The Truth is Dead

AT THE BALL GAME Frank Cottrell Boyce

Monkey8 was the last in line. She was the only girl, the smallest and the most excited in her Ten. The others had all played the game on real courts before; she had only played on the school court and in the alleyways and covered walkways of her home. They were trotting in now, under the shadow of the great arch of the New Court. She paused, took a breath, tried to steady herself. Then she too ran into the arena. The sound: the cheers of the crowd that broke over her like a wave; the colours: the wet red of the playing surface, the gold around the spectators’ necks; the shadows: the black circle in the heart of the scoring hoop, the deep, concealing shade of the stands – everything was louder, sharper, brighter, than anything she had seen before. It was so beautiful she felt she could barely move. She wanted to stand and look at it for ever.

Then she saw the ball. It was already in play, spinning towards the ring. And then she was moving too. The ball bounced off at a crazy angle and everything about her was connected to it. Her brain was calculating its trajectory; her eye was following its flight; her feet were moving into the space without her having to think about it. Even though her eyes were on the ball, she was also aware that Jaguar3 of her own team was going for it with his left elbow, and somehow she knew that he had spotted her and would pass it to her. She stopped and turned, ready to take the ball with her right hip and pass it forward. She braced herself for the hurt and said a prayer to her guardian, the Nocturnal Monkey.

All this took less time than it took for the hard rubber ball to fall ten feet. Jaguar3 jumped, offering his chest to the rocketing ball. But instead of twisting and sending it to her, he yelped and fell, as though shot. He lay on the ground, clutching his chest in agony while the ball bounced once, twice, three… too many times. They had lost the ball. It belonged to the other Ten now.

Jaguar3’s brother went to help him up while the other players – from both teams – just stood and laughed at him. The spectators laughed too. Monkey8 tried to join in but her eye was fixed on the great bruise that was already blooming on Jaguar3’s chest. Mungo had told her that the ball they used on the New Court was harder than the school one and that the red surface was faster than the wooden floor. She had shouted at him and said he was only trying to scare her. Obviously he was right. She wondered if he was right about the other things too.

Then the ball was in play again and she was no longer thinking thoughts, only moves. They were going for the scoring hoop again; their scorer was beautifully placed. She thought about running over and scratching him but the ball was quicker than she was. He jumped for it, and the next thing she knew, it was curving perfectly through the centre of the scoring hoop. He threw up his arms in delight, but instead of cheers a loud booing filled the stadium. It sounded like some monster coming nearer. The scorer had kicked the ball with his foot. He probably hadn’t meant to; sometimes it just happened. But he knew he’d done it now. He kneeled down and bowed his head and allowed his team captain to strike him on the back with his great wooden club. The crowd loved that.

Lord Tekokiztakitl himself threw the ball back into play – in the Final it would be the king. The ball went high into the air, where the gods could decide who should have it.

The gods decided on Monkey8. Now that it was coming to her, she was not afraid. She leaped high; she broadened her chest. The ball struck like a fist but she controlled it. She knew where Jaguar3 was. She knew the others were not watching him because he was dishonoured, so she flipped it to him. He flung his hip at the ball and it curved back into the air. She knew where it would go and was there waiting when it arrived. She caught it with her knee. She bounced it three times, killing its spin. They were coming at her; their captain had his club raised.

It was too late. She pulled back her leg and kneed the ball confidently through the middle of the stone scoring hoop. Then, for honour only, she trapped it on her chest as it dropped through the other side, softly as fruit.

The cheer she won then made the earlier cheers sound like mutters. Lord Tekokiztakitl stood up, so everyone else stood up. He took his gold ornaments from around his neck and she ran to receive them. Because he had done it, others did it, and she walked around the pitch allowing people to drape her with gold.

She was the first girl ever to score on a New Court. Surely they must let her play in the finals.

– It wasn’t a dream, was it?

– You mean you have dreamed of this before?

– No.

– Because that would mean something if you had.

– No.

– It might also mean something if you never had.

The Interpretation were questioning her. It was part of how they decided whether she would go through to the finals. Everyone said the Interpretation were scary but they seemed lovely. They bought her a cactus syrup at a street cafe in the shade of the New Court. She sat and watched the painters finishing the new mural. The New Court had been built specially for the 2012 finals. The mural showed scenes from the whole history of Aztec Europa. There was Montezuma floating into the River Clyde on his imperial raft, over five hundred years ago, his huge nodding feather headdress making him look eight feet tall. No wonder the ghostfolk who lived here – with their pale speckly skin – thought he was a god. Apparently their god walked on water. Montezuma’s raft was so low in the water, it looked like he was doing just that. They thought their god had come back to them.

– Where did you learn ulama? asked the man from the Interpretation.

– My father is a rubber importer. He gave me my first rubber ball to play with when I was five. The ghostfolk who work in our house and gardens have a boy, and he was forever kicking a fitba – those pig’s bladder ghostfolk balls that hardly bounce. They kick it with their feet. When he saw how a real ball bounces, he couldn’t leave it alone. We’ve played all day. Every day. Ever since. Father is busy; my mother is dead. We play in the corridors and in the delivery alley.

– You learned ulama from a ghostboy?

– We learned together. His name is Mungo.

– We don’t need to know the ghostboy’s name. You know that most of the players who are on the list for the finals are from great families? They were taught by other great players. One of them was taught by Neza himself. And Neza has declared him the greatest player he has ever seen.

– Let me play him and we’ll see.

– This will be a game of universal significance. No girl has ever played in such a game. And a girl who learned her ulama skills in an alleyway… you must admit it seems unlikely.

– Unlikely things are mostly from the gods, she said. – Look at Montezuma. He went for a ride on the imperial raft one day, got caught up in the Gulf Stream and ended up here in a village called Glasgow. He founded the second empire and made that village into the greatest city on earth.

– You are comparing yourself to Montezuma?

– My father said we should all strive to be like him. So, yes, I compare myself to him. Every night before I sleep, I ask myself, did I do as Montezuma would have done?

– And how do you answer?

– When he was adrift, he was not scared. He didn’t try to paddle back. He knew the gods were taking him somewhere, so he stood calm and strong like a god; and when he came here, they took him for a god. All I ever wanted to do was play the game. When I got older and I heard that no one born in the month of the Monkey had ever played in the New Court, I still played. When I realized that no girl was ever allowed to play, I still played. When my father tried to stop me, that was like the waves and the winds and the monsters that Montezuma fought. I still played. If the gods had made me want something so wrong, it must be because they had some purpose. I stood tall.

– So you lied to your father?

– Yes.

– You had better tell him the truth now. Because you will be playing in the semi-final and all the world will know.

She burst into tears when they told her, and they had to remind her that weeping was a beating offence.

She tried to remember all she had said to the Interpretation. After all, if she had convinced them, she should surely be able to convince her own father. When she got home, he had already heard. Before she could say a word, he had locked her in her room. She tried to sleep, hoping to dream of the Final. Then she sat up suddenly. Something was tapping at the window. She saw the pale freckly face pushed up against the glass.

– Mungo, she whispered and opened the window. – He won’t let me play in the semi-final. It’s so unfair.

– He’s sacked my father and sent us away. He says it’s all my fault, that I taught you ulama.

– At least your father will get another job and another house. I will never have another chance to play the game.

Mungo laughed at her. – A spoiled wee idiot, he called her.

– Do you know why it’s called the Final? Because it’s the final game. The gods are going to destroy this world and start a new one and everyone’s going to die.

– No one’s going to destroy the world.

– Yes, they are. The gods destroyed the world before, once by flood, once by fire, once by the great wind, and once more by fire; and this year they will do it again. And that’s why we’re playing the Final, to thank them for letting us live so long; and maybe if the game is good enough, they will destroy us with something comfortable, like petals or snow, and not sores or locusts.

– Our God telt us that he’d destroy the world no more. Never again. He did it once and promised he’d never try that again. He put a rainbow in the sky to seal the deal.

– But your god is weak. He lost. Even before Real People came here, your god was nothing but a dead man nailed to a piece of wood. Your god is dead. Our gods will destroy the world and I will have missed my last chance to play.

– You played today.

– Mungo, it was so beautiful.

– You scored?

– But that wasn’t it. It was the pitch, and the people, and the feeling of twenty of us watching the ball, and the ball seemed like a bird that knew its own mind and was testing us, asking us questions… I felt like I had come home. I wish you’d been there to see me.

– Come on. Climb out of there. Come and show me.

He put his hand out to help her through the window.

– Wait, she whispered. She collected all the gold that they had given her when she scored and stuffed it into her backpack.

He showed her handholds and footholds in the ancient wall – the house had been one of the first to be built after the Aztecs landed. The king himself would come and look at it during the preparations for the Final.

– How d’you know where all these cracks and crannies are? she asked.

– I just do, he said.

And she knew from the way he said it that he had climbed up to her window and looked in before.

And so they ran away. They hid in the great drain that ran under the New Court. It was dry and dark in there, and they lay in the dark together and she thought of the playing surface spread above them like a blanket.

– How did you do?

– I scored. I don’t mean points. I mean I put the ball through the actual hoop. Caught it when it landed too.

He smiled and went to sleep.

They crawled out of the drain at dawn and looked around the square. She was afraid her father would come.

– Come on, Mungo said. – Let’s go. You’ve got gold. Let’s run away.

– Why would I want to run away? It’s the semi-finals.

– But you’re rich. You don’t need to play. Think of the places we could go. Tartary. Sheba. Anywhere. They say there is an undiscovered country way to the south. The people there can fly. It’s called the Dreamplace.

– So? It’s a dream. This is real. This is the navel of the Cosmos. This is the New Court. And if I make it to the Final, the god Tekutizcatetal himself will be here, watching me. We won’t see him; but he’ll see me.

– If he’s really a god, he can see you wherever you are. He can see you playing in Tartary or the Dreamland even. When it’s just the two of us.

He was holding her hand too tightly. Did he really want to run away with her? Why didn’t he want her to play in the finals? She yanked her arm free and cursed him.

– The gold, she said. – It’s not me you want to run away with. It’s the gold.

– What?

– It’s just the gold you’re after. Leave me alone. I will play and I will win. I’ll be famous and I’ll be rich.

She ran away from him, out into the square. At a cafe, in the shade, she saw the Interpretation and some others, drinking chocolate. When she got closer she saw that some of them were great players, famous players; she had a plastic model of one of them on her window seat at home.

She stood and watched them for a while. They seemed so confident and easy with each other. Then one of the Interpretation spotted her and called her over.

– Is it proper to sit here with you? she said.

– Of course, they replied. They were all smiles. One of them noticed Mungo and asked her if that was the ghostfolk boy she’d learned with.

– Yes, that’s him.

She waved to Mungo to come and say hello – they were so nice; she was sure they would be fine with it – but Mungo was already walking away.

She stayed close to them after that. Even if her father came up to them now, he would not dare try to take her away from the Interpretation. She would play today.

And Neza would be playing today. The greatest player in two empires. She recognized him from his painting on the mural. It showed the spirit of Montezuma leading Neza by the hand onto the pitch at Rome. When Montezuma had arrived in Europe, the whole land had been full of wars. Before the Real People arrived the ghostfolk would fight each other over land, water, honour, religion, oil. Not just warrior on warrior either, but warrior on farmer, on women, on children. Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands were murdered or starved or poisoned. Land by land, though, they learned ulama. They learned to settle their differences in the court, at the ball game instead.

At first they still wanted blood. That shelf next to the pitch where the scoring stones were lined up – in the early days that was where they put the skulls. The winning team used to slaughter the losing team and put their heads on that shelf. It made Monkey8 shudder to think of it.

But that was in the past, like war itself. For every nation now played the game. From Scotland to the great mountains over the sea and down into hot, brown India and over the greater mountains to the windy rice fields, everyone loved the game, and the beauty and courage of the players. And the bravest and most beautiful of all was Neza. When the tribes of Italy had threatened to rise up ten years ago, he had played for them against their enemies. Ten one-on-one games, one after the other. He had won every one. He had saved the world.

And today she would play against him.

This time she did not pause for breath before running onto the pitch. When she ran out the crowd roared her name, “Monkey! Monkey! Monkey!” They already had a song about her. She looked around and saw Neza standing there, just like in the mural, as though Montezuma was leading him on to the pitch. She wanted him to smile at her but he seemed not to see her. Maybe he was angry that the crowd were singing for her not him. She wanted to tell them to shut up.

But the ball was in play. So she wanted nothing now and all her thinking stopped. Her eyes were locked on the ball, her ears listening for her teammates. She knew none of them; she was the only one of her Ten who had qualified. This new Ten had arrived today from every quarter of the empire. When they called to her she didn’t understand what they were saying. The only thing she understood was the ball.

The ball seemed to circle around Neza, as though he had some kind of gravitational effect on it. He brought his knee up and it whirled over his head towards her, but one of his Ten got a hip to it first and sent it curving up towards the stone ring. A girl. There was a girl on the other team too? A girl who was playing with Neza, feeding him passes, responding to his moves. Monkey8 hated her before she even saw her face.

The ball missed the ring but the girl was on it right away, throwing herself at it. Monkey8 jumped too. She pulled the ball down with her doubled-up knees, making her body into a kind of pouch. When she landed she had time to knee it up into the air, once for speed and a second time for direction. She sent it spinning across the court towards the scoring ring. Someone from her own team stopped it with his back and sent it back to her. She was nearer now, well in the zone. She stopped it with her shoulder and let it roll across her chest while she took her bearings. Then she saw the girl coming into her space.

Monkey8 shot. It was all she could do. She didn’t even look until the ball was speeding away from her. It was heading straight for the ring. But suddenly Neza was there, in its path, as though the ball had spoken to him and told him where to be. All he had to do was jump. He could block it with his neck, with his shoulder. If he twisted a little he might even be able to make it hit the wall and score a point. She saw him jump; she saw that he was not looking at the ball. He was looking straight at her. How could he do that? How could he jump for the ball without even looking?

He couldn’t. He missed. She scored.

There is no point trying to describe the noise in that stadium. She had defeated Neza. This time she did not walk around collecting gold ornaments; instead they threw them onto the pitch for her. She walked on golden litter. Her eyes turned to scan the crowd before she knew what she was looking for. Mungo. She wanted him to have seen. But also not to have seen. She knew that he could have done it just as well, but he would never be allowed to watch, let alone play. She looked for him anyway. Maybe it was because she did not want to turn and see Neza. Probably he hated her now. Probably he had walked off the pitch.

But when she turned round, there he was smiling at her. He rubbed her hair and pointed to her, and the cheering grew even louder. He bent down, whispered – Take care, little sister, and walked away. He didn’t seem sad or troubled. He was waving to someone in the crowd. He seemed in a hurry to go.

– The Final is one-on-one. Do you realize that?

– Me against Neza?

– No, no. His luck has left him. Didn’t you see? We are talking tonight. We will find someone more worthy.

As a player in the Final, Monkey8 was allowed to hang around the court as long as she wanted. She knew her father would not be allowed in, so she loitered in the concourse, accepting compliments and more gifts, all the while looking out for Mungo. When she finally spotted him, she realized he must have been there for a long time, watching her. She shrugged.

He came over.

– Want to see the court? she said.

They went inside. There was no one else there. He looked up at the scoring ring and she held up a rubber ball.

– This is the one I scored with.

– Give us a shot.

She threw it and he jumped, catching it on his knee and sending it straight through the hoop first time.

Afterwards they lay down on the red playing surface. The sky seemed to ripple into darkness. The moon rolled over the lip of the court like a big red ball.

– We could play one-on-one. Just the two of us. It’s my court tonight.

– We’ve played one-on-one every day of our lives.

– Does my father know what I did here today?

– Aye. He’s at home crying. He knows he can’t get to you now.

– Maybe he’ll be proud when I win. Maybe he’ll be pleased when he sees the gold they gave me. Do you think I’m richer than him now?

– Maybe.

– Let’s play.

– Too tired.

– Too scared.

– Of you?

– I defeated Neza.

– He didn’t want to win.

– Everyone wants to win.

– Not this game.

– Especially this game.

– Wait. You mean they haven’t told you? You don’t know what happens after the Final?

– Nothing. I told you: that’s why it’s called the Final. It’s the final thing before the end of the world.

– The winner is the best player in the empire, right? Best person. So the winner—

– Will be me.

– The winner, they’ll rip her heart out and offer it to the gods. To Tekutizcatetal or whatever, to see if they can change his mind.

– You’re lying. Lying ghostdirt.

– Ghostdirt?

– How could you change a god’s mind?

– By giving him your nice juicy heart to eat, apparently.

– It doesn’t scare me. It’s the Final. Everyone will die. If I die first, that’s an honour. If Tekutizcatetal takes my heart, that is the greatest honour. Anyone would be proud.

– Not Neza, apparently, or else why did he throw the match?

– He did not throw the match; I defeated him. I scored. I won. I hate you.

– And I asked you to run away with me. And you didnae come.

She walked away but he followed. He grabbed her blouse and untucked it; then, taking the hem of his cloak, he knotted the blouse and the cloak together, just like the groom does to the bride when the Real People marry. They had played weddings sometimes when they were younger, but only when she wanted to. This was the first time he had started it. She laughed.

And then he said – We could still run away.

– No, we couldn’t. I’m famous now.

– We could go in disguise. To the Dreamcountry. Say yes.

– Maybe I will.

They walked towards the great arch, where they found the Interpretation waiting for them.

– We are so glad to find you here, they said. – We have made our decision about tomorrow.

They were not threatening. They had no soldiers with them. But all the same, it was impossible to argue with them. It was as though the whole world, the way things worked, was talking through them.

– We thought about what you said, that the more unlikely something is, the more clearly it is a message from the gods.

– Did I say that?

– Yes. So we have decided that your opponent tomorrow will be this boy.

They pointed to Mungo.

They entered through opposite arches. He seemed unbelievably far away and unbelievably pale against the red surface. They had played one-on-one since they were five, so often that it was more like a dance than a game. They never kept track of who won. Today the winner would die and the loser would live. Today they were playing the same old game, but this time to the death.

She looked at him standing on the centre spot, and the sound of the crowd and the colours of the stadium seemed to vanish. Everything was as ghostly as his pale skin.

– We’ll never see each other again after this.

– Good. You’ve bloody killed me. We should have run away.

– Let me win.

– Why would I do that?

– So I get killed and you don’t. It’s no great thing for me to die. I believe; you don’t.

– I believe in doing the right thing. I’m going to win; you’re going to live.

– Let me win. When the world ends, I’ll be waiting for you at the door of the Good Place.

– I’m going to win. I’m not going to let them kill you. I’d rather be dead than see them kill you here.

– It doesn’t make any sense. Let me win.

– You’ll never beat me, because I won’t let you. I’m playing for your life. Nothing will beat me.

The ball was in play. She missed it completely and realized she was watching him and not the ball, trying to remember him, a picture to take with her. The ball bounced high. Very high. She tried to wake up. She had to beat him. To save him. He was already running into position. The muscles in his legs coiled, ready to spring.

But then they both stopped. He was staring into the sky. She was staring into the sky. The crowd was staring into the sky. But not at the ball.

She was staring at the… what was it? A thing like a cross, like the wooden thing that Mungo’s weak god was nailed to. It was moving across the sky and making a noise, a coughing, choking noise. Like a weak thing. And it was coming nearer, falling out of the sky. In the stands people were screaming and scrambling out of their seats. But Mungo kept staring up. He made a sign like a cross on himself.

Then it was clear that the thing was going to land on the court itself. She dragged him out of the way as it struck the red surface. There was something on the front that whirled like an angry club, and smoke poured from the back. There was a thing like a single eye on the top; at least, she thought it was an eye, but then it opened and a figure stepped out. A male figure the same size as an Aztec man. Black like a man of Sheba, only blacker still. And his hair woolly and white. He stood on the wing of the thing and he waved! Just the way a man might wave. Everyone stood still and then waved back, imitating the god’s wave. He waved again. They waved again.

This was it. The end of the world. Not a flood. But… what? Waving?

The god began to speak, and everyone leaned forward to listen. The acoustics of the court were designed to amplify the dramatic thump of the rubber ball hitting the stone, so everyone heard everything he said but no one could understand a word. They shuffled a little, embarrassed that this was their god, come to talk to them, but they couldn’t understand what he was saying.

Then slowly they began to enjoy the music of his talking and the fact that he seemed pleased to see them, and it dawned on them slowly that anyone who spoke with his relaxed, sing-song voice was very possibly not going to destroy the world after all. And as he waved again and they waved back again, they began to recognize certain words, because he said them a lot. Kuri, for instance, was his name. And Wollongong was where he was from. And aeroplane seemed to be the thing that took him into the air. He kept slapping it proudly.

While Kuri was talking, Mungo worked it out. This was not their god. This was not Tekutizcatetal, the destroyer of worlds. This was obviously his God. Obviously. He was even riding on a cross. Knowing that God was good, Mungo grabbed Monkey8 by the hand and dragged her over to the plane.

There was a gasp from the crowd. Was this it? Was the little ghost lad going to sacrifice her?

– All right, mate. Need a lift? said God.

Mungo did not understand the words, but he could see by looking into his eyes that this God really was good. And Kuri could see by looking into Mungo’s eyes that Mungo was good. And the girl – she was digging her nails into the boy’s hand and looking back at the crowd. They wanted to be together, that was clear too. The crowd. They were scared of the crowd. For some reason these kids had to get out of there.

– No worries, Kuri said. – Jump aboard. I’ll sort you out.

He pushed back the glass bubble and pointed inside. They climbed in. It was cramped but Kuri pulled out some bags to make room for them.

– Don’t worry. I’ll dump this stuff. I’ll miss it, but it’s not the end of the world.

At first the crowd too somehow felt it wasn’t the end of the world, as they watched their god – or some god, anyway – chugging up into the air on a tail of oily smoke, taking the two players with them. They waved and waved, but the more they waved the more they had the feeling that something really had ended; that they were saying goodbye not just to the players and the plane and the god, but to a world; that maybe they were saying goodbye to an old world and waving hello to a new one.