In the Land of Men

Chapter 1: The Interview Sawyer walked along the dirt road, absent-mindedly kicking at pebbles while wondering what to expect. He could see Bergman’s house up ahead, or rather the wooden roof, just visible above the tall grass which grew along the roadside. His heart began to quicken, although he couldn’t say why. Bergman was an old man, the oldest man in the township, in fact, just a few months’ shy of his hundredth birthday. Despite the front gate hanging off its hinges, the garden on the other side was remarkable. It was late spring. Every bloom was bursting with colour and fragrance. Smooth, round river rocks in various shades of grey bordered each section of the garden. In the far corner to his left was a large magnolia tree, and jasmine grew entwined in the lattice work which covered parts of the front verandah. He climbed the wooden steps and walked to the front door. Taking a deep breath, he knocked and then stepped back. All the while his heart was pounding. He waited a moment and when the door didn’t open, he knocked again. This time he could hear footsteps scuffing towards him. “You must be Sawyer,” said Bergman, opening the door wider. “Come in.” “Yes, sir. Pleased to meet you.” Sawyer proffered his hand for Bergman to shake, but Bergman had already turned away. “Pull the door shut after you,” said the old man as he shuffled back down the hallway. Sawyer had expected his subject to look decrepit, balder, and bent. But Bergman was tanned and had only a few wrinkles. He still had a full head of hair with just a dusting of grey at the sides, and he walked with a straight back, albeit at a pace which meant Sawyer had to take smaller steps than he usually would. “Sit down, lad,” said Bergman as they entered the kitchen at the back of the house. “Would you like a tea or a juice?” “Just water, thank you, sir,” Sawyer replied. Bergman got a glass from one of the cupboards and walked across to the pump. “And call me Bergman. ‘Sir’ makes me sound old.” He chuckled to himself as he pumped some fresh spring water into the glass. He handed the glass to Sawyer and sat down opposite him. “So you want to interview me?” he said, getting right to the point. “I’m not sure why. Mine has hardly been an exceptional life.” Sawyer smiled. “I disagree,” he said, putting his glass down. He leaned forward slightly, bringing himself closer to Bergman. “You’ve been around a long time. You were born not fifty years after the…” He paused. “…the Final War.” Bergman nodded solemnly. “That’s true.” His expression brightened. “So how are we going to do this? Are you going to ask me questions? I’ve been thinking a lot about my life since you first put the idea to me, and I have to say some things are hazy, but I’ve no doubt bits and pieces will come back to me as I talk. I’ve surprised myself by what I’ve managed to recall already.” Sawyer reached into his woven raffia bag and took out a collection of handmade paper, which looked more like parchment, some ink and a pen. “I was thinking…” He removed the black ribbon binding his paper. “…perhaps I could ask a couple of questions…” After removing the lid of the ink pot, he dipped the nib of his pen in then held it in readiness to write. “…to get you started and you could go on from there. Unhindered.” Bergman lowered his eyelids and gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Shall we start?” Sawyer asked. Bergman nodded. “I’ll just get some details first.” He dipped the nib of the pen into the ink pot once more. “Could I confirm your age? I don’t mean to be rude. It’s….” Bergman held up a hand. “It’s okay. At my age there’s little point in being bashful. I’m ninety-nine years and eight months old. I was born on August the twenty-first, two-thousand and twenty-five.” Sawyer made a note of the date. “And can you tell me your earliest memory?” Bergman’s gaze wandered to a far corner of the room then returned to Sawyer. “My mother. Sad to say but I can hardly remember her. I have a vague memory of a very loving person with long dark hair. I remember going to school in a hut by the beach, and being surrounded by women. I always felt loved and nurtured. I don’t remember anyone in particular, just ghosts of people.” He paused a moment then chuckled quietly to himself. “I do remember my first day at school and how much fun I had until I noticed my mother walking away.” “Did you cry?” Bergman furrowed his brow. “What a question.” His expression softened. “I don’t think I did. I remember a moment of panic when I realised she was leaving me, but the new surroundings and all the activity going on soon distracted me.” Sawyer wrote furiously, careful not to leave a single word unrecorded. “I remember…” said Bergman. “I remember the journey here, to the Land of Men, when I was eleven or twelve. Like every other male, I was separated forever from my mother just before puberty.” “And why was that?” The crease between Bergman’s eyebrows returned. “You know very well, lad,” he replied in a tone of annoyance. “The same reason you and every other man here was separated from their mothers and sisters.” Sawyer stopped writing. “I’m sorry. I should’ve explained. Occasionally I’ll be asking you a few things we both know the answer to, for continuity.” Bergman shrugged. “If you wish.” He shifted in his chair. “Now where was I?” “The reason for your separation from…” “That’s right,” Bergman interrupted. “Shortly after the Final War, after life began to return to some semblance of normality, it was decided, by the Council of Sisters that they would secede from the male population for ever more.” “And what was the purpose of that secession?” Bergman frowned again and looked about ready to get up from his chair. “I thought you came here to interview me about my life.” “But as I said…” “I know, I know. Continuity. It seems ridiculous you asking me all this when you could write it yourself.” “Bergman, if the story is to be authentic, to have a single voice, it all has to come from you. I could add bits of information here and there, but that would disrupt the flow.” Bergman began nodding impatiently. “All right. All right.” He ran the palm of his hand down the length of his face. “Let’s see. I feel like I’m about to give a history lesson.” He cleared his throat. “The Final War very nearly was the final war. There weren’t many survivors, just small pockets of people scattered here and there. In protest, the Council of Sisters declared that since the male of the species was so aggressive and violent, and since they enjoyed wars and fighting so much, they would no longer have any part of it. They moved, en masse, to the islands in the north and men were prohibited to go anywhere near them. Except, of course, for one week a year when a small handful of the fittest and healthiest males are able to journey there for reproductive purposes.” Sawyer wrote as fast as he could, noting down, to the best of his ability, Bergman’s exact words. “All that we have of our mothers is our name and, if you’re young, your memories.” Sawyer finished writing. “Thank you, Bergman. Can we continue on from your arrival in the Land of Men?”