Pallahaxi

by Michael Coney

  “Didn’t you see the list? It was posted at the temple. Silverjack was one of the poor souls lost when the Ysabel sank. He never stood a chance. It was a terrible affair.”

  My heart was thumping now, and my palms were moist. As the din of the truck hammered nearer I turned to him, staring into his face and getting ready to jump from the motorcart. This was it; this was when I made the final break with the Parls, with my mother and father, with the whole freezing murdering lot of them. He saw it in my face and there was no friendship in his eyes now, no avuncular condescension. I opened my mouth to denounce him when his eyes slid past mine, widening as he stared back down the hill.

  “What’s happening? Get away from the cart, boy! Quickly!”

  We scrambled from the motorcart as the driver of the truck leaped from his seat and rolled in the dirt at our feet. Some distance away, surging up the hill, came a large mob, silent and purposeful. The driverless truck hammered past us; I turned and saw it puffing on but slowing now, swerving to one side of the road with a grinding of metal wheels, lurching to a halt in a ditch.

  The driver had jumped to his feet and was clutching at Mestler’s sleeve with a deformed hand. “Let’s get out of here!” he yelled. It was Grope.

  “What’s going on?”

  “The truck!” he cried. “She’s going to blow! I did my best, Mestler; by Phu I did my best. I got her out of the town.”

  With one backward glance at the ominously smouldering steam truck we ran down towards the town, halting behind the reassuring bulk of a public heater. We were immediately joined by the townsfolk storming up the hill from the opposite direction. Strongarm was in the lead; he seized Grope by the arm. “Do you realize you’ve injured at least three people back there driving like a maniac?”

  “The safety valve jammed, coming down the cliff road,” explained Grope, almost in tears. “I was already into the town and the pressure was rising fast. I had to keep going. I had to get through the town before she blew! I risked my own life, can’t you understand?”

  Strongarm’s expression was grim. “If anyone dies, then your life wasn’t worth risking,” he said quietly. He stared up the hill; some two hundred paces away steam drifted from the abandoned truck with deceptive quietness. She was a wood-burner; there was nothing anyone could do except wait while the furnace blazed and the pressure built. If she had been fired by distil like the motorcart, the burners could have been shut down and the truck might have been saved. We watched in silence.

  “At least she was on the return trip to the cannery,” someone said. “She’ll be empty. The only loss will be the truck.”

  “Let’s hope that’s all,” said Strongarm ominously.

  Grope was trembling violently, completely transformed from the self-possessed and opinionated oaf whom I’d known before. Sweat was trickling down his thick neck, leaving pink channels in the grime. His fatty breasts quivered. “Let’s get out of here!” he wailed suddenly. “We’re too close!”

  Mestler was looking old and defeated. He had been silent for some time, watching Strongarm. At last he spoke. “I think it would be better if you sent these people back to their homes, Strongarm,” he said quietly. “We don’t want anyone else injured when she explodes. I’d be extremely grateful if you dispersed the crowd.”

  At first Strongarm looked surprised; then his eyes narrowed. “That’s all right, Mestler,” he said. “We’ll take the chance. I’m sure the townsfolk will think it’s worth the risk, to see a Parl truck blow.”

  Ribbon arrived but her father was too busy scrutinizing the truck to notice. I told her what was happening and her eyes widened in excitement. “Browneyes will be sorry she missed this,” she said.

  “Where is she?”

  “At the Grummet, waiting for you.”

  “Rax. I can’t go now. The truck might blow at any moment.”

  Ribbon grinned at me. “Are you saying that a mere steam truck is more exciting than your Browneyes?”

  Wolff hurried up at that moment. “Ah, there you are.” He looked around at the large gathering with aristocratic distaste. “Rax, what a mob. Let’s get out of here, Ribbon. It’s a good day for a walk along the quay, I think.”

  Ribbon stared at him haughtily. “If you think I’d leave all this just to walk along the quay with you, you must be simple-minded. In any case, you haven’t taken the trouble to ask what’s happening; I suppose you think we’re all just standing here mindless, like lox.”

  It was a perfect example of Ribbon as I’d first known her and first hated her—and I was delighted that Wolff was on the receiving end.

  Mestler moved close to us, gripping our arms. “Both you lads, get back home, there’s good lads, eh?”

  “Get frozen, Mestler,” I said.

  Wolff’s mouth dropped open as he stared incredulously from me to Mestler to Ribbon. Ribbon chuckled and took my hand. Wolff saw this, swallowed, then said, “Certainly, Horlox-Mestler.” He turned and loped off down the hill.

  Mestler was still regarding me; the aged look was there and something else. “Drove and Ribbon, do this for my sake,” he said. “Just for me, not for the Parls or the Regent, right? Ask Strongarm to break this up and send everyone home, please.”

  “Well really, Mestler,” trilled Ribbon. “I have no influence with my father whatsoever. And I’m quite sure—”

  I took her around the waist and whirled her about, whispering in her ear, “Ribbon, dear, please listen.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “I honestly think it might be important to get people away. There’s something else behind all this, something we don’t know anything about. Mestler’s serious, you know. I know he’s a crook but I don’t think he’s the worst of them.”

  “Say you think I’m pretty.”

  “Phu, you know I do. Just don’t tell Browneyes I said so, that’s all.”

  “Oh dear, isn’t life so complicated,” Ribbon twinkled, turning back to Mestler. “All right, I’ll do what I can. Because Drove asked me, you understand?”

  She walked over to her father and drew him aside. I saw him glance my way as she spoke quietly to him.

  There was something shrunken and pathetic about Mestler as he watched them. I touched him on the arm and he started violently.

  “All right,” I said. “Now tell me why you people killed Silverjack.”

  His eyes dropped and he said nothing. After a while Ribbon rejoined us, looking serious.

  “I’m sorry, Drove,” she said. “I really tried. But father thinks there’s something funny going on. Something to do with the truck cargo. He says everyone ought to be here just to see what’s in there.”

  “But there’s nothing in there,” I muttered, trying not to think about it…

  Mestler said, “Thank you anyway, Drove. And you, Ribbon. Your father’s a good man, my dear, he’s the kind of man it’s good to have on your side, when you don’t know who your enemies are…I’ll leave you now. Look after each other, and that nice little Browneyes…”

  He began to walk away, moving almost casually through the crowd and there was an air of finality about our parting. I ran after him, caught his arm. “Mestler! What happened to Squint?”

  He looked round but I couldn’t tell whether he”d heard or not; I think I forgot my own question when I saw the desolation in his eyes. He detached himself or I let go, and he walked away from the crowd, up the hill.

  “Mestler!” roared Strongarm. “Comeback! I want you here!”

  He thought Mestler was escaping from us, maybe hurrying for the sanctuary of the cannery. I knew instinctively that it was a different sanctuary Mestler sought…

  Mestler climbed into the cab of the steam truck and sat there, looking quiet and thoughtful and ordinary. The crowd was quiet too as we all waited and I heard Ribbon sob suddenly, and her hand tightened in mine.

  Presently the boiler exploded.

  It wasn’t what I’d expected. I’d expected
a boom and a flash and a giant concussion shaking the ground and bringing the slates down from the cottage roof opposite; I’d expected something enormous and spectacular.

  Instead there was a sharp crack! followed by a continuous rushing roar like the sound at the bottom of a huge waterfall. Instantly the road filled with a great cloud of steam, boiling and billowing and rolling down the hill towards us. The crowd broke and ran; and Ribbon and I ran with them, still clutching hands. After a while we stopped and looked back, and everything seemed to be over. Sheepishly, laughing nervously, the crowd climbed the hill again.

  The steam had almost completely dispersed; a few wisps arose from the boiler. There was no sign of damage from this distance and Mestler still sat at the controls. A thrill of horror trickled down my back at the normality of it all—and when I heard the chuff-chuffchuff of beating exhaust I think I yelped with terror. “He’s started her up,” a woman was repeating, over and over. “He’s started her up.” The crowd hesitated, then Strongarm strode forward.

  “It’s only another truck, men!” he shouted. “It’s coming from the cannery!”

  It was strange the way nobody mentioned the dead man at the controls. We crowded around the rear of the truck and a few men climbed on top and started untying the canvas, exclaiming that there was something there, under the covers. My eyes kept straying to the gently steaming Mestler and I felt somehow we ought to ask his permission; it wasn’t right to loot a dead man’s vehicle. Then he stirred as the men bounced about on the truck and his head flopped over and I saw his face…He must have died very quickly, to be still sitting in the same position.

  The canvas was thrown back amid shouts of triumph. The sides and back of the truck clattered down. Large black pieces of machinery stood revealed on the platform. “Steam guns!” somebody yelled. “It’s our steam guns, men! we’ll be safe from the Astan ships, now!”

  Strongarm climbed to the platform and held up his hand to quiet the cheering. “Sure they’re steam guns,” he shouted. “But they weren’t meant for us. I want you all to remember what Mestler said down at the fishmarket only a short while ago. He told us there’d been a delay, that the guns wouldn’t be here for days yet. So—I wonder who these guns were meant for? These guns, slipping through the town on a truck that’s supposed to be empty.”

  “The cannery!” a man shouted. “By Phu, they’re looking after themselves before the town!”

  “That’s about the way it is,” said Strongarm when the howls of disgust had subsided. “They’ve moved Parliament down to the new cannery, and Parliament must be protected, and to Rax with Pallahaxi. That’s the way the Parls think. But Mestler couldn’t face the guilt. He couldn’t face what we’d do to him when we found out. So he killed himself. If that isn’t proof of Parliament’s guilt I don’t know what is. Well,” he slapped the long barrel of one of the guns, “they needn’t feel guilty about these. We’ll set them up on the breakwater!”

  “You know, all the stuff’s not there,” I said to Ribbon. “Each gun needs a furnace and boiler. They’re useless by themselves.”

  She looked at me and said something quite perceptive, for Ribbon. “We need the guns, Drove. The furnaces and boilers are quite superfluous, my darling.”

  I grinned and, hearing the rumble of the approaching truck, stepped out and looked up the hill. The driver had shut off the throttle on seeing the crowd, and the vehicle was coasting slowly towards us.

  “Maybe we ought to take a look at him, too,” said Strongarm. He jumped down from the platform of the truck and stepped into the middle of the road, holding up his huge arms.

  The truck stopped a few paces away and the driver looked nervously out.

  “What’s happened? What’s going on?”

  “Just a little accident,” Strongarm informed him. “Now, man. What do you carry in your truck?”

  The driver’s tongue passed over his lips. “Uh, canned goods, of course. What the freezing Rax do you expect from a cannery? It’s canned fish for the towns inland.” We were all crowding around now; the driver’s eyes kept straying to the guns on the back of the other truck.

  “Right now a can of fish would suit me fine,” said Strongarm. He swung himself on to the rear of the truck and tore aside the canvas.

  “What a pity,” he said quietly. “You seem to have sold it all. The truck’s empty.” He dropped down beside the cab and seized the terrified driver in his giant hands. “The truck’s empty, you freezing liar!”

  “I…I swear they told me it was full.”

  Grope was there, shaking with fear. “And they told me mine was empty, the freezers!” he wailed. “We’ve been tricked by the Parls!”

  “Oh, shut up,” snapped Strongarm, disgusted. “Any fool driver can tell whether his truck’s full or empty, just by the feel of it. You two are in the pay of the Parls and you’ve become Parls yourselves. Tie them up, somebody, and take them to the temple. I’ll talk to them later. Now, let’s get these guns loaded onto this truck. It’s bad economics for it to go empty, in these difficult times…”

  Later, as the guns were driven down to the breakwater, Strongarm, Ribbon and I stood beside the wrecked truck of Grope. The body of Mestler had been removed. Strongarm was gazing up the hill, where the road disappeared over the skyline before winding down to the new cannery. The sun was bright and constant, high and fierce as it had been for days.

  “They pretend they’re looking after our interests,” he said quietly. “But all the time they’re building up their own little fortress, scared like drivets in a burrow. I wonder if all the bastards are sitting pretty while the good guys are killing one another off. Hey…” An expression of slow joy spread over his face. “Wouldn’t it be great if we could make our own peace with the Astan army when it reaches here, then everybody could go home happy and leave the Parls sitting alone in their little fort, bristling with guns and nobody to shoot…”

  CHAPTER 16

  Events were now moving so fast that I was losing track of standard nights and days, while the blazing furnace of the sun Phu circled overhead and the grume reached its peak. The Golden Grummet was open for business continuously and Girth, Annlee, Browneyes and myself often worked in shifts, and sometimes all at once when trade was at its height. From time to time one or other of us would creep away, exhausted, and collapse into bed to sleep for several hours before going back on duty again. Browneyes and I never took advantage of the proximity of our rooms; we were too tired even for love.

  Once when I passed her room I heard a sound and puzzled, because I’d just left her down in the bar. The rooms were all occupied these days; Parls and other refugees were arriving from all over Erto, converging on the focal point of Pallahaxi. It was quite likely that one of these itinerants had gone into the wrong room. Nervous about some oaf lying in wait for my girl, I tapped on the door and, after a moment, entered.

  Browneyes’ mother was lying on the bed, crying. I was about to leave when she called out softly, so I went and stood beside her bed, feeling very uncomfortable.

  “What’s the matter, Annlee?” I asked.

  She looked at me blankly, her eyes streaming; then she reached out and took my hand. Her grip was cold; she was shivering even in that hot room. I wasn’t sure, even then, that she was fully aware of who I was. I detached myself and pulled some blankets over her, and I left her there. Some time later she was down in the bar again, serving drinks and laughing and arguing politics with the customers as though everything was all right, as though it had always been all right.

  A period came when the customers were few and Girth suggested to Browneyes, “Why don’t you and Drove take a break, go for a sail or a walk or something?” He stared into his daughter’s face anxiously. “You look pale, girl. You need the sun on you. Your mother and I can look after the place now.”

  “Are you sure that’s all right, father?” asked Browneyes, smiling at me.

  “Get along, you two,” laughed Annlee.
“Before Girth changes his mind. Oh…And keep away from the far side of the town, will you?”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The Parls say they’re going to collect the guns today,” said Girth grimly. “I wonder they have the nerve. That’s why nobody’s here. They’re all over at the breakwater.”

  We rigged the skimmer in silence; I know we were both thinking about Silverjack. Although a handful of men still worked among the boats on the slipway, somehow the place seemed empty without its owner’s hairy figure and erratic personality. I wondered who the yard belonged to now; whether Silverjack had any relatives to take the business over. There was a feeling of slow anger within me as I thought of the man swimming to land, having done his utmost to bring the Ysabel safely to dock, only for the Parls on the quay to…what? Did they shoot him, as he swam towards them?

  Then the slow current would have carried him around Finger Point and they would assume the scavengers or the grume-riders would dispose of the body. It was probably gone by now. On the other hand, with the fall of the tide it might still be stranded among the rocks under the cliff, lying broken, with the incriminating springrifle bolt still lodged in the body to give the lie to the Parls’ story of his being lost in the disaster.

  Even that word annoyed me; what did they mean, ‘lost’? Nobody was lost from the Ysabel. Those who died were trapped below decks and blown to pieces when the boilers went. We knew what happened to them; they were eaten by grummets. ‘Lost’ was a genteel and optimistic euphemism worthy only of my mother, implying that one day they might be found again, and everything would be all right.

  “Listen, are you sure you want to go out, Drove?” asked Browneyes anxiously.

  “I’m sorry. I was thinking, that’s all.” The sail was filling with the light breeze. “Let’s go,” I said, and we scrambled in and pushed off. The water was like glue and the sailing slow in the sheltered harbour. Now that we were afloat, my dark mood began to improve. I found myself watching Browneyes in the bows and this had the effect of making me feel better still. Large numbers of skimmers rode at anchor, the ropes and chains dripping long, slow drops as they rose and fell on the viscid surface. Most fishermen had stayed in town to watch events when the Parls arrived. I hoped there wouldn’t be trouble.