tion in the dead of night, we travelled a long distance to the east. Here we finally rendezvoused with a column of

  trucks. We were driven in convoy for two nights and a

  day to a large stores depot. Here we learned that the

  grenade launchers with which we were armed were now

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  T H E D I S C H A R G E

  obsolescent. We were to be issued with the latest version, but the entire escadron would need to be re-trained.

  So we marched cross-country to another camp. So we

  re-trained. So, finally, we were issued with the latest armament and the ammunition for it and now at last fully

  prepared we marched off once again to fight the war.

  We never reached our reallocated position, where the

  enemy was to be confronted. We were diverted instead to

  relieve another column of troops, five days away across

  some of the harshest countryside I had yet encountered:

  it was a broken, frozen landscape of flints and glinting

  pebbles, devoid of plants, of colour, even of shape.

  It didn’t sink in straight away, but already the pattern

  had become established in those first few days and weeks

  of aimless activity. This purposeless and constant move-

  ment was to be my experience of war.

  I never lost count of the days or the years. The three

  thousandth anniversary loomed ahead of me like an un-

  stated threat. We marched at intervals from one place to

  the next; we slept rough; we marched again or were

  transported by trucks; we were billeted in wooden huts

  that were uninsulated and infested with rats and which

  leaked under the incessant rains. At intervals we were

  withdrawn to be re-trained. An issue of new or upgraded

  weapons invariably followed, making more training es-

  sential. We were always in transit, making camp, taking

  up new positions, digging trenches, heading south or

  north or east or anywhere to reinforce our allies—we were put on trains, removed from trains, flown here and there, sometimes without food or water, often without warning,

  always without explanation. Once when we were hiding

  in trenches close to the snowline a dozen fighter planes

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  C H R I S T O P H E R P R I E S T

  screamed overhead and we stood and cheered unheard

  after them; at another time there were other aircraft, from which we were ordered to take cover. No one attacked us,

  then or ever, but we were always on our guard. In some

  of the northerly areas of the continent, to which we were sent from time to time, and depending on the season, I

  was in turn baked by the heat of the sun, immobilized by

  thigh-deep mud, bitten by thousands of flying insects,

  swept away by flooding snow-melt—I suffered sores, sun-

  burn, bruises, boredom, ulcerated legs, exhaustion, con-

  stipation, frostbite and unceasing humiliation. Sometimes we were told to stand our ground with our grenade

  launchers loaded and primed, waiting for action.

  We never went into action.

  This then was the war, of which it had always been

  said there would never be an end.

  I lost all sense of contextual time, past and future. All I knew was the daily marking off of the calendar, sensing

  the fourth millennium of the war approach ineluctably.

  As I marched, dug, waited, trained, froze, I dreamed only of freedom, of putting this behind me, of heading back to the islands.

  At some forgotten moment during one of our route

  marches, one of our training camps, one of our attempts

  to dig trenches in the permafrost, I lost the notebook containing all the island names I had written down. When I

  first discovered the loss it seemed like an unparalleled

  disaster, worse than anything the army had inflicted on

  me. But later I found that my memory of the islands’

  names was intact. When I concentrated I realized I could

  still recite the romantic litany of islands, still place them against imagined shapes on a mental map.

  1 8 6

  T H E D I S C H A R G E

  At first bereft, I came to realize that the loss of first the map, then the notebook, had liberated me. My present

  was meaningless and my past was forgotten. Only the is-

  lands represented my future. They existed in my mind,

  modified endlessly as I dwelt on them, matching them up

  to my expectations.

  As the gruelling experience of war ground on, I came

  to depend increasingly on my haunting mental images of

  the tropic archipelago.

  But I could not ignore the army and I still had to en-

  dure its endless demands. In the ice mountains further

  away in the south, the enemy troops were dug into im-

  pregnable defensive positions, lines they were known to

  have held for centuries. They were so firmly entrenched

  that it was conventional wisdom amongst our men that

  they could never be dislodged. It was thought that hun-

  dreds of thousands of men on our side, perhaps millions

  of us, would have to die in the assault against their lines.

  It rapidly became clear that my escadron was not only

  going to be part of the first assault, but that after the first attack we would continue to be in the heart of the

  fray.

  This was the precursor to the celebrations of the

  dawning fourth millennium.

  Many other divisions were already in place, preparing

  to attack. We would be moving to reinforce them shortly.

  Two nights later, sure enough, we were put once more

  into trucks and transported to the south, towards the

  freezing southern uplands. We took up position, dug our-

  selves as deep as possible into the permafrost, concealed and ranged our grenade launchers. By now uncaring of

  what happened to me, made wretched by the physical cir-

  cumstances and rootless by the lack of mental cohesion, I 1 8 7

  C H R I S T O P H E R P R I E S T

  waited with the others in a mixture of fear and boredom.

  As I froze, I dreamed of hot islands.

  On clear days we could glimpse the peaks of the ice

  mountains close to the horizon, but there was no sign of

  enemy activity.

  Twenty days after we had taken up our positions in

  the frozen tundra we were ordered to retreat once more. It was now less than ten days to the millennium.

  We moved away, rushing to reinforce major skirmishes

  then said to be taking place by the coast. Reports of dead and wounded were horrifying but all was quiet by the

  time we arrived. We took up defensive lines along the

  cliffs. It was so familiar, this senseless repositioning, ma-noeuvring. I turned my back against the sea, not wanting

  to look northwards to where the unattainable islands lay.

  Only eight days remained until the dreaded anniver-

  sary of the war’s beginning and already we were taking

  delivery of more supplies of armour, ammunition and

  grenades than I had ever seen before. The tension in our

  ranks was insupportable. I was convinced that this time

  our generals were not bluffing, that real action was only days, perhaps hours, away.

  I sensed the closeness of the sea. If I was to discharge

  myself, the moment had arrived.

  That night I left my tent and skidded down the loose

  shale and gravel of the sloping cliff to the beach. My

  back pocket was stuffed with all the unspent army pay I

  had accumulated. In the ranks we always joked that the

  paper was worthless, but now I thought it might at last be useful. I walked until dawn, hid all day in the tough undergrowth that spread across the high ground behind the

  littoral, resting when I could. My unsleeping mind recited island names.

  1 8 8

  T H E D I S C H A R G E

  During the following night I managed to find a track

  worn by the tyres of trucks. I guessed it was used by the army so I followed it with immense care, taking cover at

  the first sign of any approaching traffic. I continued to travel by night, sleeping as I could by day.

  I was in poor physical condition by the time I reached

  one of the military ports. Although I had been able to

  find water I had eaten no food for four days. I was in

  every way exhausted and ready to turn myself in.

  Close to the harbour, in a narrow, unlit street, not at

  the first attempt but after several hours of risky searching, I found the building I was seeking. I reached the

  brothel not long before dawn, when business was slow

  and most of the whores were sleeping. They took me in,

  they immediately understood the gravity of my situation.

  They relieved me of all my army money.

  I remained hidden in the whorehouse for three days, re-

  gaining my strength. They gave me civilian clothes to

  wear—rather raffish, I thought, but I had no experience of the civilian world. I did not wonder how the women had

  come by them, or who else’s clothes they might once

  have been. In the long hours I was alone in my tiny bor-

  rowed room I would repeatedly try on my new clothes

  and hold a mirror at arm’s-length, admiring what I could

  see of myself in the limited compass of the glass. To be

  rid of the army fatigues at last, the thick, coarse fabric, the heavy webbing and the cumbersome patches of body

  armour, was like freedom in itself.

  Whores visited me nightly, taking turns.

  Early in the fourth night, the war’s millennial night,

  four of the whores, together with their male minder, took me down to the harbour. They rowed me a distance out to

  1 8 9

  C H R I S T O P H E R P R I E S T

  sea, where a motor-launch was waiting in the darkly

  heaving waters beyond the headland. There were no

  lights on the boat, but in the glow from the town I could see that there were already several other men aboard the

  launch. They too were rakishly dressed, with frilled shirts, slouching hats, golden bracelets, velveteen jackets. They rested their elbows on the rail and stared down towards

  the water with waiting eyes. None of them looked at me,

  or at each other. There were no greetings, no recogni-

  tions. Money changed hands, from the whores in my boat

  to two agile young men in dark clothes in the other. I was allowed to board.

  I squeezed into a position on the deck between other

  men, grateful for the warmth of the pressure against me.

  The rowing boat slipped away into the dark. I stared after it, regretting I could not remain with those young harlots.

  I was reminiscing already about their lithe, overworked

  bodies, their careless, eager skills.

  The launch waited in its silent position for the rest of

  the night, the crew taking on board more men at inter-

  vals, making them find somewhere to squeeze them-

  selves, handling the money. We remained silent, staring

  at the deck, waiting to leave. I dozed for a while, but

  every time more people came aboard we had to shift

  around to make room.

  They lifted the anchor before dawn and turned the

  boat out to sea. We were heavily loaded and running low

  in the water. Once we were away from the shelter of the

  headland we made heavy weather in the running swell,

  the bow of the launch crashing cumbersomely into the

  walls of the waves, taking on water with every lurching

  recovery. I was soon soaked through, hungry, frightened,

  exhausted, and desperate to reach solid land.

  1 9 0

  T H E D I S C H A R G E

  We headed north, shaking the salt water from our

  eyes. The litany of island names ran on ceaselessly in my mind, urging me to return.

  I escaped from the launch at the earliest opportunity,

  which was when we reached the first inhabited island. No

  one seemed to know which one it was. I went ashore in

  my rakish clothes, feeling shabby and dishevelled in spite of their stylish fit. The constant soakings in the boat had bleached most of the colour from the material, had

  stretched and shrunk the different kinds of the fabric. I had no money, no name, no past, no future.

  ‘What is this island called?’ I said to the first person I met, an elderly woman sweeping up refuse on the quay-side. She looked at me as if I was mad.

  ‘Steffer,’ she said.

  I had never heard of it.

  ‘Say the name again,’ I said.

  ‘Steffer, Steffer. You a discharger?’ I said nothing, so

  she grinned as if I had confirmed the information. ‘Steffer!’

  ‘Is that what you think I am, or is that the name of this island?’

  ‘Steffer!’ she said again, turning away from me.

  I muttered some thanks and stumbled away from her,

  into the town. I still had no idea where I was.

  I slept rough for a while, stealing food, begging for

  money, then met a whore who told me there was a hostel

  for the homeless which helped people to find jobs. Within a day I too was sweeping up refuse in the streets. It

  turned out that the island was called Keeilen, a place

  where many steffers made their first landfall.

  Winter came—I had not realized it was the autumn

  when I discharged myself. I managed to work my passage

  1 9 1

  C H R I S T O P H E R P R I E S T

  as a deckhand on a cargo ship sailing with supplies to the southern continent, but which, I heard, would be calling

  at some more northerly islands on the way. My informa-

  tion was true. I arrived on Fellenstel, a large island with a range of mountains that sheltered the inhabited northern

  side from the prevailing southern gales. I passed the winter in the mild airs of Fellenstel. I moved north again

  when spring came, stopping for different periods of time

  on Manlayl, Meequa, Emmeret, Sentier—none of these

  was in my litany, but I intoned them just the same.

  Gradually, my life was improving. Rather than sleep

  rough wherever I went I was usually able to rent a room

  for as long as I intended to stay on each island. I had

  learned that the whorehouses on the islands were a chain

  of contacts for dischargers, a place of resort, of help. I discovered how to find temporary jobs, how to live as

  cheaply as possible. I was learning the island patois,

  quickly adjusting my knowledge as I came across the dif-

  ferent argots that were used from one island to the next.

  No one would speak to me about the war except in the

  vaguest ways. I was often spotted as a steffer as soon as I landed somewhere, but the further north I moved and the

  warmer the weather became, the less this appeared to

  matter.

  I was moving through the Dream Archipelago, dream-

  ing of it as I went, imagining what island might come

  next, thinking it into an existence that held good so long as I required it.

  By this time I had operated the islands’ black market

  to obtain a map, which I had realized was perhaps hard-

  est kind of printed material to get hold of anywhere. My

  map was incomplete, many years old, faded and torn and

  the place and island names were written in a script I did 1 9 2

  T H E D I S C H A R G E

  not at first understand, but it was for all that a map of the part of the Archipelago where I was travelling.

  On the edge of the map, close to a torn area, there was

  a small island whose name I was finally able to decipher.

  It was Mesterline, one of the islands my unreliable mem-

  ory told me we had passed on the southward journey.

  Salay, Temmil, Mesterline, Prachous . . . it was part of

  the litany, part of the route that would lead me back to

  Muriseay.

  It took me another year of erratic travels to reach Mesterline. As soon as I landed I fell in love with the place: it was a warm island of low hills, broad valleys, wide meandering rivers and yellow beaches. Flowers grew every-

  where in a riot of effulgent colours. The buildings were

  constructed of white-painted brick and terra cotta tiles

  and they clustered on hilltops or against the steep sides of the cliffs above the sea. It was a rainy island: midway

  through most afternoons a brisk storm would sweep in

  from the west, drenching the countryside and the towns,

  running noisy rivulets through the streets. The Mester

  people loved these intense showers and would stand out

  in the streets or the public squares, their faces upturned and their arms raised, the rain coursing sensually through their long hair and drenching their flimsy clothes. Afterwards, as the hot sun returned and the ruts in the muddy

  streets hardened again, normal life would go on again.

  Everyone was happier after the day’s shower and began

  to get ready for the languid evenings that they passed in the open-air bars and restaurants.

  For the first time in my life (as I thought of it with my erratic memory), or for the first time in many years (as I suspected was the reality), I felt the urge to paint what I 1 9 3

  C H R I S T O P H E R P R I E S T

  saw. I was dazzled by light, by colour, by the harmony of places and plants and people.

  I spent the daylight hours wandering wherever I could,