees.”
