Gregrius Agricola first measured the oil but how many centuries before the later generations took up the race to exploit it, price it, capitalize it, realise its market value. For years the hydrocarbon lay unwanted, a dirty chemical, of interest only to engineers.
As a source of energy it was exorbitant, difficult to procure, it lay deep underground, a greasy residue from an inferior life. There were attempts to use it as a source of light but the plentiful supply of tallow from animal fat meant it was a fool who lit their house with oil. It was easier in fact to hunt the world’s remotest oceans for the sperm whale, to procure its spermecetti oil, at great cost of human life, than attempt to extract petroleum from the ground.
It was not until the science of drilling matured sufficiently, that barrel upon barrel of oil could be easily sucked up from a single well, that people truly started to realise the value of that oily pitch beneath the surface of the earth.
The hydrocarbon was studied, deconstructed, its structure held up to the light of science. Hydrogen and Carbon – two of the basic building blocks of life – bound together, covalent strings, benzene rings, ionic power. Tiny energy traps. Tiny sources of fire in the undead remains of our protozoaic ancestors. They must have marvelled at the power it wielded. The fuel that drove the engines of the world. The fuel that shrank distances and sped up time. Suddenly the lands were opened.
How quickly everyone got used to it. Until the dust came I cannot remember a time when our right to fuel was not taken for granted. Perhaps that is nothing to do with fuel, it is simply our state in relation to the world, to take things for granted. It is easier after all to accept the world as it is than to try and change it.
Already the dust is nothing new. Dust has always been there. There is just more of it now. People forget what life was like before, not because it is painful or difficult, although those may be true, and not because they have difficulty with their memory but simply because they are programmed to accept things, want to accept things, are inherently distrustful of any above and beyond when they have something solid in their hand.
Leaving Town
She came back to me white as a sheet. A crumpled sheet. It was obvious we had to leave. I chose not to ask questions. It was not important in any case. I feel for this little slip of a girl. What she went through to get those answers. What she must be carrying inside her. She will help us, I am sure, but at what cost? Before we encountered her she was simply a blip, a co-ordinate that we had to track. A stepping stone. Now what has she become? We are bound on her course. Much as we might pretend that we are holding her for our own benefit it is her that is leading this crazy chase.
She is so slight but she has the power, we all know that. She has met Abel, knows Abel, the distant prize. The men have their suspicions I am sure. We all have our suspicions but the trick is not letting them get to you. Her connection is deep and for that she is charged a heavy price. She has blood on her hands, is steeped in it. I do not blame her, there is no other way that it could be. What does she think of Abel? Does she think of him?
In any case this is our life. I know that not one of my men would hesitate to die in the pursuit of our orders. We are professional. It may seem impossible that word can have any meaning any more but for us it still retains significance. We have a job to do, a reason to be out here, slogging through this endless terrain, rather than somewhere more comfortable, waiting for others to bring answers. We have been tasked with delivering certain results and there is no doubt we shall.
None of us, except for her, know what Abel is, what he stands for but whatever we discover when we reach him, whatever he is, it is danger. That much is clear. It is written in her eyes. Written all over her face. She never says anything to me or the men but it is us that are helping her. We are the ones along for the ride, transporting her back to him.
I asked her when the last time she saw him was.
‘I’ve not seen him in ten years,’ she said.
‘Ten years? That’s a long time,’ I could sense she wanted to say more. ‘Do you miss him?’
‘Miss him?’ she said dismissively. ‘He’s my brother.’
I wasn’t sure what she meant by this. I sensed it was a lie but could not be clear what truth it covered. It was hard to imagine that this fragile, vicious little girl was related to the big game we hunted. Our orders gave no hint as to their relationship but I had formulated various theories.
‘You know why we have been sent?’
‘Yes,’ she looked at me steadily, those dark eyes hard in her fragile face. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘And then why do you help us?’
‘You won’t succeed.’ She said firmly, confidently. I tried not to let any reaction show, like we had been trained. No doubt she had also been trained, trained to spot just such repression, the lack of reaction.
‘Why do you think that?’ I asked, sure that she was only bluffing.
‘I know him,’ she replied, a frightened look on her face. ‘You won’t succeed.’
‘Perhaps what we need to do is not as difficult as you think.’
She was not interested. She shook her head dumbly, like a child or a doll. She could appear so juvenile with certain movements, not innocent but young, like children often are, aware but not conscious, not conscious like the rest of us.
‘I know you plan to kill him,’ She spoke slowly, admiringly. ‘I know you are trained and well-armed. I know you have enough explosives packed in your trucks to level a small town.’
Her eyes shimmered antagonistically. I don’t know how she knew those facts. I can only presume that she was good at guessing. Had sized us up the moment we captured her. It was not an impossible leap of imagination.
I am not too proud to admit that I grabbed her by the hair. I wanted to feel my strength over her, crush her. Her eyes widened slightly, only slightly, but she did not cry out. I was impressed by her firmness, impressed and engorged. There was a look of fear in her eyes but it was not fear of me.
The more I thrashed at her the softer she became, supplicant, a victim. She cowed to me, spoke softly, bent before me. I was fighting against myself but I could not let go. I became possessed, possessed by the idea that I had to possess her. She did nothing to prevent me, she had become a victim, the victim.
The sandcastle
Time passed, I had been surprised when John came to me in my cabin. He was alight, pulsating. I suppose he must have seen something new, some change in me after Bonmont, something that appealed. I tasted sulphur.
Was I the one that let go? Or did he? I ran a finger over the soft sheets of the bed. He would return I was sure. I felt a long forgotten tide. The moon was long banished but the night carried its own luminance.
Now suddenly this search for Abel felt real, close. I felt sure that we were closing in on him. What would happen then I had no idea but that it would be explosive I could not doubt. A termulent expectation engulfed me. I imagined touching Abel’s face.
The truck slowed. Was John returning? I waited but the break in our journey was clearly due to some external factor, some obstacle in our path. Had they encountered other travellers? Mercenaries? Abel’s men? Minutes passed away and I tensed with anticipation at who should open the door. Of all the options I did not know who I hoped for most.
Finally John appeared, a cloud on his brow.
‘You might want to see this,’ he said, dutifully, as if showing me some evidence of his own wrongdoing.