Cutting the Cord Read online

  ‘Leave us for a minute,’ he said to Kolya.

  Amira’s Third Warrior Brother very slowly walked out of the barn, but stopped at the last moment, and quickly turned to look back at her.

  ‘Go on!’ Father yelled at him.

  Amira longed for Kolya to stay, but he went. She wished she could run from the barn, too. Run where Father couldn’t find her, over the grassland, to some other place.

  ‘Come here, child,’ Father said to her. He sat on a bale of hay and patted a spot next to him. His beard was mostly black. ‘Come here. I am not angry with you.’

  Cautiously, Amira left her hiding hole and sat down next to him.

  ‘Tell me, what do you want out of life?’ he asked.

  She was quick to answer. ‘To be a free spirit, to help others be free spirits, and eliminate the world’s inAuthenticity.’

  Father nodded, smiled and patted her back. ‘There’s a good girl.’

  She breathed relief; she was a good girl, all would be well. ‘But these animals are innocent,’ she said, the words sliding out. Her mouth was always blabbering before her mind had a chance to catch up.

  Father laughed. ‘Amira, tell me, do you eat animals?’

  Reluctantly she replied, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why do you eat them?’

  ‘They have minerals, vitamins, proteins that serve a Warrior body well.’

  ‘So you eat the animals – the innocents, as you call them – because they serve your purpose?’

  She bit her lip and nodded.

  ‘And so it is today. You must learn how to use your weapons properly. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Today you will learn courage to instigate death, the great opening. For you can’t hope to kill the infected if you can’t even kill these few animals.’

  She was silent. She looked at the bleating lamb and goat.

  ‘I know this is difficult for you, Amira. You have certain sensitivities. You always have had. Nonetheless you accept the Warrior duty each year on your birthday and we know you are capable of many things. Otherwise I would not have chosen you.’ Father touched her cheek. ‘The West will look at you and see your gentle face and they will never suspect the blood you are capable of shedding.’ His eyes shimmered like two black pebbles through the clear glass of his spectacles. ‘Now, what do you say?’

  She blinked and nodded meekly.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ Father said, and he ruffled her hair with his hand.

  She helped him load the cage and animals onto the ute. The light outside was fading, and the voices of her brothers and the animals seemed to grow louder in her ears, and all she could do was give herself up to the noises and the day and move, as expected. She wondered what part of herself was still present in her body, in the movements, but most of all she thought she had run there, to a place of nowhere.

  Amira’s brothers came with Father and her, and they drove out into the grasslands.

  ‘It’s great, Mira,’ Laith said. ‘Just wait, it’s almost as if you can feel the boom!’

  They dropped off the animals – three chickens, a lamb and a goat – and when everything was in place Father gave her the trigger. She held it in her shaking hand. The chickens clucked and the sheep and goat turned, pressing against their cages.

  ‘Do it quickly,’ Kolya whispered over her shoulder. ‘It’s easier.’

  She gazed up to Father’s face. He smiled warmly at her and she pushed the button.

  Boom!

  Up went the feathers of the chickens.

  Boom!

  Up went dirt and smoke, and down came a storm of flesh, wool and blood.

  There was only the sound of her thudding heart still beating. The air no longer carried the cries of animals.

  She started to sob. She couldn’t hold it in.

  Randy started laughing at her first, then Laith. Little Oscar squealed with delight, not sure what was so funny but happy that something was funny.

  ‘Shut up or I’ll punch you,’ Kolya said.

  Father turned around and faced them all, silencing her brothers with his wise-eyed look.

  ‘Your sister is the bravest of you all today,’ he said. ‘Look at what she has overcome to kill these animals. For the rest of you it was easy; it wasn’t a challenge. To you the animals meant nothing, but to your sister they meant a lot, and look what she was able to do. This is real strength. This is the perfect Warrior for Authenticity.’

  Amira choked on her sobs. Father leaned across and patted her on the back. She felt a sense of pride. Father was pleased and thought she would be the perfect Warrior, and that’s all she wanted to be.

  But that night in her bed, when the first of the snores could be heard and her mind began to dream, the animals came screaming at her. Try as she might, she couldn’t find the place of nowhere, and her tears flowed.

  3

  The two-hour drive from Sydney’s international airport to the vineyard in Kangaroo Valley seems longer. She is going to the home of Father, his mistress Selena – or Second Mother – and their Biologicals. The home that was never hers. Not the home hidden in the nearby rainforest, with the cabbage palms and tree ferns.

  The time is 7.20, the autumn night chilly. Beyond the car windows, dark shadows of trees slip by, until she is on the winding, gravel driveway that leads to the house. There, fairy lights are draped over tall oaks, and the eight-bedroom, two-storey brick house emerges glowing from the garden lamps. On the front verandah, pots brim with dahlias, asters and chrysanthemums beneath the lower windows. She pulls into the car park on the right, along with about fifty other vehicles, and climbs out of the car. The night breeze carries faint music, guitar and African drums, from the back garden. So she has come for a party. The celebration must be in honour of something important. In hoodie and jeans she is underdressed, but it is too late to change now.

  She walks to the entranceway and looks up at Father’s study window. There is a gap in the curtains with a pair of watchful eyes on her. She waves and continues on to the security guard at the front door, a man whose puckered face reminds her of a pug. David. One of Father’s regulars. His eyes light up and a grin spreads in recognition. He nods and opens the front door.

  Inside, the butler, George, takes her backpack and small suitcase. A few wispy black hairs cling to his scalp. He had sometimes made her lemon cordial when she was a child, but he always skimped on the concentrate. He runs a local knick-knack shop in a nearby coastal town, feeding much of the profits to the organisation.

  ‘Amira, welcome home.’

  ‘Hello, George,’ Amira says. ‘How is everyone?’

  ‘Your parents are delighted to have you home, even if only for a short time. I’ll put your bags in the green room. The family is waiting for you up in the study. Come.’

  She follows his slight figure up the dimly lit stairs, smelling sandalwood incense, Selena’s favourite. At the end of the dark corridor they approach a heavy wooden door. George gives three sharp knocks.

  ‘One moment,’ Father’s voice bellows.

  The latch clicks, and she straightens her back, bracing herself. Henry, their guiding light, opens the door. His bushy hair, beard and moustache are all greyer than she remembers. He is wearing a purple robe with gold embroidery on the edges. His small dark eyes peer down at her through his tortoiseshell spectacles and he smiles.

  ‘Wonderful. Thanks, George.’

  The butler leaves as Father steps forwards, clamping Amira in an embrace. Her fingers begin to tremble.

  ‘Hello, Father.’

  ‘Welcome home, daughter,’ he says. Bowing his head perfunctorily, he kisses her forehead, his beard tickling like icy water. ‘Come in – we’ve been awaiting you.’

  She enters the large room, as Father follows and quietly locks the door. His study is much as she remembers it: wall-to-wall books on topics ranging from philosophy to bombmaking. Plato to Lyotard. Gelignite to thermonuclear. Amira shivers involuntarily as her a
nxious eyes scan the hundreds of volumes, coming to rest on the big mahogany desk. There are new folders with crisp white pages, probably downloaded from the web.

  Second Warrior Laith, her twenty-four year old brother, steps forwards from the desk, his hair darkly spiked and his chin jutting. His arms encircle her momentarily.

  ‘Hi.’

  From the shadows emerges Fourth Warrior Oscar, at twenty the baby brother.

  ‘Hey.’

  Amira is about to respond when she glimpses First Mother Edith, a large black ghost with long, pale, frizzy hair. Mother’s eyes fill with tears. She laughs heartily and wraps Amira in her arms.

  ‘My lovely daughter!’ She is wearing a black dress with sparse silk embroidery and beads.

  Amira smiles, relieved that Mother seems well. That had been her primary concern: that Mother had unexpectedly fallen ill.

  ‘Appears someone forgot to tell me the dress code,’ Amira says.

  Father leans against his desk while the others sit down in the leather chairs.

  Amira wants to know where Kolya and Randy are, but knows better than to ask. So long as Kolya arrives soon, she is sure the trip will be worthwhile. He and Mother are the only family members she wants to see. Mother takes her hand, holds it, and she is grateful for the touch.

  ‘So, Amira, give us your report,’ Father orders, a glint in his eye.

  ‘Didn’t my Messenger already provide you with one?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, but I’d like your personal report. Do you have sufficient funds, resources, etcetera, to carry out your tasks?’

  ‘Yes, you don’t need to worry about that. My Messenger is very capable of supplying my needs.’

  Father’s eyes smoulder with satisfaction. ‘That’s good to hear. Your mother and I are very proud of your work with both Clément in Paris and now Baumann.’

  ‘Will I remain in Germany?’

  ‘For now, yes. Germany is a central location for your upcoming targets.’

  Amira gives a stiff nod. She still has no idea why they have been summoned. Surely it is not simply because of the few successes they have had so far? Four of the infected, two claimed by her and two by Kolya, are hardly worth the cost of a trip back home.

  ‘Are you pleased with the media coverage?’ she asks. She is interested to know if everything is going as planned.

  Father pulls at his beard. ‘Not exactly. They weren’t releasing the segments of the Manifesto we left with the bodies. So we had to put them up on the internet, and force them to display our handiwork. Oscar and Laith have been busy working on that. Making sure the authorities can’t identify the originating server, along with other technological and recruiting tasks.’

  Amira glances over at Laith, who is staring at her. ‘Are we still leaving three pages at a time with the infected?’ she asks him.

  ‘Yes. Drip-feeding the public hopefully makes them eager to read the next instalment.’

  Her eyes shift to Father, and she waits for someone to explain the party taking place outside.

  ‘So you’re all happy with your posts?’ Henry narrows his eyes at them.

  Amira swallows; she can’t answer.

  ‘Yes,’ Laith responds.

  ‘Ditto,’ Oscar says.

  All eyes turn to Amira. There is no point in her making an objection; it will go unheard. She nods.

  ‘Great,’ Father says, with a clap of his hands. ‘Soon we’ll commence Phase Two. I estimate a couple of months at most. Thanks to all your hard work.’ He pauses and looks at Mother. ‘No father or mother could be prouder of their children.’ He smiles. ‘Now come, let’s join together in meditation. Laith, will you do the honours?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Laith turns off the lights while Father seats himself behind the desk.

  Amira sighs heavily. She has come all this way and no-one has told her why. They are carrying on as they always do. After the meditation she will have to come right out and ask. And where are Randy and Kolya? How have they managed to wheedle their way out of this one?

  Then her mind drifts away from Laith’s meditation and it begins: the blackness, the images, the voices that haunt her and she can’t make them disappear.

  She is at the clearing, a cliff above an ocean, dancing. She is so light and she can fly along with Mother, Father, her brothers. They hold hands and circle around in the air. Even Randy is here, smiling at her as he never has before. They are one. Nothing can break their chain, until Britta appears.

  She is crying and screaming, tearing down the blue sky; throwing bits of it into a garbage bin.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Amira says.

  ‘Why?’ Britta yells. Then a gust of howling wind comes from her mouth and blows the family away. ‘Why?’ she hollers. ‘Why? I loved him. He was my grandfather!’

  I am the most worthy Warrior for Authenticity. I am …

  She wants to fly after her family, but Britta clasps her hands and forces her feet back onto the grass. ‘No, you are not going anywhere!’

  She struggles to free her hands. Britta rakes her fingernails into Amira’s skin and blood starts to pour. Vivid red. Amira’s salty tears sting her wounds. Then Amira hates Britta and her jagged, razor-edged screams, her child’s tears. She wants her to stop and she doesn’t. She won’t shut up. So it happens then: her leg kicks Britta in the stomach. Britta coils onto the ground.

  I am the most worthy Warrior for Authenticity.

  But she still is making a noise, only now it is ceaseless cackling. Britta is laughing at her! Laughing hysterically!

  Amira slinks back from the cliff and Britta. Laith’s voice beckons her to open her eyes.

  The room is dark. Amira quickly wipes away her tears. She needs to paint Britta’s face. Laith flicks on the lights and she squints in the glare. All is quiet for a few moments.

  Then Father rises and leans on his desk. ‘I have a surprise for you.’

  Her stomach is queasy. There is no such thing as a good surprise from Father.

  ‘This is the reason I have brought you all home,’ he says. ‘There is someone special I want you to meet.’

  He dials a number on his phone. ‘George, please bring her in now.’

  At first, the cries come dully though the door. They gradually escalate to the unmistakable sound of a disconcerted infant. A wave of panic rises within her. Father lifts the latch on the door lock and opens up.

  George stands there clutching a baby swaddled in a cotton wrap. The baby’s face is red, as if she has been distressed for some time. Amira glances anxiously at Mother.

  ‘Children, this is your new sister, Amelia,’ Father announces.

  ‘A Biological?’ Oscar asks, raising his voice over the baby’s cries.

  ‘No, she is not one of Selena’s,’ Mother says. ‘She’s your sister.’

  ‘Second Warrior Sister,’ Father adds.

  This cannot be happening. And yet it is. Mother leans down, pulling a bottle out of a bag, asking George to warm it up, patting the baby’s back.

  ‘You didn’t tell us that you were thinking of adopting another child.’ Amira catches herself from adding: you’re too old; how did you get through the selection process, again?

  ‘We wanted it to be a surprise,’ Father says. ‘Isn’t she adorable? Just like you when you were little, Amira. A fiery cry!’

  Amira grimaces.

  ‘We wanted you to meet her,’ Mother says, pacing the room. Amelia’s cries lessen. ‘When she’s calmed down a bit you can all have a hold.’

  ‘I’ll be right,’ Laith says, rather coldly.

  ‘But how?’ Amira stares at Father, confused.

  He grins. ‘We got lucky.’

  She hopes she is concealing her horror sufficiently, swallowing and nodding. At least adoption in Australia is now legally required to be open, so Amelia can find her birth parents more easily. Not like that of the other Warrior children, whose original birth certificates are under lock and key in the Australian judicial system
and the identities of the birth parents kept a secret.

  Amelia drifts to sleep on Mother’s shoulder. ‘Amira, here, if you take her now, hopefully …’

  Before she can say anything, Mother places the baby, upright, on Amira’s chest. Amira’s fingers fumble; she isn’t used to holding babies, and Amelia stirs.

  ‘Walk,’ Mother commands.

  Following Edith’s instructions, she paces the room and the infant settles back into a light sleep. Her smooth head is shrouded with fine golden hairs. She smells soft and sweet.

  Amira asks quietly, ‘How old is she?’

  Mother smiles. ‘Three months. We’ve had her a week.’

  A whole week and they hadn’t told her!

  There is a silence, then Father says: ‘We know you will all help us raise her according to Movement principles. You might not see her much now, but that will change soon enough as we progress into the New World. You will be her role models, the people she will look up to in life.’

  Amira turns away from them and faces the window. Her head is spinning. Amelia’s breath is even and warm on her neck. So this is why they have been called. She wishes she had seen this coming, and prevented it. But here is the baby in her arms.

  ‘Let’s celebrate!’ Father says. ‘Let’s all go and enjoy the party downstairs.’

  Amira carries her sister outside to the garden where the festivities are in full swing. Strings of fairy lights hang on eucalypts, silver birches, diosmas, wattles. Sparks from a bonfire circle upwards into the blackness of the night. There are men and women chatting, musicians playing and children running around on the green lawn, squealing and laughing, some holding sparklers, some nudging a soccer ball. Adults lounge on rugs underneath a sprawling gazebo. Tables overflow with drinks and platters of cheese, biscuits, fruit, cakes and hors d’oeuvres. The night air is fresh and helps Amira feel more awake.

  Then a drum roll as the Knox family steps off the verandah. The crowd stops talking and Amira looks down, aware of their pressing stares. These people believe the Knoxes are truly authentic, free spirits. They whisper and clap. She hopes they won’t wake Amelia.

  ‘Thank you,’ Laith calls out. ‘Please, continue to enjoy yourselves.’