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title:Youth of a Nation date: july 30, 2002 Tom is afraid of spiders. He’ll never admit this to anyone and the likelihood that he’ll show this fear is even less -- possibly registering in negative integers that curve around zero and hit you in the back of you head, for your impudence in suggesting Tom might be terrified of anything. Let alone insects. Let alone those eight-legged creepers, alive like that twisted ivy on the wall, clambering its way into the ear and straight deep into the room of Tom’s mind, tightly locked save for that window that could never shut. The window of opportunity. The Youth know that. The Youth, surprisingly, know a lot of things. They keep secrets in their khaki uniforms, tightly buckled under the coarse belts. Some tigers snarl at you, and most wolves bite, but these snakes only blink, their languid coils around your waist and tightening before you realize they’re there. Albans has golden hair and pale skin the kind only people twice removed from the Sun have, so Tom doesn’t understand when Albans calls himself an Aryan. Aryans migrated to India, Tom said, smiling. A-ha, caught Albans at last. It’s become a sort of game, the sort of game stupid humans play with Gods, hoping that They’ll trip up and reveal Their vulnerable humanity. Albans punched him in the nose. Tom still has the slight crook in his nose, but with time, it’ll wear out -- the same way a rock smoothens after being lapped at by water; and God only knows how many times the quick, prideful River Albans has lapped at Tom. And vice versa. The Youth take Tom out for a stroll by the lakeside. The squid, who knows Tom-the-One-With-Meat-Bones, bats at Tom’s feet with its tentacles. Wilhelm pushes him into the lake, and Tom drags Wilhelm by the ankle with him. Wilhelm sputters and scrapes immaculately-groomed fingernails into the sandy gravel and Albans and the rest laugh and skim pebbles, hoping to incite the squid’s supposedly formidable rage ; and for a moment there’s really no difference between the Youth and Tom. For a moment there is no Youth or Tom, and none of the clear lines of segregation the Youth clutch to their khaki breasts with such adoration, but a bunch of boys mucking about. The kind old women chase out of their shops for nicking liquorice or the sort teachers catch behind the shed, smoking cigarettes from older brothers. Tom kicks his way up to the surface, choking with slightly metallic lakewater, hoping that the rumours about waste from toilets dripping into the lake are unfounded, because the thought of tasting someone else’s urine isn’t a terribly appealing thought. Tom has obviously never been to a public swimming pool. No, Tom’s a pure water kind of boy. Wilhelm, on the other hand, can’t swim. Tom dives underwater to catch a murky sight of Wilhelm, descending and frantically trying to cast useless levitation spells on himself. Wilhelm goes deeper, and Tom is suddenly remembering what bruised half-moons he left on Tom’s skin while digging those fingernails in, and how even now, the skin peels to leave pinkish craters. Tom wonders if it’s such a good idea to save Wilhelm. Hell, sometimes Tom couldn’t tell the difference between Wilhelm and the rest of the well-groomed Youth either. That’s the problem with people’s Gods nowadays, you see -- they all look the same, and most of the time they say the same things. Tom finally pulls Wilhelm to the surface, and Wilhelm has such a look of terror fuelled by rage and even more terror. He looks pathetic, clutching his sides and shivering with the cold. Wilhelm is so thin, under all those military-issued clothing, that Tom can wrap his arms around Wilhelm. Tom has never wanted to touch another person that badly, before. Albans screams something at Wilhelm in German, and Wilhelm spits something back out. They leave Tom alone on the shore of the lake, wondering what he did wrong. That night, Tom dreams of spiders. Huge, enormous spiders with snapping pincers and beetle-black eyes, small insects with bodies gleaming like dark diamonds, insectile voices a low croon in the depth of Tom’s nightmares, a stream from Tom’s closet of fears, where Tom sometimes, himself, hides. They flow up Tom’s clothes, burrow themselves under his skin, crawl up his nose and into his ears to hiss unintelligible German in Tom’s skull. If only Tom could wake, he would see the Youth in a circle around his bed, blinking at Tom’s silent screams and not saying a word. The Youth, you see, make good servants to their leader, but they make even better teachers. |
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