"I'll be okay," said Toby. She didn't feel okay, she felt scared. But where else could she go? She lived from pay to pay. She had no money.
The next morning, Rebecca signalled Toby over. "Dora's dead," she said. "Tried to run. I just heard it. Found her in a vacant lot, neck broke, cut to bits. Saying it was some crazy."
"But it was him?" said Toby.
"Course it was him," Rebecca sniffed. "He's bragging."
At noon that same day, Blanco ordered Toby to his office. He sent his two pals with the message. They walked on either side of her, just in case she might get flighty ideas. As they went along the street, the heads turned. Toby felt she was on the way to her own execution. Why hadn't she quit when she had the chance?
The office was through a grimy door tucked behind a carbon garboil dumpster. It was a small room with a desk, filing cabinet, and battered leather couch. Blanco heaved himself out of his swivel chair, grinning.
"Skinny bitch, I'm promoting you," he said. "Say thank you."
Toby could only whisper: she felt strangled.
"See this heart?" said Blanco. He pointed to his tattoo. "It means I love you. And now you love me too. Right?"
Toby managed to nod.
"Smart girl," said Blanco. "Come here. Take off my shirt."
The tattoo on his back was just as Rebecca had described it: a naked woman, wound in chains, her head invisible. Her long hair waving up like flames.
Blanco put his flayed hands around her neck. "Cross me up, I'll snap you like a twig," he said.
9
Ever since her family had died in such sad ways, ever since she herself had disappeared from official view, Toby had tried not to think about her earlier life. She'd covered it in ice, she'd frozen it. Now she longed desperately to be back there in the past -- even the bad parts, even the grief -- because her present life was torture. She tried to picture her two faraway, long-ago parents, watching over her like guardian spirits, but she saw only mist.
She'd been Blanco's one-and-only for less than two weeks, but it felt like years. His view was that a woman with an ass as skinny as Toby's should consider herself in luck if any man wanted to stick his hole-hammer into her. She'd be even luckier if he didn't sell her to Scales as a temporary, which meant temporarily alive. She should thank her lucky stars. Better, she should thank him: he demanded a thank you after every degrading act. He didn't want her to feel pleasure, though: only submission.
Nor did he give her any time off from her SecretBurgers duties. He demanded her services during her lunch break -- the whole half -- hour-which meant she got no lunch.
Day by day she was hungrier and more exhausted. She had her own bruises now, like poor Dora's. Despair was taking her over: she could see where this was going, and it looked like a dark tunnel. She'd be used up soon.
Worse, Rebecca had gone away, no one knew exactly where. Off with some religious group, said the street rumour. Blanco didn't care, because Rebecca hadn't been part of his harem. He filled her SecretBurgers place quickly enough.
Toby was working the morning shift when a strange procession approached along the street. From the signs they were carrying and the singing they were doing, she guessed it was a religious thing, though it wasn't a sect she'd ever seen before.
A lot of fringe cults worked the Sewage Lagoon, trolling for souls in torment. The Known Fruits and the Petrobaptists and the other rich-people religions kept away, but a few wattled old Salvation Army bands shuffled through, wheezing under the weight of their drums and French horns. Groups of turbaned Pure-Heart Brethren Sufis might twirl past, or black-clad Ancients of Days, or clumps of saffron-robed Hare Krishnas, tinkling and chanting, attracting jeers and rotting vegetation from the bystanders. The Lion Isaiahists and the Wolf Isaiahists both preached on street corners, battling when they met: they were at odds over whether it was the lion or the wolf that would lie down with the lamb once the Peaceable Kingdom had arrived. When there were scuffles, the pleebrat gangs -- the brown Tex-Mexes, the pallid Lintheads, the yellow Asian Fusions, the Blackened Redfish -- would swarm the fallen, rooting through their draperies for anything valuable, or even just portable.
As the procession drew nearer, Toby had a better view. The leader had a beard and was wearing a caftan that looked as if it had been sewn by elves on hash. Behind him came an assortment of children -- various heights, all colours, but all in dark clothing -- holding their slates with slogans printed on them: God's Gardeners for God's Garden! Don't Eat Death! Animals R Us! They looked like raggedy angels, or else like midget bag people. They'd been the ones doing the singing. No meat! No meat! No meat! they were chanting now. She'd heard of this cult: it was said to have a garden somewhere, on a rooftop. A wodge of drying mud, a few draggled marigolds, a mangy row of pathetic beans, broiling in the unforgiving sun.
The procession drew up in front of the SecretBurgers booth. A crowd was gathering, readying itself to jeer. "My Friends," said the leader, to the crowd at large. His preaching wouldn't go on for long, thought Toby, because the Sewage Lagooners wouldn't tolerate it. "My dear Friends. My name is Adam One. I, too, was once a materialistic, atheistic meat-eater. Like you, I thought Man was the measure of all things."
"Shut the fuck up, ecofreak," someone yelled. Adam One ignored this. "In fact, dear Friends, I thought measurement was the measure of all things! Yes -- I was a scientist. I studied epidemics, I counted diseased and dying animals, and people too, as if they were so many pebbles. I thought that only numbers could give a true description of Reality. But then --"
"Piss off, dickhead!"
"But then, one day, when I was standing right where you are standing, devouring -- yes! -- devouring a SecretBurger, and revelling in the fat thereof, I saw a great Light. I heard a great Voice. And that Voice said --"
"It said, 'Get stuffed!'"
"It said, Spare your fellow Creatures! Do not eat anything with a face! Do not kill your own Soul! And then ..."
Toby felt the crowd, the way they were poised to surge. They'd stomp this poor fool into the ground, and the little Gardener children with him. "Go away!" she said as loudly as she could.
Adam One gave her a courtly little bow, a kindly smile. "My child," he said, "do you have any idea what you're selling? Surely you wouldn't eat your own relatives."
"I would," Toby said, "if I was hungry enough. Please go!"
"I see you've had a difficult time, my child," said Adam One. "You have grown a callous and hard shell. But that hard shell is not your true self. Inside that shell you have a warm and tender heart, and a kind Soul ..."
It was true about the shell; she knew she'd hardened. But her shell was her armour: without it she'd be mush.
"This asshole bothering you?" said Blanco. He'd loomed up behind her, as he was in the habit of doing. He put his hand on her waist, and she could see it even without looking at it: the veins, the arteries. Raw flesh.
"It's okay," said Toby. "He's harmless."
Adam One showed no sign of dislodging himself. He carried on as if no one else had spoken. "You long to do good in this world, my child --"
"I'm not your child," said Toby. She was more than aware that she wasn't anyone's child, not any more.
"We are all one another's children," said Adam One with a sad look.
"Scram," said Blanco. "Before I knot you!"
"Please leave or you'll get injured," said Toby as urgently as she could. This man had no fear. She lowered her voice, hissed at him: "Piss off! Now!"
"It is you who will be injured," said Adam One. "Every day you stand here selling the mutilated flesh of God's beloved Creatures, it's injuring you more. Join us, my dear -- we are your friends, we have a place for you."
"Get your fuckin' paws off my worker, you fuckin' pervert!" Blanco shouted.
"Am I bothering you, my child?" said Adam One, ignoring him. "I certainly haven't touched ..."
Blanco came out from behind the booth and lunged, but Adam One seemed used to being attacked: he
stepped to the side, and Blanco rocketed forward into the group of singing children, knocking some of them down and falling down himself. A teenaged Linthead promptly hit him over the head with an empty bottle -- Blanco wasn't a neighbourhood favourite -- and he sank down, bleeding from a gash on his head.
Toby ran around to the front of the grilling booth. Her first impulse was to help him up because she'd be in big trouble later if she didn't. A pack of Redfish pleebrats was mauling him, and some Asian Fusions were working on his shoes. The crowd moved in around him, but now he was struggling to right himself. Where were his two bodyguards? Nowhere to be seen.
Toby felt curiously exhilarated. Then she kicked Blanco's head. She did it without even thinking. She felt herself grinning like a dog, she felt her foot connect with his skull: it was like a towel-covered stone. As soon as she'd done it she realized her mistake. How could she have been so dumb?
"Come away, my dear," said Adam One, taking her by the elbow. "It would be best. You've lost your job in any case."
Blanco's two thug pals were back now, and were beating off the pleebrats. Although he was groggy, his eyes were open and they were fixed on Toby. He'd felt that kick; worse, he'd been humiliated by her in public. He'd lost face. Any minute now he'd haul himself up and pulverize her. "Bitch!" he croaked. "I'll slice off your tits!"
Then Toby was surrounded by a crowd of children. Two of them took hold of her hands, and the others formed themselves into an honour guard, front and back. "Hurry, hurry," they were saying as they pulled and pushed her along the street.
There was a roar from behind: "Get back here, bitch!"
"Quick, this way," said the tallest boy. With Adam One covering the rear they jogged through the streets of the Sewage Lagoon. It was like a parade: people stared. In addition to her panic Toby felt unreal, and a little dizzy.
Now the crowds were becoming thinner and the smells less pungent; fewer shops were boarded up. "Faster," said Adam One. They ran up an alleyway and turned several corners in quick succession, and the shouting faded away.
They came to an early modern red-brick factory building. On the front was a sign saying, PACHINKO, over a smaller one that read, STARDUST PERSONAL MASSAGE, SECOND FLOOR, ALL TASTES INDULGED, NOSE JOBS EXTRA. The children ran around to the side of the building and began climbing up the fire escape, and Toby followed. She was out of breath, but they scampered up like monkeys. Once they'd reached the rooftop, each of them said, "Welcome to our Garden" and hugged her, and she was enveloped in the sweet, salty odour of unwashed children.
Toby couldn't remember being hugged by a child. For the children it must have been a formality, like hugging a distant aunt, but for her it was something she couldn't define: fuzzy, softly intimate. Like being nuzzled by rabbits. But rabbits from Mars. Nevertheless she found it touching: she'd been touched, in an impersonal but kindly way that was not sexual. Considering how she'd been living lately, with Blanco's the only hands touching her, the strangeness must have come in part from that.
There were adults too, holding out their hands in greeting -- the women in dark baggy dresses, the men in coveralls -- and here, suddenly, was Rebecca. "You made it, sweetheart," she said. "I told them! I just knew they'd get you out!"
The Garden wasn't at all what Toby had expected from hearsay. It wasn't a baked mudflat strewn with rotting vegetable waste -- quite the reverse. She gazed around it in wonder: it was so beautiful, with plants and flowers of many kinds she'd never seen before. There were vivid butterflies; from nearby came the vibration of bees. Each petal and leaf was fully alive, shining with awareness of her. Even the air of the Garden was different.
She found herself crying with relief and gratitude. It was as if a large, benevolent hand had reached down and picked her up, and was holding her safe. Later, she frequently heard Adam One speak of "being flooded with the Light of God's Creation," and without knowing it yet that was how she felt.
"I'm so glad you have made this decision, my dear," said Adam One.
But Toby didn't think she'd made any decision at all. Something else had made it for her. Despite everything that happened afterwards, this was a moment she never forgot.
That first evening, there was a modest celebration in honour of Toby's advent. A great fuss was made over the opening of a jar of preserved purple items -- those were her first elderberries -- and a pot of honey was produced as if it was the Holy Grail.
Adam One made a little speech about providential rescues. The brand plucked from the burning was mentioned, and the one lost sheep -- she'd heard of those before, at church -- but other, unfamiliar examples of rescue were used as well: the relocated snail, the windfall pear. Then they'd eaten a sort of lentil pancake and a dish called Pilar's Pickled Mushroom Medley, followed by slices of soybread topped with the purple berries and the honey.
After her initial elation, Toby was feeling stunned and uneasy. How had she got up here, to this unlikely and somehow disturbing location? What was she doing among these friendly though bizarre people, with their wacky religion and -- right now -- their purple teeth?
10
Toby's first weeks with the Gardeners were not reassuring. Adam One gave her no instructions: he simply watched her, by which she understood that she was on probation. She tried to fit in, to help when needed, but at the routine tasks she was inept. She couldn't sew tiny stitches, the way Eve Nine -- Nuala -- wanted, and after she'd bled into a few salads, Rebecca told her to lay off the vegetable chopping. "If I want it to look like beets I'll put in beets," was what she said. Burt -- Adam Thirteen, in charge of garden vegetables -- discouraged her from weeding after she'd uprooted some of the artichokes by mistake. She could clean out the violet biolets, though. It was a simple chore that took no special training. So that is what she did.
Adam One was well aware of her efforts. "The biolets aren't so bad, are they?" he said to her one day. "After all, we're strict vegetarians here." Toby wondered what he meant, but then she realized: less smelly. Cow rather than dog.
Figuring out the Gardener hierarchy took her some time. Adam One insisted that all Gardeners were equal on the spiritual level, but the same did not hold true for the material one: the Adams and the Eves ranked higher, though their numbers indicated their areas of expertise rather than their order of importance. In many ways it was like a monastery, she thought. The inner chapter, then the lay brothers. And the lay sisters, of course. Except that chastity was not expected.
Since she was accepting Gardener hospitality, and under false pretenses at that -- she wasn't really a convert -- she felt she should pay by working very hard. To the violet biolet cleaning she added other tasks. She carted fresh soil up to the rooftop via the fire escape -- the Gardeners had a supply of it, gathered from deserted building sites and vacant lots -- to be mixed with compost, and with violet biolet by-products. She melted down soap ends and decanted and labelled vinegar. She packaged worms for the Tree of Life Natural Materials Exchange, she mopped the floor of the Run-For-Your-Light Treadmills gym, she swept out the dormitory cubicles on the level below the Rooftop where the single members of the group slept every night on futons stuffed with dried plant materials.
After several months of this, Adam One suggested that she put her other talents to work. "What other talents?" said Toby.
"Didn't you study Holistic Healing?" he asked. "At Martha Graham?"
"Yes," Toby said. There was no point in asking how Adam One knew that about her. He just knew things.
So she set to work making herbal lotions and creams. There wasn't much chopping involved, and she had a strong arm with the mortar and pestle. Soon after that, Adam One asked her to share her skills with the children, so she added several daily classes to her routine.
By now she was used to the dark, sack-like garments the women wore. "You'll want to grow your hair," said Nuala. "Get rid of that scalped look. We Gardener women all wear our hair long." When Toby asked why, she was given to understand that the aesthetic preference was God's. T
his kind of smiling, bossy sanctimoniousness was a little too pervasive for Toby, especially among the female members of the sect.
From time to time she thought of deserting. For one thing, she was swept with periodic but shameful cravings for animal protein. "You ever feel like eating a SecretBurger?" she asked Rebecca. Rebecca was from her former world: such things could be discussed with her.
"I must admit it," said Rebecca. "I do have those thoughts. They put something in them -- it has to be. Some addictive thing."
The food was pleasant enough -- Rebecca did her best with the limited materials available -- but it was repetitious. In addition to that, the prayers were tedious, the theology scrambled -- why be so picky about lifestyle details if you believed everyone would soon be wiped off the face of the planet? The Gardeners were convinced of impending disaster, through no solid evidence that Toby could see. Maybe they were reading bird entrails.
A massive die-off of the human race was impending, due to overpopulation and wickedness, but the Gardeners exempted themselves: they intended to float above the Waterless Flood, with the aid of the food they were stashing away in the hidden storeplaces they called Ararats. As for the flotation devices in which they would ride out this flood, they themselves would be their own Arks, stored with their own collections of inner animals, or at least the names of those animals. Thus they would survive to replenish the Earth. Or something like that.
Toby asked Rebecca whether she really believed the Gardener total-disaster talk, but Rebecca wouldn't be drawn. "They are good people," was all she'd say. "What comes just comes, so what I say is, Relax." Then she'd give Toby a honey/soy doughnut.
Good people or not, Toby couldn't see herself sticking it out among these fugitives from reality for long. But she couldn't just walk away openly. That would be too blatantly ungrateful: after all, these people had saved her skin. So she pictured herself slipping down the fire escape, past the sleeping level and the pachinko joint and the massage parlour on the floors below, and running off under cover of darkness, then hitching a solarcar ride to some other city farther north. Planes were out of the question, being far too expensive and intensely scrutinized by the CorpSeCorps. Even if she'd had the money for it, she couldn't take the bullet train -- they checked identities there, and she didn't have one.