Across The Wall Part 8

'Abbas and Joshua were in their house when the first rock struck. They knew they couldn't go out, so they climbed down a ladder into a cave. There was a secret tunnel from the cave that came out beyond the city walls. But while they were still in the cave, a really big rock hit directly above them!'

Joshua took a sharp intake of breath. His eyes were huge, staring at Abbas, waiting for what happened next.

'The cave collapsed all around the two boys. They were trapped.'

'What happened then?'

'Then . . .' Abbas began, but he couldn't go on. His mouth trembled and he felt tears start in his eyes. 'Then . . .'

'Then Charlie Rabbit came back,' said Joshua, eagerly taking over the story. 'Charlie Rabbit smelled the boys in the tunnel, and he dugged them up. Then Charlie Rabbit jumped over to the giants and he kicked them with his big foots. Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! The giants ran away and everyone was happy and Charlie Rabbit ate a carrot.' The giants ran away and everyone was happy and Charlie Rabbit ate a carrot.'

Abbas nodded.

'Yes . . . that was what happened.'

'I'm going to sleep now,' announced Joshua. He dragged one of the old blankets out of the box and curled up on it. 'Wake me up when Charlie Rabbit comes to dig us out.'

'I will,' said Abbas. He felt truly helpless. If only there were a secret tunnel, or a real Charlie Rabbit . . .

Secret tunnel. Another way out.

Abbas remembered what his father had said. There was was another way out. The shelter backed onto the old ice chute, which had been used long ago to slide the ice blocks from the street down to the cellar. another way out. The shelter backed onto the old ice chute, which had been used long ago to slide the ice blocks from the street down to the cellar.

Abbas took a deep breath, then coughed it away. There was too much dust for deep breaths. Or maybe the air was running out. He took a shallower breath and edged around Joshua to the back of the shelter. The wall there looked just like the hard clay of the other walls.

Abbas tapped it and was rewarded with a hollow sound. He let out a sobbing half laugh and started to sc.r.a.pe. There was a wooden hatch behind the clay, one so rotten that it crumbled at his touch. Abbas attacked it eagerly, pulling at the wood in a frenzy, ignoring the splinters.

There was a narrow chute beyond the hatch. Abbas crawled a little way up it, then looked back at Joshua, marveling at his little brother's ability to sleep. Should he wake him? Or should he make sure the chute was clear all the way to the street? Abbas hesitated, then edged back down. As he backed into the shelter again, he heard Joshua sit up. And there was another noise, something rustling in the debris. A sound he couldn't quite place.

'Abbas! It's wet!'

It took Abbas a second to turn around in the confined s.p.a.ce. By the time he could see, he could already feel the water around his ankles. It was freezing cold, and rising very quickly.

Broken water pipe. Maybe a big one. A water main. We have to get out!

'It's okay, Josh,' Abbas said quickly. He picked up the lantern and showed Joshua the entrance. 'I've found the tunnel. The secret tunnel. You go up first. Quickly.'

Joshua scrambled up into the ice chute. Still sleepy, he didn't pick up Charlie Rabbit. Abbas started after him but at the last moment grabbed the rabbit. Joshua would want it for sure, later.

Water burbled around Abbas's knees as he climbed up into the chute. It was rising very quickly, far too quickly. Abbas pushed at Joshua's legs to make him go faster.

'Hurry up!'

They crawled up at least thirty feet, with the water always lapping at Abbas's feet, sometimes even catching up to his knees. Joshua's speed varied, and Abbas had to keep pus.h.i.+ng at him.

Then Joshua stopped altogether and let out a howl of protest as Abbas shoved at his legs.

'What's wrong? Keep going!'

'Can't,' said Joshua.

Abbas shone the light up. He could see the top hatch. But it was broken and hanging down, and where the open air should be, there was a huge slab of concrete, its reinforcing wires hanging down like severed tree roots.

It was the roof of the bus shelter from across the street. It must have been blown off and come straight down on the ice chute exit. Now there really was no way out.

Abbas twisted around. The water was slowly swirling around his thighs. Cold, dark water, constantly rising.

'Lie on your side,' instructed Abbas. Joshua rolled over, and Abbas crawled up next to him. They could both just fit that way, though it was a squeeze. Charlie Rabbit was once again between them, and Joshua gratefully grabbed his ears.

Abbas worked the lantern around and shone it on the concrete slab that blocked their way. There was a small gap in one corner, not much larger than a softball. Abbas reached out and tried to crumble the concrete edges, but that only made his fingers bleed.

'Can . . . can you fit through there?' Abbas asked his brother hopefully. The water was up to his knees again, despite the extra yards he'd gained by moving next to Joshua.

Joshua shook his head. The gap was far too small.

Abbas put his hand against the wall. He couldn't feel any explosions. The missile strike must be over. The civil defense teams would be out. But how could he attract their attention quickly enough? They'd be drowned in ten or twenty minutes.

'Help!' he shouted, the word leaping out of his mouth almost without him thinking about it. Joshua flinched at the noise. 'Help!'

The sound echoed back from the concrete and the rising water, but Abbas knew it had not penetrated aboveground. No one could hear him.

'I'm cold,' whimpered Joshua. 'It's wet.'

'I'm trying to get help,' said Abbas. 'I'm trying- 'Charlie Rabbit-'

'Shut up about Charlie Rabbit!' screamed Abbas. He grabbed the rabbit and pulled its ears apart, trying to rip it in his desperate anger. 'Charlie Rabbit is a toy!'

Joshua started to sob again-deep, wracking sobs that shook his whole body.

Abbas stopped pulling Charlie Rabbit's ears and stared at its big-eyed, long-nosed, furry face. Charlie Rabbit was a toy. A very fancy toy.

'Ssshhh, it's okay,' Abbas said more gently. 'I'm sorry. Charlie Rabbit is going to help us.'

Joshua's sobs became a sniffle.

'He is?'

'He is,' confirmed Abbas. He tore off a long piece of wood from the broken hatch and propped it against the gap in the concrete block. Then he opened the panel on the back of Charlie Rabbit. 'Only we have to sit in the dark for a while, because Charlie needs the batteries from the lantern. Can you be brave for Charlie Rabbit?'

'Yes . . .'

Abbas set Charlie down between them, turned off the lantern, and took out the carefully h.o.a.rded batteries one at a time.

One slip now, one battery dropped down the chute . . . I must concentrate . . . this has to work . . .

He got the batteries in, slid the switch to 'maximum,' and closed the panel. Would Charlie still work? Even if he did, would it help? The water was up to his waist now, and it was so cold, he couldn't feel his legs anymore.

'Joshua,' he whispered. 'Feel for Charlie. Twist his nose.'

He heard Joshua move. Then there was a sudden light and a burst of sound. Charlie Rabbit twitched, and his eyes shone with a deep, bright-green glow; his paws went up and down, and his internal speaker began to hum.

Abbas pushed Charlie Rabbit into the gap above, then used the broken timber to shove the toy through, into the open air. As it emerged, the rabbit started to sing its trademark song: 'Hoppity, hoppity, hoppity me, I'm as happy as I can be. Carrot, lettuce, radishes, too, I'm Charlie Rabbit, how do you do? Hoppity, hoppity, hoppity through, Let's all be happy, too-'

The song suddenly stopped.

Abbas waited, holding his breath, hoping that he would hear the stupid song start again, or someone call out to them, or something. But there was nothing. The chill water was up under his arms, rising even more swiftly now.

'Joshua,' said Abbas quietly, 'crawl up as far as you can and put your face against that hole. Pull your legs up, out of the water.'

'Charlie Rabbit will get help,' said Joshua confidently as he curled into a small ball.

'Yes,' said Abbas in the darkness. He closed his eyes and let his head rest on the ground, close to the water that was caressing his neck. He was so cold now, he couldn't really care what happened. 'Charlie Rabbit will get help.'

'Hoppity, hoppity, hoppity through, Let's all be happy, too,' sang Joshua. 'Hoppity, hoppity . . . Abbas!'

'What?'

'Look, Abbas! Light!'

Abbas opened his eyes. The concrete block was rising up, rising into the air. Harsh, white electric light spilled down the chute, so bright he had to s.h.i.+eld his eyes. Hands came reaching down to take Joshua, and then Abbas was lifted out himself, water spilling out onto the street behind him. Loud voices were all around him, shouting, asking questions, too much noise for Abbas to make any sense of it, save for one small voice that cut through everything. Joshua's voice, shrill in the night.

'Charlie! I want my Charlie Rabbit!'

FROM THE LIGHTHOUSE.

INTRODUCTION TO FROM THE LIGHTHOUSE.

BOTH MY MEMORY AND MY RECORDS ARE rather blank on this story. I thought I wrote it specifically for the 1998 anthology rather blank on this story. I thought I wrote it specifically for the 1998 anthology Fantastic Worlds Fantastic Worlds (edited by Paul Collins), but when I checked the copyright date for 'From the Lighthouse,' I found it was 1996, and all the other stories were 1998. Which suggests the story appeared somewhere else first, and I do have a faint niggling memory that it did see print somewhere obscure before being collected in (edited by Paul Collins), but when I checked the copyright date for 'From the Lighthouse,' I found it was 1996, and all the other stories were 1998. Which suggests the story appeared somewhere else first, and I do have a faint niggling memory that it did see print somewhere obscure before being collected in Fantastic Worlds. Fantastic Worlds.

This completely destroys my explanation of the origins of the story. When I thought it first appeared in Fantastic Worlds, Fantastic Worlds, I was going to say that I must have started with landscape because of the anthology t.i.tle, with the idea of an island in the ice, protected by a Summer Field. I'm pretty certain that the setting came first, and some of the details of the place and its people, but it can't have been sparked by the anthology t.i.tle. I was going to say that I must have started with landscape because of the anthology t.i.tle, with the idea of an island in the ice, protected by a Summer Field. I'm pretty certain that the setting came first, and some of the details of the place and its people, but it can't have been sparked by the anthology t.i.tle.

This is one of my notionally science fiction stories, in that it features technology and some vague explanation of that technology, but it still has the feel of fantasy. Perhaps it is science fantasy, a handy label for one of the many borderlands of the overlapping genres. I've never written any 'hard' science fiction, in which the science can bear rigorous examination or is a real extrapolation of current knowledge. I'd like to think that this is not just laziness and a lack of intellectual stamina, but rather a love of story, which always is paramount to me. Having to make the science work as well as everything else just seems too hard. I like to read it, though, which suggests that I am actually just lazy.

I suspect that I originally intended to revisit this setting in another story, and I do have a faint recollection of jotting down some notes about the island and its people. But those notes are lost, seemingly like everything else related to 'From the Lighthouse,' apart from a few letters having to do with Fantastic Worlds Fantastic Worlds. But as I haven't revisited the oasis island of Lisden for about a decade, I guess it can wait until I find a story welling up out of my subconscious that wants or needs to be set there, at which time I can reinvent everything I made up before.

FROM THE LIGHTHOUSE.

1. ARRIVAL.

EVERY ONE GATHERED AT THE WHARF when the gold-hulled ice cruiser docked. Not because they'd been told to, though some people thought there had been some sort of instruction, or invitation. It was simply curiosity. when the gold-hulled ice cruiser docked. Not because they'd been told to, though some people thought there had been some sort of instruction, or invitation. It was simply curiosity.

The Kranu hunters had met the yacht some five relgues offsh.o.r.e and, finding the Kranu refusing to rise through the hot holes and the day dull, had formed up around it as an escort. The villagers, seeing the hunters skating in two lines on either side of a great vessel with sun-colored sails, had naturally come to see the hunters' prize.

Marcus Kilman saw it quite differently. From the p.o.o.p of the Mercurial Gadfly Mercurial Gadfly he waved left-handed, in the manner of a ruler to newfound va.s.sals. His right hand crept finger by finger between the b.u.t.tons of his crisp white suit. In his gold-heeled boots he was five foot one, and thanks to a nightly exercise with lead sinkers his earlobes were almost pendulous enough to be handsome. he waved left-handed, in the manner of a ruler to newfound va.s.sals. His right hand crept finger by finger between the b.u.t.tons of his crisp white suit. In his gold-heeled boots he was five foot one, and thanks to a nightly exercise with lead sinkers his earlobes were almost pendulous enough to be handsome.

When the Mercurial Gadfly Mercurial Gadfly finished tying up at the wharf that poked out of the island's Summer Field into the ice, the crew paraded on the foredeck, the ex-Senatorial Navy bosun plying his whistle in what Kilman believed to be a salute, but was actually the opening bars of the theme from the comic opera finished tying up at the wharf that poked out of the island's Summer Field into the ice, the crew paraded on the foredeck, the ex-Senatorial Navy bosun plying his whistle in what Kilman believed to be a salute, but was actually the opening bars of the theme from the comic opera The Great Kranu from the Deep. The Great Kranu from the Deep. As always, the crew smirked solemnly, laughter submerged in hacking coughs. Kilman frequently had his Bonesman check them for lung rot or throat curse. He was afraid of any kind of infection, physical or intellectual. The Bonesman never found either sort aboard Kilman's s.h.i.+p. As always, the crew smirked solemnly, laughter submerged in hacking coughs. Kilman frequently had his Bonesman check them for lung rot or throat curse. He was afraid of any kind of infection, physical or intellectual. The Bonesman never found either sort aboard Kilman's s.h.i.+p.

Kilman descended from the p.o.o.p, reappearing at the gangway. The waiting crowd of islanders, silent out of politeness rather than awe, pleased him immensely. Respect! At last he had found somewhere untainted by egalitarian ideals. He would be king, and they would be his peasantry.

'People of Lisden!' he declaimed, his voice breaking pitch like a badly blown trumpet. 'I am Marcus Kilman, and I have purchased this island. I am your new owner.'

The islanders greeted this disclosure with equanimity. Kilman had allocated ten seconds for rapturous applause but resumed speaking after only six seconds of embarra.s.sing silence.

'People of Lisden! I will bring you a new era of peace and prosperity, lower taxes, and good government.'

This provoked a reaction of sorts. A murmur ran through the audience like a water spider skidding from lily to lily or, in this case, from each mainland speaker in the crowd. Lisden already had peace; as much prosperity as they could handle without having greed; taxes were nonexistent, as the Kranu cooperative provided all services from its profits (if any); and the only government was the board of the cooperative, which included every adult islander. Theoretically, there was a mainland government department that looked after their affairs, and the Humble and Obedient Senate of the People beyond that, but both had lost the Lisden file years ago, and consequently denied the island's existence.

Kilman saw this reaction as suppressed joy at the good news, and was about to launch into further grandiose announcements when a woman stepped out of the crowd and onto the gangplank. She was much younger than Kilman-but the sort of woman who could be anywhere between sixteen and thirty and very striking in looks and stature. She was at least six foot two, and looked taller in her plain black dress, with a long silver scarf draped over one shoulder like an arrow, emphasizing her height.

'Sir,' she said, in Mainland so untainted by accent that it was clearly not her native tongue. 'May I ask from whom you purchased this island?'

'Why, little lady,' Kilman answered, looking down on her from the high end of the gangplank, hoping she wouldn't come up any farther, 'I purchased this island from the Lisden Fish Export Company, for the sum of one point seven five million gold bezants.'

'Ah,' said the woman, who knew that the Lisden Fish Export Company had been superseded by the Lisden Fish Enterprise Cooperative one hundred seventy-six years ago, and so couldn't sell anybody anything. She turned and spoke briefly to the crowd in their native tongue, explaining that the poor short man with the badly fitting toupee was a crazy millionaire who'd been the victim of a confidence trickster. They should humour him, provided it was not too difficult. Spare him embarra.s.sment, she asked. Be kind, and in due course we will tell him the truth about his purchase.

The crowd nodded, waved, or spoke their agreement and dispersed, laughing and talking among themselves. Kilman watched his audience disappear, disgruntlement showing in the folds of flesh about his mouth.

'Why are they going?' he snapped. 'I didn't say that they could go.'

'They're going to prepare a proper welcome for our new owner,' the woman invented, seeing that he was quite hurt, and a little angry.

She felt sorry for him, having to wrap an ego the size of the legendary Great Kranu Hunter of Remm in flesh not much bigger than the Kranu lures the hunters put down the hot holes. She took a few steps back down the gangplank and slumped a little.

'Who are you anyway?' the proud owner of Lisden asked as she retreated. He suddenly felt an interest in her now, even an incipient fondness. She wasn't as arrogant-looking as he'd first thought.

'My name is . . . in Mainland, you would say Malletta, or Maryen . . . even perhaps Margon.'

'Okay, Margalletta,' said Kilman, who only ever remembered numbers properly. 'Why don't you get hold of a wheeler and show me over my new property?'

'It would be my pleasure,' replied Margalletta (as she was now resigned to being named). She slumped a little more, and gripped the rail of the gangplank as if overcome by weakness.

2. SIGHTSEEING.

Wheelers-and their theoretically impossible system of motivation that relied on a refusal to rotate at the same speed as the planet-had not arrived in Lisden. There was a steam car instead, a two-hundred-year-old vehicle of doubtful provenance. It had been locally repaired several times, so the panel work, while distinctive, was no longer representative of any particular manufacturer. Similarly, any badges, ornamental exhausts, or hood ornaments it might once have had were long gone. A stuffed parrot hung from the khat-catcher at the front of the boiler, but this was clearly not a factory-issue embellishment.

Margalletta sat, or rather slumped, behind the wheel. Kilman sat in the back. Instead of leather upholstery he had a fringed carpet. Margalletta told him this was a local tradition-the island's ruler always had such a carpet: lining a chariot; as a saddle blanket for horse or camel; or under the howdah of an elephant. Kilman was pleased by this image, unable to discern that it was a complete fabrication. The only elephants or camels ever seen on Lisden appeared in several very old books.

For all its odd appearance, the steam car was mechanically sound. Once it had built up sufficient pressure for the safety valve to scream alarmingly, Margalletta engaged all six drive wheels and shot off up the road, taking the corners that switch-backed up the island's central mountain with considerable elan, choosing whichever side of the road took her fancy.

Kilman, enquiring about road safety in a voice of bl.u.s.tering, ill-concealed fear, was informed that this was the only vehicle, and everyone knew she was taking him up the mountain. So there was no danger from horse-drawn vehicles or the occasional camel. Oh yes, the ceremonial camels had bred in the wild . . .

Kilman kept his nose perpendicular to the window. Looking for camels, but also seeing the deep blue-grey-green of the sea suddenly meeting the blue sheen of ice; the picturesque fis.h.i.+ng village nestled at the apex of a triangular bay; the orange and lemon orchards rising up the terraced slopes. All of it safely maintained by the Summer Field that made this oasis possible amid the vast sea of ice that had sprung up millennia ago as the result of a misguided application of a Winter Field. The ancient savants who had invented both were very successful at starting the fields, and phenomenally unsuccessful at turning them off.