Lewes.”
The children listened to her with serious little faces, and then asked questions about the monster and the other world, and whether they would be sent away, and why the angels chose one person and not another. Sylvia, the best student in her class, answered each question as truthfully and tactfully as she could.
The kiss-kiss tree had been a pine tree planted at the beginning of the Process, one early January. The branches shed their needles and became brittle and bare. Then, in spring, a miracle: new sap flowed through the tree, its viscosity glinting with information. New branches sprouted quickly from old, an array of smooth wooden rods gently piercing the sky. The trunk accelerated upward. The bark grew thin and torn. Roots broke the earth in every direction, some as thick as fibulas, others tendrils forming a skein of interconnections laced through the top soil: all were warm to the touch.
By late May, the tree was as tall and wide as a house. The pine needles glinted like filaments. The children liked to play near it. Ruth watched them flock to the kiss-kiss tree during break, and the birdsong provided individual counselling from the Process. Classes were easier to manage than they used to be, the children got on better, although this could equally have been due to their parents being around more, the tighter community bond, the change in diet and exercise.
Ruth arrived at the school. The grass was long, the markings of the football pitch stirred in the breeze and distant trails of vapour rose from the root system of the kiss-kiss tree. The morning dew evaporated, the moisture hissed and the soil charred. She noticed that the structure of the branches had changed: the radial spokes emerging horizontally from the lower part of the trunk had fallen away, with the growth clumping in the higher upper third of the tree. This central growth was a misshapen pentagon of livid green webbing, and branches radiated out from each of its points. Suspended in the heart of the webbing was a woody nucleus. The children climbed the mutant branches of the kiss-kiss tree and played games in its shadow.
Ruth took the register. She skipped over the name of Agnes Bowles. The class spent the morning finishing their costumes for the eviction parade. Sylvia asked her teacher if she had heard about this year’s totem. The question attracted the general curiosity of the class.
“What has been made for us this year?”
“The farmers say the totem is very big. Much bigger than in the past.”
“How does it move, miss?”
“It moves in the same way that a tractor does, Maisie, and it is controlled by the Process.”
“Does the Process tell the people what to make?”
“The Process chooses the totem and machines make it.”
“Why don’t we have machines to make our costumes and our banners too?”
“Because by making things ourselves we are made into better people.”
The children did not understand. They waited patiently for her to explain.
“Humans make tools. Some animals make tools too. The making and using of tools is important for developing language, how we think and speak. If we do not make anything, it affects our thinking.”
“How does the Process choose what it makes and what we have to make for ourselves?”
“Well, there are lots of things it can’t make. It can’t make petrol or food – at least, not food that is nice to eat. Equally, it can make things that would be impossible for us because its machines build in layers of atoms rather than having to carve a shape out of wood or stone.”
“My dad says the Process gives us what we need. But I never get what I need.”
“It’s not Father Christmas, Alexander. It must balance all our wants and all our needs. The smartest children are the ones who can control their needs. If I was to put a plate of cookies here, and tell you all that you could have one cookie now, or two cookies later – which would you choose?”
The children conferred
The children listened to her with serious little faces, and then asked questions about the monster and the other world, and whether they would be sent away, and why the angels chose one person and not another. Sylvia, the best student in her class, answered each question as truthfully and tactfully as she could.
The kiss-kiss tree had been a pine tree planted at the beginning of the Process, one early January. The branches shed their needles and became brittle and bare. Then, in spring, a miracle: new sap flowed through the tree, its viscosity glinting with information. New branches sprouted quickly from old, an array of smooth wooden rods gently piercing the sky. The trunk accelerated upward. The bark grew thin and torn. Roots broke the earth in every direction, some as thick as fibulas, others tendrils forming a skein of interconnections laced through the top soil: all were warm to the touch.
By late May, the tree was as tall and wide as a house. The pine needles glinted like filaments. The children liked to play near it. Ruth watched them flock to the kiss-kiss tree during break, and the birdsong provided individual counselling from the Process. Classes were easier to manage than they used to be, the children got on better, although this could equally have been due to their parents being around more, the tighter community bond, the change in diet and exercise.
Ruth arrived at the school. The grass was long, the markings of the football pitch stirred in the breeze and distant trails of vapour rose from the root system of the kiss-kiss tree. The morning dew evaporated, the moisture hissed and the soil charred. She noticed that the structure of the branches had changed: the radial spokes emerging horizontally from the lower part of the trunk had fallen away, with the growth clumping in the higher upper third of the tree. This central growth was a misshapen pentagon of livid green webbing, and branches radiated out from each of its points. Suspended in the heart of the webbing was a woody nucleus. The children climbed the mutant branches of the kiss-kiss tree and played games in its shadow.
Ruth took the register. She skipped over the name of Agnes Bowles. The class spent the morning finishing their costumes for the eviction parade. Sylvia asked her teacher if she had heard about this year’s totem. The question attracted the general curiosity of the class.
“What has been made for us this year?”
“The farmers say the totem is very big. Much bigger than in the past.”
“How does it move, miss?”
“It moves in the same way that a tractor does, Maisie, and it is controlled by the Process.”
“Does the Process tell the people what to make?”
“The Process chooses the totem and machines make it.”
“Why don’t we have machines to make our costumes and our banners too?”
“Because by making things ourselves we are made into better people.”
The children did not understand. They waited patiently for her to explain.
“Humans make tools. Some animals make tools too. The making and using of tools is important for developing language, how we think and speak. If we do not make anything, it affects our thinking.”
“How does the Process choose what it makes and what we have to make for ourselves?”
“Well, there are lots of things it can’t make. It can’t make petrol or food – at least, not food that is nice to eat. Equally, it can make things that would be impossible for us because its machines build in layers of atoms rather than having to carve a shape out of wood or stone.”
“My dad says the Process gives us what we need. But I never get what I need.”
“It’s not Father Christmas, Alexander. It must balance all our wants and all our needs. The smartest children are the ones who can control their needs. If I was to put a plate of cookies here, and tell you all that you could have one cookie now, or two cookies later – which would you choose?”
The children conferred
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