H(A)PPY Read online

  Only half a story? I am startled. Trite? Meandering? Although, even as I am startled, even as I am slightly galled by Kite’s undeniably somewhat superior and patronising tone, I am also deeply relieved to hear this (it’s good news, after all, positive news).

  Not my ‘speciality’?

  ‘The Young do not “specialise” in anything,’ I mutter, ‘because that would be to exclude.’

  ‘I’ve seen how you’ve been struggling,’ he adds, ignoring my sullen interjection, ‘and I’ve sympathised. You are falling, Mira A, but you don’t even seem to grasp the fact that you are falling. You lack the necessary self-awareness, somehow.’

  I keep glancing over towards our Graphs, every few seconds, just instinctively, and each time I am rendered almost insensible – almost speechless – by their lack of responsiveness. I feel frozen. Amputated. Yes, yes. Like I’m free-falling.

  ‘You are a musician,’ he says, ‘you create different kinds of narratives. Subtler ones. More illusive. But they can still offer a serious threat to The System if simply left to run wild.’

  ‘What will happen if we can’t find the leak?’ I ask, eyes turning again and again to the Graphs, my pulse pumping, my stomach knotting . . .

  (Where did this awful feeling come from? This gnawing anxiety? Because there is no need . . . The Young . . . there is no need to worry because . . . because The Graph . . . because . . . )

  ‘You must determine to stop telling this story,’ Kite says, ‘or you will poison The Graph. You will pollute The Information Stream. You will unbalance The Sensor.’

  He pauses. ‘You will effectively declare war on The Young.’

  War?

  ‘But how . . . ?’ I finally whimper, flinching, almost tearful. My mind is in turmoil.

  ‘If you are not with us, you are against us,’ Kite calmly explains.

  I don’t know how to respond, exactly, so I slowly shake my head, indicate clumsily and stutter, ‘The Graph . . . How did you . . . ?’

  ‘That isn’t the issue.’ Kite suddenly seems quite exasperated. ‘The issue is that you are still telling your story. Even this – our exchange – is now gradually becoming a part of it. And I am a character in the story. I’m being co-opted, reinvented, used. And that’s not acceptable. I don’t want to be a character in your story, Mira A. I want to be my own character in my own story . . . ’ He pauses. ‘No. I don’t want to be a character at all. I just want to be myself. I just want to be in This Moment. Unconstrained. Unfettered. I want to freely submit my Ego to The Graph, to The Sensor, to The System, to The Young. But you are making this impossible for me.’

  ‘I’m so very sorry, Kite,’ I apologise, tears trickling down both cheeks, ‘for compromising your freedom in this way. I like you. I admire you. I really didn’t mean to.’

  ‘You don’t need to apologise,’ Kite says, ‘because we are friends. But you do need to stop using me in your narrative. If my character becomes too significant and the narrative becomes permanently embedded on The Information Stream then The System will become polluted. You must stop thinking about me, Mira A. You must push these thoughts away. You must tear down The Cathedral.’

  ‘I will! I shall! I’ll tear it down, Kite,’ I exclaim. ‘Right here. Right now.’

  But even as I speak I can feel this structure – this . . . this ‘Cathedral’ as Kite calls it – arching so powerfully, so determinedly, within me. I feel its firm foundations digging into my muscle, its tall, granite walls straining against my ribs. How best might I describe this extraordinary construction, this strange, shiny new edifice? What single word might I employ? Could I call it . . . desire? Yes. Is that it? Desire? It is unquestionably an itch. A yearning. It exists in the place where my heart once beat. This great edifice. This hungry monolith. There is a smell of incense and burning candle wax. The giant candelabra are all lit, bouncing a vast kaleidoscope of light against the walls and the stained glass of the windows . . .

  ‘The real danger with your narrative, so far as I can tell,’ Kite says (Kite is saying), ‘is that it is lazy. It is arbitrary. You are working in a world of coincidence. Of chance. You are idly playing with random details. You are forcing things together. You are forging strange connections. And you are struggling to make a kind of sense out of them. That is precisely how Great Lies originate. Remember The Past? The War of Obfuscation? The Plague of Conspiracy? This is what killed The Old. Not fact, but superstition. Not knowledge, but ignorance. The veneration of ‘the urge’, the ‘hunch’. You believe you are being original, brilliant, brave, free, spontaneous, dynamic, innovative, nurturing, but you are not. You are walking into a blind alley and when you hit the wall instead of turning back you start tearing at the bricks. Frantically, pointlessly. Until your nails begin to snap, until your fingers bleed. What is behind the blind alley? you scream. What is the mystery? What is the secret?

  ‘But these are empty questions. There is no secret here, no mystery, just empty speculation. This is nothing more than pure ignorance in action.’

  I nod. Kite is right. I am trying to make sense out of nothing. I am trying to forge connections where there are none. I am asking questions that have no answers, but still, still I persist in asking them.

  ‘The System contains everything we need, Mira A,’ Kite wheedles. ‘Just keep reminding yourself of that fact. Be happy! Be grateful! Because The System has been perfected. You no longer need to worry! It is infinite. It is Ego-less. But we must live within The Graph. We must remain constantly in awe of its great efficacy, its immense beauty. We must allow The Graph to complete us, to satisfy us. We must not try and build elsewhere. Because we are not architects. And the land is unsuitable. There will be insufficient drainage. Our tools will be faulty, our contractors unreliable. Why build a shack, a slum, when we have a perfectly good house right here? Not a house, no, a palace, a castle. What would be the use in that? Who might hope to benefit? It’s simply Ego, Mira A. It’s illogical. It’s just perverse.’

  ‘A slum.’ I nod. I am building a slum. It is perverse.

  ‘We cannot apply sensible standards to wild theorising, Mira A.’ Kite is trenchant. ‘First there is an itch, then there is a gap, and then, suddenly, a strange and dangerous movement takes place . . . completely irrational, completely pointless, utterly destructive, utterly wrong.’

  So many hard words! Like little rocks. Bouncing, bruising, smacking, grazing.

  His eyes gaze at me most intently. ‘We might call this movement A Leap of Faith . . . ’ he whispers.

  I am startled by this notion. I am horrified.

  An itch?

  A gap?

  A congregation?

  A narrative?

  A Cathedral?

  A Leap of . . . of Faith?

  And then?

  Then?

  Then what?

  Who?

  ‘HOW CAN I STOP THIS?!? ’ I groan, clawing at my chest (although the fabric prohibits me).

  Because suddenly I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe without The Graph! Not here! Not out here! In this awful, pointless, hollow realm. This haunted, broken, shapeless place. This lonely hinterland.

  Is this The Past? Is this how The Past felt?

  So light yet so airless? So numb and blank and cruel and meaningless?

  With the itch? That dreadful itch, just gnawing and gnawing and gnawing and gnawing . . . ?

  ‘We will use chemicals,’ Kite says, most determinedly, ‘and we will adjust your Oracular Devices.’

  I nod.

  ‘You are not too far gone yet,’ he says, patting my shoulder reassuringly. ‘Perhaps focus on some new activities – acquire a pet. Take up another instrument. Have you considered the kora? I think it may suit you. Try to give more, to share more.’

  ‘When will The Graph . . . ?’ I ask, glancing over nervously.

  But Kite doesn’t answer me at first. ‘Remember that precious guitar?’ he asks, with a slow smile. ‘That precious guitar you found on the Stream with its str
ange, metal strings?’

  The guitar? Oh. I start. I clench my hands. I quickly nod. I bite my lip.

  ‘And you were perplexed by the puzzle?’

  Yes. Yes. I nod.

  ‘Well apparently there was no great mystery after all.’ Kite chuckles. ‘The guitarist was prone to sweating heavily – when he was nervous, during performances – and so his fingers would slip on the new gut strings. So he stuck to the old metal ones. He’d learned to play on metal. He persisted with metal. But the sound was too harsh and people hated it, they mocked and derided him. He became an embarrassment, a laughing-stock. So he added the dampers, to reduce the buzz. That was the puzzle. There was no puzzle. It was mere human fallibility. Sweat. Performance anxiety. Weakness. Imperfection. That was all.’

  ‘The Graph . . . ?’ I repeat, hardly listening, my eyes bouncing from wall to ceiling to wall.

  ‘Now!’ he says, lifting both arms in a dramatic, swooping movement (as if girding an entire orchestra into a final crescendo), ‘This Moment!’ Then he bows sharply, deeply, and he leaves.

  He’s gone.

  And it’s back on! It’s back on!

  Oh thank . . . thank . . .

  Who?

  A gap.

  A strange gap.

  What was I thinking?

  Who was I reaching for?

  But The Graph!

  The Graph!

  It is back!

  And at last.

  At long last.

  I can breathe.

  I can breathe.

  I can breathe.

  The kora originated in West Africa. It is a double-bridge-harp-lute with twenty-one strings. The strings descend in two, separate ranks and are played using the thumb and the index finger of both hands. The remaining fingers simply support the instrument. The tuning on the original kora was quite unstable and it was retuned by dint of leather tuning rings (or konso) which could be pushed up and down the neck providing four different seven-note scales. The Young, however, play a perfected version with tuning pegs.

  There is something very calming about this ancient instrument. The notes hit the air like summer rain falling on fields of ripe wheat. So warm. So evocative. So joyful. So fresh.

  Although replacing the old tuning mechanism with adjustable pegs means – my Sensor tells me – that the pitch is much more limited than on the original instrument, where the ability to modulate the subtleties of tuning was an intrinsic part of the skill of the player; a marker of experience, of knowledge, of excellence.

  But The Young play a perfected instrument.

  A limited instrument.

  Modified.

  Clean.

  Curtailed.

  I prefer the guitar.

  While we’re on the subject . . .

  (are we on the subject?)

  There is something about Ki . . . uh . . . about you-know-who’s logo that worries me. The tail. The tail on the blue kite is now slightly longer. There is an extra red ribbon at the end of the tail, a new ribbon.

  And it oscillates.

  Am I the new ribbon?

  Why did I have that thought?

  I must stop telling the story.

  I must stop building The Cath . . .

  . . . the you-know-what.

  The you-know-what.

  Why is that italicised? Is it the way I’m thinking?

  Might it be a clue?

  A clue?

  Perhaps?

  Who am I telling the story to?

  My sister star?

  Who am I building the you-know-what for?

  And why on earth would you-know-who tell me I was building a you-know-what in one breath and then call it a mere shack in the next?

  That seems a little contradictory, don’t you think?

  There is no winter with the kora. It is always hopeful. Yet often wistful. And there is very little written history with this instrument. The tradition was passed down within tribes, within families, principally by mouth.

  Perhaps that is why you-know-who was so keen for me to take it up. Because it is so old, but still new.

  I wish I could stick with the kora. But the range is more limited. And my spare fingers grow tired of supporting the instrument. They tickle. They itch. They thirst for the tremolo. They thirst for inclusion.

  No.

  No more itching.

  When I think back on the conversation with you-know-who, I start to . . .

  There are many questions which I need to push away. Just turn away from.

  Like:

  Is the you-know-what a clue?

  And why did he (you-know-who) mention the perspiration issue? Superficially to deflate me (to answer the puzzle that was no puzzle) . . . ? Yes, superficially . . . but in fact he has only succeeded in piquing my interest. He has captured my imagination. He has inspired feelings not of derision or contempt, but of sympathy. And – worst of all – he has created a fresh neural pathway. Which was dangerous. Even foolish. He took a gamble. And the gamble, it seems, has lost.

  Why did he do that?

  Is it a test?

  Is it a problem?

  Is it a flaw in The System?

  Is you-know-who mad?

  Who is he?

  Of course I could find out if I really wanted to. I could go to his Graph. In a mere instant. I could read his Information Stream. I am at liberty to do that. I am free to do that.

  But I lack the confidence.

  And I don’t want to attract attention to myself.

  Because I have been very good of late.

  I have stopped talking to my sister star.

  (Isn’t that the phrase you-know-who used? Sister star?)

  I have been playing the kora. I have joined a Kora Group. I have made several new friends who play the kora too. They have welcomed my sudden interest in their instrument. There is Powys and Kipp and Tuesday and Cecil.

  I asked Tuesday if she ever felt like the perfected version of the kora had limited the original instrument’s natural range and delicacy. She looked confused for a moment, frowned slightly, slowly shook her head and then pushed the thought away. I saw her do so on her Stream. She just pushed the thought gently away. It was beautiful.

  It really was quite beautiful.

  Kipp patted me on the shoulder. ‘The tuning is in our hearts, Mira A,’ he explained, smiling, ‘Perfection is not about the instrument itself – its leather rings or its pegs – but how we, The Young, choose to respond to the instrument. The tuning fork is in our hearts. Perfection is contained within us. It is something we express, something we cleave to. Even the most flawed object is perfect to innocent eyes. Eyes without prejudice. Eyes without haughtiness or need or expectation.’

  Kipp has a way of expressing himself that I find utterly compelling and admirable. Kipp is very wise.

  Of course I know all these things. I know all these things. But sometimes I forget them.

  It’s good to be reminded.

  It’s good to be reminded of how beautiful The System is. How clean. How innocent. How faultless.

  The tuning fork is in our hearts.

  I may stick with the kora after all. Because there is something missing. And when something is missing you have to make up the difference yourself. You have to give more. Be generous. Operate cheerfully within your limitations. Then the limitations miraculously disappear. Or they cease to be of concern. And that is good. That is the hallmark of The Young. That is what we do because . . .

  The tuning fork is in our hearts.

  Is it just me, or is The Graph responding to verbal cues with rather less precision of late? Less accuracy? Less dynamism? The word ‘miraculous’ just slipped out, and my eyes darted towards The Graph but there was no reaction.

  This has unsettled me a little.

  For a word like miraculous . . .

  Oh. There you go.

  It’s as if . . .

  As if . . .

  I don’t know.

  I should just push this
thought away.

  The tuning fork is in our hearts.

  I should strive to follow Tuesday’s beautiful example.

  I should strive . . .

  Strive . . .

  Strive . . .

  Strive . . .

  Strive . . .

  That’s better.

  I should strive, but not too hard.

  Never too hard.

  The lucid dreaming and being Blinded By The Light: they continue, unabated, even after a recent, very minor adjustment of my Oracular Devices.

  I gaze straight into the light as I say this . . .

  The light burns . . .

  Because – with hindsight – it occurs to me that you-know-who seemed to have no inkling about the dreaming and the Light.

  Unless he did know – he does know – and this is simply a test.

  I can’t be sure.

  But I am doing my best to adhere to the tenets of The System.

  And look: I am happy. I am happy.

  Happy.

  No strange capitals!

  No brackets!

  No oscillating!

  It must be the chemicals.

  I have acquired a Neuro-Mechanical canine and I am exercising it very diligently. The Young may choose any breed of Neuro-Mechanical canine they like (small or large), but generally we choose a brown dog of medium build with a wagging tail and a mid-length nose and coat. A Labrador.

  My Labrador is called Tuck. Tuck has his own very specific characteristics. He likes to be scratched behind his ears but growls if you try and touch his throat. To own Tuck I am obliged to relinquish certain other privileges. But I contribute to the net benefit of my Community (the Community of Energy) by spending set periods of time each day on my Power Spot.