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Now what have I done? she thinks. What can of worms have I opened? They're so quick, these children: they'll pick this up and transmit it to all the others.
What comes next? Rules, dogmas, laws? The Testament of Crake? How soon before there are ancient texts they feel they have to obey but have forgotten how to interpret? Have I ruined them?
Swarm
Breakfast is kudzu and other assorted forage greens, bacon, a strange flatbread with unidentified seeds in it, steamed burdock. Coffee from a blend of toasted roots: dandelion, chickory, something else. It has an undertaste of ashes.
They're running out of sugar, and there's no honey. But there is Mo'Hair milk. Another of the ewes - a blue-haired one - has given birth to twins, a blonde and a brunette. There have been some jokes about lamb stew, but no one wants to go there: somehow it would be hard to slaughter and eat an animal with human hair; especially human hair that so closely resembles, in its sheen and stylability, the shampoo ads of yore. Every time one of those Mo'Hairs shakes itself it's like watching the back view of a TV hair beauty: the shining mane, the flirtatious ripple and swirl. At any minute, thinks Toby, you expect them to come out with a product spiel. Every day a bad-hair day? My hair was driving me crazy, but then ... I died.
Don't be so dark, Toby, it's only hair. It's not the end of the world.
Over the coffee they discuss other food options. Protein variety is lacking, they're all agreed on that. Rebecca says she'd kill for some live chickens because then they could keep them in a henhouse and have eggs; but where are such chickens to be found? There are seabird eggs on top of the derelict towers offshore, down by the beach - there must be, the birds are nesting there - but who is willing to make the perilous trip down to the seashore through the increasingly overgrown Heritage Park that may harbour the Painballers, not to mention a squadron or two of large, malevolent pigs? And they shouldn't even think about climbing up the inner stairs of those towers, which must be very unstable by now.
A debate follows. One side points to the fact that the Crakers wander back and forth at will, singing their polyphonic music. They visit their home base by the shore, a hollow jumble of cement blocks. They keep it protected from animals by peeing in a circle around it, a circle they believe the pigoons and wolvogs and bobkittens won't cross. They spear the ritual fish to present to Toby so she will fulfill the functions of Snowman-the-Jimmy and tell them stories. No animal has molested the Crakers on their woodland walks, or not so far. As for the Painballers, they must be quite far away by now, judging from the location of the last known sign of them, which was the carcass of that recently killed piglet.
The other side argues that the Crakers appear to have ways of keeping the wildlife at bay while in transit, apart from the pissing defence. Maybe it's the singing? If so, and needless to point out, that won't work for normal human beings, whose vocal cords aren't made of organic glass or whatever it is that accounts for those digital-keyboard theremin sounds. As for the Painballers, they could easily have circled back by now, and might be lurking in ambush around the very next kudzu-smothered corner. You can never be too careful, and better safe than sorry, and they cannot afford to sacrifice one or two of their number for the sake of a few gull eggs, which are likely green and taste like fish guts anyway.
An egg is an egg, say the pro-eggers. Why not send a couple of human beings with the Crakers? That way the humans will be protected from wild animals via the Crakers, and the Crakers will be protected from the Painballers via the sprayguns toted by the MaddAddamites. No point in giving sprayguns to the Crakers, since you could never teach them about shooting and killing people. They just aren't capable, not being human as such.
Not so fast: that case has not yet been proven, says Ivory Bill. "If they can crossbreed with us, then case made. Same species. If not, then not." He leans forward, peers into his coffee cup. "Any more?" he asks Rebecca.
"Only half true," says Manatee. "A horse plus a donkey gives you a mule, but it's sterile. We wouldn't know for sure until the next generation."
"I've only got enough for tomorrow," says Rebecca. "We need to dig some dandelions. We've used up the ones around here."
"It would be an interesting experiment," says Ivory Bill. "But of course we would need the co-operation of the ladies." He inclines his head courteously towards Swift Fox, who's wearing a winsome floral print sheet, with bouquets of pink and blue flowers tied with pink and blue bows.
"You've seen those dicks of theirs?" says Swift Fox. "Too much of a good thing. If I find a dick in my mouth, I want to know it came in at the head end." Ivory Bill turns away, visibly shocked, silently angry. Laughter from some, frowns from others. Swift Fox likes to potty-mouth the crowd, especially the men; to demonstrate that she isn't just a pretty body, is Toby's guess. She wants to have it both ways.
Zeb is down at the other end of the table. He came late; he hasn't been joining in the debate. He appears to be engrossed in the flatbread. Swift Fox tosses him a glance: is he her intended audience? He pays no attention; but then he wouldn't, would he? That's what those lovelife advisers blogging about office romances used to say: you can tell the guilty parties by the way in which they studiously avoid each other.
"Those guys don't need any co-operation," says Crozier. "They jump anything with a c - Sorry, Toby. Anything with a skirt."
"A skirt!" says Swift Fox, laughing again, showing her white teeth. "Where've you been? You've seen any of us wearing skirts? Bedsheet wraps don't count." She twists her shoulders back and forth, as if on a fashion runway. "You like my skirt? It goes all the way up to my armpits!"
"Leave him alone, he's underage," says Manatee. Crozier is making a strange face: anger? Embarrassment? Ren's sitting beside him. He gives her a sheepish grin, puts his hand on her arm. She frowns at him like a spouse.
"They're the most fun, the underage ones," says Swift Fox. "Frisky. They're packed with endorphins, and their nucleotide sequences are to die for - miles of telomeres left." Ren stares at her, stone-faced.
"He's not underage," she says. Swift Fox smiles.
Do the men at the table see it? Toby wonders. The silent mud-wrestle in the air? No,
probably not. They're not on the progesterone wavelength.
"They only do that under the right conditions," says Manatee. "The group copulation. The woman has to be in heat."
"That's fine for their own women," says Beluga. "They've got clear hormonal signals there, both visual and olfactory. But our women register to them as in heat all the time."
"Maybe they are," says Manatee, grinning. "They just won't admit it."
"Point being: two different species," says Beluga.
"Women aren't dogs," says White Sedge. "I am finding this exchange offensive. I don't think you should refer to us like that." Her voice is calm but her spine's like a ramrod.
"This is merely an objective scientific discussion," says Zunzuncito.
"Hey," says Rebecca. "All I said is, it would be neat to have some eggs."
