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  Gaby McAslan’s heart is set on a career in network journalism, but when the brightside of Iapetus starts diminishing, and Hyperion disappears completely, her destiny is truly set. As the mysterious fate of Saturn’s moons draws her to London and fires her ambition, so a meteor drags her even further, across whole continents, to Kenya, the site of the Kilimanjaro Event. Where the meteor landed, the striking African landscape has given way to something equally beautiful—and indescribably alien.

  A little like a multi-coloured rain forest, a little like a drained coral reef, but mostly like nothing anyone has ever seen before, the alien flora deposited on Earth from the stars is spreading at a phenomenal rate.

  It’s dubbed the Chaga, in memory of the first of the African tribes to be engulfed and swallowed by the unceasing expansion. It destroys all plastics and man-made materials—and it moulds human flesh, bone and spirit to its own designs, as varied and as incomprehensible as the Chaga’s own multitude of forms.

  And when Gaby McAslan finds the first man to survive the Chaga’s changes, she realizes the Chaga has its own plans for humankind—and the face of the future is both terrifying and awesome…

  Chaga, a kaleidoscopic voyage through an alien landscape, right here on Earth, is Ian McDonald’s most powerful novel to date.

  CONTENTS

  Half-Title

  Also by Ian McDonald

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Preface

  A Tapestry of Stars

  African Nightflight

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  Buckyball Jungle

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  Finis Africae

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  Florida Storm Warning

  62

  63

  64

  65

  The Tree Where Man Was Born

  66

  Post face

  Extra Short-Story

  Toward Kilimanjaro

  About the Author

  CHAGA

  A Novel of Africa, Ambition,

  the Alien, and Football

  Also by Ian McDonald

  DESOLATION ROAD

  OUT ON BLUE SIX

  EMPIRE DREAMS

  KING OF MORNING, QUEEN OF DAY

  HEARTS, HANDS AND VOICES

  NECROVILLE

  First published in Great Britain 1995

  by Victor Gollancz

  An imprint of the Cassell Group

  Wellington House, 125 Strand, London WC2R 0BB

  © Ian McDonald 1995

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,

  electronic or mechanical including photocopying,

  recording or any information storage or retrieval system,

  without prior permission in writing from the publishers.

  The right of Ian McDonald to be identified as author

  of this work has been asserted by him in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  A catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library.

  ISBN 0 575 06052 2

  Typeset at The Spartan Press Ltd,

  Lymington, Hampshire

  Printed in Great Britain by

  St Edmundsbury Press Ltd,

  Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk

  Rachel Ellen Bankhead

  Preface

  Though this book shares the same setting, background and many of the same characters and situations as my 1990 novelette Towards Kilimanjaro, it is not a direct sequel to that story, but rather an expansion and refinement of its ideas. Readers of both may notice a number of seeming inconsistencies; these are deliberate; Towards Kilimanjaro should be read as a working prototype for this book.

  Thanks to CEM Computers, who saved a sizeable portion of this book from cybernetic nirvana (always back up. Always back up). Thanks also to Trisha for her inestimable help in the early stages of this work, and in all things.

  A Tapestry of Stars

  The light was almost gone now. Late summer purples lay across the Point’s heathlands and salt marshes. An edge of cumulus outlined the hills across the lough. The aircraft warning beacons on the television mast were blinking.

  The dogs went bounding out into the setting dark. Freed spirits. Primeval forces. Rabbits scattered for their sandy bolt-holes among the gorse roots. Horace was too old and arthritic to kill. He ran for the joy of running: while he still could run. The vet had diagnosed CMDR. The process was irreversible. The myelin sheaths of the lower spinal nerves would deteriorate until his hindquarters were paralysed. He would not be able to walk. He would piss himself. He would shit himself. Then, the one way ticket to the rubber-topped table. The girl hoped she would not have to be there for that.

  Until then, let them run. Let them hunt. Let them catch what they can, if they can.

  ‘Go Horace! Go Paddy!’ Gaby McAslan shouted. The dogs flew from her like twin thunderbolts, the big white and tan, the smaller black. Crossing a scent, they plunged into the dense gorse thickets, crashed about in the dry brown rustling spines of last summer’s growth.

  The hills of Antrim rose black against the indigo sky: Knockagh with its cenotaph; Carnmoney; Cave Hill that was said to have a profile like Napoleon’s, though Gaby had never been able to see it; Divis; Black Mountain. Belfast was a hemisphere of amber airglow at the head of the lough; grubby, phototoxic. Beneath the black hills a chain of yellow and white lights clung to the shore line. Fort William. Greenisland. Carrickfergus with its great Norman keep. Kilroot, Whitehead, ending with the pulse and flash of the lighthouse that marked the open sea. Its counterparts on Lighthouse Island at Donaghadee responded. There is a moment, one moment, her father had said, when all the beams flash as one. She had been watching the lights all her life and she never yet seen that moment of synchronicity.

  The sky seemed vast and high tonight, pierced by the first few stars. The summer triangle: Altair, Deneb, Vega. Arcturus descending, the guide star of the ancient Arab navigators. Sinbad’s star. Corona Borealis, the crown of summer. One of those soft jewels was a cluster of four hundred galaxies. Their light had travelled for a billion years to fall on Gaby McAslan. They receded from her skin at fifty thousand miles per second.

  Knowing their names and natures could take nothing from them. They were stars, remote, subject to laws and processes larger than human lifetimes. By their high and ancient light you saw the nature of your self. You were not the pinnacle of creation beneath a protecting veil of sky. You were a fierce, bright atom of selfhood, encircled by fire.

  The dogs came pl
unging from the gorse, panting, smiling, empty-jawed. She whistled them to her. The path turned along a ruinous dry stone wall past the marshy ground. Yellow flag and tattered bullrushes. Diamond-back tracks of mountain bikes in the dirt, but also the heavier tread of scramblers. Her father would not be pleased. Let people enjoy the Point by their own power, foot or pedal: that was the spirit he had tried to build for this place. The gobble of motorbike engines, the shriek of gear trains, shouted it down.

  Marky had never caught the thing about this place. He could not understand what a day smells like, or what it is to know you are tiny but brilliant beneath the appallingly distant stars. He left scrambler tracks on the world, or car tyres; not bicycle tread or bare footprints.

  She climbed the low, lichen-covered rocks and stood at the edge of the land. The dogs splashed and frolicked in a gravelly inlet, pretending to swim. Paddy, the small black one, ran in circles with a kelp stalk in his mouth, inviting Gaby to play. Later. She breathed in the air. Sea-salt, dead things desiccating on the shore, the sweet land-smells of gorse and bog iris, the scent of earth that has soaked in the heat and light of the day and, in the twilight, gently exhales.

  Down at the edge of the sea she built a ring of stones and set a small fire in it. It was a cardinal sin on the Point, but the warden’s daughter should be permitted some licence. She sat on a rock and fed driftwood to the flames. Bleached branches, slabs of old fishboxes tarry and studded with nails, pieces of forklift pallet and old cork fishing floats. The wood popped and crackled. Sparks showered up into the scented night.

  ‘No, I’d rather not, not tonight, Marky,’ she had told him on the phone. The video-compression chip amplified his facial movements. Gaby always thought of silent movie actors. Heavy, heavy make-up; big, big expressions. Love. Hate. Fear. Rejection. Marky’s emotions matched his videophone face; that was the problem. ‘I have to think. I need some time for me; just for me. No one else. I have to get distant from everything and maybe then I can look back and see what I want to do. Do you understand?’

  She knew that all he understood was that saying no to him on a Sunday night was saying no to him forever. He already had her going up the steps to the aeroplane.

  The dogs came to stand by her. Water dripped from stalactites of belly hair. They were panting. They wanted her to give them a task to do.

  ‘Sorry lads. In a minute, right? Go off and kill something yourselves.’

  Out to sea black guillemots skimmed the water, calling to each other in fluting, querulous voices.

  They had refused to let her sleep late the day the results came out. First her father, back from his dawn survey of his little kingdom, with tea that she let go cold. Then the dogs, cold noses under warm duvet, heavy paws on ribs. Then the cats, fighting for a place between her breasts. Last of all, Reb pulling the corner of the quilt, shouting come on come on, you have to go and see.

  The old school is strange when you are no longer a part of it. Its rooms and corridors are suddenly smaller than you remember. The staff you meet are subtly changed; no longer authority figures, but fellow survivors. She had not wanted to open the slim brown envelope in front of her friends. In the privacy of her father’s wreck of a Saab she had unfolded the single sheet of paper. The grades were good. More than good enough for the Network Journalism course. And that was perhaps worse than them not being good enough because now she would have to decide between going to London and staying.

  Rebecca and Hannah had respectively hugged and shrugged. Her father had popped a bottle of real champagne he had bought on faith. His long-term girlfriend, Sonya, who was too wise to move into a house so full of women, came to the celebration meal. Marky too. Everyone had been certain she would go to England, except Marky, and herself.

  Her fire was burned down to red coals crusted with powdery white ash.

  Marky. He had a job in a bank. He had a Ford. He had money when everyone else was broke. He had good, expensive clothes, he had just-past-fashionable music and machinery far too impressive for it to play on. In winter he played hockey, in summer he wind-surfed. In either season he expected his girlfriends to stand back and admire him. Some day he would have a beautiful house and a beautiful wife and beautiful children and a life as dead dead dead as that empty crab husk lying claws-up on the gravel beach.

  Gaby flicked the dead crab into the fire. Its chitinous shell squeaked and hissed, its legs curled up and withered in flame.

  Marky imagined that thrice-weekly fumbles with her bra strap and a condom dropped out of the car window could hold her back from London and Network Journalism. He was a fool. It never had been a man that would keep her here. She had made him an excuse. It was this place, this Point she had known all her life, in all its seasons and climates. It was the thick walls of the Watchhouse on its promontory, watching over land and sea and the lives those walls contained. It was the golden light of rare autumn days; it was the silver frost on the dead brown bracken on January mornings; it was the shudder of the little headland beneath the storm waves when the wind seemed to push at the house like a pair of huge hands and got inside through crannies and vents to blow the carpet up like a heavy green sea. It was the little beaches on the seaward sides of the low islets known only to those who have paddled through the shallow tidal lagoons. It was being rooted in the land. It was the fear that her strength came from the physical presence of place and house and people and separated from them she would become pale and transparent. An un-person.

  ‘There are two, and only two, ultimate fears,’ her father had told her one September storm-night with the wind bowing in the window glass. ‘The annihilation of solitude or the annihilation of the crowd. We lose our identities if we are alone with no one to reflect us back on ourselves and tell us we exist, we are worth something, or we lose our identities if we are in a mass of others; anonymous, corporate, overwhelmed by the babble.’

  Gaby was old enough to understand that hers was the fear of the annihilation of the crowd. In solitude, in this place among the elements, she existed. To go would be to join the mass. That was the nature of her dilemma.

  ‘Give me a sign,’ she said. Insects whirred. She flicked them away from her face and long, straight mahogany hair. So many stars. The dark-adapted eye can see four thousand stars on a clear night. A constellation crossed heaven: an aircraft, following the line of the coast in to the City Airport.

  It was not a sign.

  A cluster of lights moved against the far side of the lough. A night-ferry, decks aglow.

  It was not a sign either.

  Saturn and its moons were still under the horizon, beyond the hills of Scotland. That was the thing that most exemplified Marky. Mysteries that would inspire anyone with a functioning sense of wonder were happening out there. To Marky they were too far away, too small to be seen with the naked eye: irrelevant. How many times had she told him he had no soul? The biggest question occupying him was whether Gaby would let him get his hand down the front of her jeans. She felt pity for people who were never touched by things greater than themselves.

  ‘Come on, dogs.’ They appeared out of the darkness, eager for something to be happening at last. ‘We’re going back.’

  She poured yellow sand over the embers of her fire and walked back to the house beneath the brilliant stars. The dogs went streaking out before her, catching the scent of home.

  In the living room that looked out over the harbour, Reb was curled comfortably on the sofa, half-watching the Sunday night sports results on the television while she stitched at her tapestry. It was a monumental work: a map of the zodiac eight feet long. Cats purred, nested in the blue and gold folds of Capricorn and Aries. She had been at it six months, it would take another six to complete at her rate of a sign per month. Gaby admired her youngest sister’s dedication to long, exacting tasks. In many ways, Rebecca was the best of them.

  ‘Two nil,’ Reb said without looking up from the needlepoint. ‘They lost.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Gaby McAslan.r />
  ‘Marky left a message on the machine.’

  ‘Double shit. I’m making coffee. You want?’

  ‘Hannah’s in the kitchen tacklin’ with one of her wee Christian boyfriends.’

  ‘Thrice shit. Dad?’

  ‘Upstairs, trying to get a look at what’s going on out at Saturn.’

  ‘Anything about it?’

  ‘Some boffins on the news just now with some new theory or something. I’d be more bothered about two nil.’

  ‘Season’s young yet.’

  ‘Gab.’

  She stopped, hand on the door-frame where all their heights had been scratched indelibly with a steel ruler and pair of dividers.

  ‘You should have better than Marky. Dump him before he dumps you.’

  Strange, wise child. Four years separated them, but Gaby was more kin to Reb than Hannah, the middle sister who had spent most of her life on a long and solitary search for belonging. Playgroup, Gym Club, Brownies, Guides, school choirs, sports teams, and now a multitude of little Christian groups that kept her running from meeting to meeting. Sound theology, Gaby thought. If they stay too long in one place they might start having ideas about sex.

  What would the small-group leaders have to say about the mystery out at Iapetus? Something to do with the end of the world, probably.

  The Watchhouse was the best kind of house in which to grow up. It had enough windings and twinings and crannyings for privacy and enough openings to the seascapes outside to draw you out when you felt you were curling in on yourself. These qualities met in the Weather Room. Tradition in the village was that each generation of occupants add something permanent to the Watchhouse. The previous resident had built the new dining room that smelled of beeswaxed wood panelling and had views on its three sides of harbour, headland and open sea. The current resident had put his contribution directly on top of it. It was a kind of conservatory-cum-observatory-cum-study-cum-wizard’s den. Glass walls gave unparalleled panoramas of the coastline on both sides of the lough. You felt like you were standing on the bridge of a stone ship with waves breaking on your rocky bows. In autumn the storm spray would drench the windows and the wind would howl under the eaves and wrench at the chimney pots and satellite dish and then you were Vanderdecken flying forever with his crew of the damned into the eye of the eternal hurricane.