Under The Mountain

by Maurice Gee

  ‘No,’ Mr Jones said. ‘Things have changed since yesterday. You’ve come a long way – the mud-people have pushed you through whole generations of change. You’re not the same Rachel and Theo Matheson. But there’s still a long way to go. You can’t touch these again until you can see them. Absolutely steady. And you’ve got to see every side at once. All seven sides. And see yourself looking in from every one. And you’ve got to see the colour – rich and dark, and yet as clear as water.’

  He looked steadily at them. The stones flickered and threw out their warmth.

  ‘And when you can do that you’ve got to hold them. And that will hurt. You’ve got to endure the hurt – and wait – until it grows less. It will go away in the end.’

  Silence again. They could hear themselves breathing.

  At last Theo said, ‘All right. I think we understand. What happens then? When we can hold them how do we use them?’

  ‘One thing at a time, Theo. I’ll show you how to use them – but first, you show me you can hold them.’

  ‘All right.’

  He reached out his hand and picked up the blue pebble. But at once he yelled with pain and jerked his hand in the air. The stone fell on the floor and lay there flickering.

  ‘It’s red-hot.’

  ‘You’re too fast, Theo. Learn to see it first. Then it will not be so hot. Not quite so hot.’ Mr Jones was smiling but he had gone pale. He reached down and picked up the stone.

  ‘Now look at them. Concentrate. Forget your hand, Theo, the pain’s gone now. Look at your stone. Seven sides. Take it in your mind. Let it know it belongs to you – you’re the boss. Tell it to keep still. Tell it to stop flickering. You too, Rachel. See it clear, see it still, see it whole.’

  Theo stared – he stared – he stared – until he could feel himself going cross-eyed. Rachel seemed further ahead. Her eyes were very wide, absolutely still. Her stone to him was a white egg lying on Mr Jones’s palm, but he could tell that to her it was a heptahedron, yellow-red, blinking only slightly, clear as glass, rich as the skin of an orange, reflecting her face to her from each of its seven mirrors. He was not going to be left behind. He concentrated harder. He tried to bore into his stone and look out from the inside. He pretended he was a geologist with a tiny hammer, tapping the surface trying to find a way in – and slowly, as the rhythmical sound played on his mind, the image faded, the stone grew larger, it seemed to invade his head. Its flickering became less regular, its shape could be seen for longer and longer periods. Its colour was the colour of the sky, and yet of the sea, and of delphiniums – but it was one colour only, clear as water, thick and rich as paint. He sighed with the pleasure of looking at it. But soon, though he knew he should not, he questioned it. What are you? he murmured, how am I supposed to use you? And the stone flickered madly and lost its shape. He came out of his trance with an exclamation of disappointment.

  ‘Well done, Theo,’ Mr Jones said. ‘You went a long way. You very nearly had it.’

  Theo shook his head. Something seemed to be wrong. The sun was slanting differently through the window. He looked at his watch. An hour and a quarter had passed.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Don’t be frightened.’

  ‘I thought it was only a minute.’ He saw that Mr Jones was sitting at the table now and the stones were on the arms of the chair he had left. ‘How did you move without us seeing?’

  ‘You were very deep down, Theo.’

  ‘What about Rachel?’

  ‘She’s doing very well. Very well indeed.’

  She was sitting exactly as he had seen her last – wide-eyed, still as a lizard on a rock. He felt if he looked hard enough he would see the line of her sight spearing out to her stone.

  ‘I’m going to try again.’

  ‘Good boy. Relax. Take it slowly. You shouldn’t need your little hammer this time.’

  And this was so. His mind was ready and he held the stone easily in its embrace – blue, seven-sided, steady – almost steady. It would flicker just when he believed he had it. But he saw it from every side at once. He saw it from inside and out. The moments when it lost shape, when it became again just a white river-bed pebble, were painful. He felt them like the sting of a rubber band. How long it went on he did not know. A soft voice began to sound in his mind. ‘Theo, Theo.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can come out now.’

  It was Mr Jones. Theo shivered. He was suddenly very tired and he realised that this was the hardest work he had ever done. He blinked and swayed a little. Rachel was grinning at him. She had a bottle of Fanta in her hand. More than anything he wanted a drink. Mr Jones reached out with another bottle.

  ‘Here you are, Theo. It’s dry work.’

  He drank, letting the ice-cold liquid pour down his throat until the bottle was half empty.

  ‘Now have some chocolate. You’ve used up a lot of energy.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s nearly lunch-time, Theo,’ Rachel said. ‘But we don’t have to go. I rang Auntie. And Mr Jones talked to her too, so that’s all right. She even said we could stay for tea.’ She laughed excitedly, ‘I did better than you. I can hold mine fifteen seconds without a flicker. You can only do twelve.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘It’s not a competition,’ Mr Jones said. ‘You’re a team. The two stones work together. Now you finish your drinks while I get lunch. You can look at those’ – he motioned at the stones on the arms of the chair – ‘but don’t try to pick them up.’

  Theo put out a finger and stopped it an inch or two away from his stone. Heat came off as though from the element of a stove. He felt depressed. It seemed no cooler than before.

  Mr Jones gave them boiled eggs and thick tomato sandwiches. He ate nothing himself but paced about the room. He seemed unable to keep still and once or twice the twins caught him looking at them with something like pity.

  ‘Don’t you eat the same food as us?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m just not hungry.’

  ‘What did you eat on your world? And what did you look like?’

  ‘It’s a long time ago, Rachel. It’s not something I like to remember. I’m almost as human now as you or Theo … Do you think you can go on? You’ve done very well but there’s still a great deal to get through.’

  They had another session ‘seeing’ the stones. Rachel held hers steady for almost a minute. But Theo could manage only the same twelve seconds. He saw that Mr Jones was disappointed.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Have a rest, Theo. You’ve had enough for a while. We’ll concentrate on Rachel.’

  ‘I can beat her. It’s just that I keep wanting to know why. How it happens, I mean. There must be a scientific explanation.’

  ‘I thought that might be it.’ Mr Jones sighed. ‘Well, I can’t tell you. There are mysteries, that’s all. Rachel doesn’t look for answers. That’s why she’s nearly there. Just think of it as something like – birth. Or time.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Theo said. But he was beginning to feel defeated. Why weren’t there answers? There had to be. Mysteries were all right in books and pictures but in real life there were always explanations. He began to be angry with Rachel, who was stroking her hair in a way that meant she was pleased with herself.

  Mr Jones said, ‘Watch for a little while. I’m going to get Rachel to pick up her stone. And stop looking so clever, Rachel. It’s going to be a good deal worse than the dentist.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rachel said. Her face went a little pale. ‘I think I’ll go to the toilet first.’

  She washed her hands, washed her face, and dried them on a towel that had Belvedere Hotel stencilled on it. She looked at this with pretended interest. She even giggled. He was a thief. But all of this was an attempt to forget – oh why had he mentioned the dentist?

  ‘Where did you get that towel?’ she said when she was back in the kitchen.

  ‘I
travel a lot, Rachel. And I haven’t any money.’

  ‘Did you steal those bottles of Fanta too?’

  Mr Jones laughed, not very heartily. ‘I always pay in some way or other. Now come on, my dear. Don’t try to put it off.’

  ‘All right.’ She sat down. She wished he would not look so sorry for her. ‘Do I just pick it up?’

  He nodded. ‘Drop it if it hurts too much. And remember, the longer you hold it the cooler it will be next time.’

  She brushed her fear away as though it were an insect: no need to be frightened of spiders or wasps – they could sting you but that was all. She picked up the stone, and although it burned like steam from a kettle she held it, she kept her hand clenched – she held it though a crying noise forced its way between her lips. ‘Oh, please, somebody. Talk to me. Say something. I can hold it if somebody says something.’

  ‘You’re a brave girl –’

  ‘Not that. Tell me a story. Anything. Please.’

  ‘Beneath the spreading chestnut tree, the village blacksmith stands –’

  ‘Oh shut up, Theo. Mr Jones, please …’

  ‘What, my dear?’

  ‘Those twins. Those other twins. Tell me about them.’

  ‘It was so long ago.’

  ‘Their names? What were their names?’

  ‘Johan. Lenart.’

  ‘Funny names.’

  ‘They were Swedish.’

  ‘Show me. Please.’

  Tears were running down her face. The heat was not growing, but neither did it seem to be getting less. She was sure the skin was burning off her palm. ‘I know you don’t want to remember. But I want to know. So tell me. Or else I’ll drop it. It’s burning me up.’

  Slowly a picture began to grow in her mind. It was grey, and she knew the lack of colour came from Mr Jones’s reluctance. But slowly it began to take other tones. Two boys, both with red hair, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, were at a table sewing boots with leather thread. They were in a tiny room, dark, littered with scraps of leather. A man seemed to be shouting at them.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Uppsala. In Sweden.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Eighteen hundred and eleven.’

  ‘Is the man their father?’

  ‘They’re orphans. He’s their master. They’re boot-making apprentices. He was cruel to them. I took them away.’

  She saw another room, simply furnished with beds, a table, chairs. The two boys were sitting at the table with their eyes fixed on the stones. One of the stones was red. The boy – she knew his name was Johan – reached out and picked it up. He grimaced, but held it. Then he grinned.

  ‘It’s not so hot for him.’

  ‘He’s had more practice. I didn’t have to hurry. The Wilberforces were far away.’

  She saw a sailing ship then, with grey patched sails. It was running before a strong wind amongst islands covered with green bush.

  ‘She’s a whaler. I paid the captain to bring us to New Zealand – yes, with stolen money. He set us down there, in the Bay of Islands. We came the rest of the way on foot.’

  She saw them camping by a stream. The boys were roasting wood pigeons over a fire. Each held his stone tightly in his fist. Mr Jones was a little way off, resting with his hands behind his head. Words began to echo in her mind – but the language was foreign. The boys laughed as though at a joke, and Johan tossed his stone in the air, one-handed, and caught it neatly. Rachel felt jealous. But she discovered her palm was burning less.

  Mr Jones smiled, sadly she thought. ‘It’s all right now, Rachel. You’ve got past the worst. You can manage now.’

  ‘But you mustn’t stop. What happened?’

  ‘I’d rather not tell you.’

  ‘Oh, please. Don’t treat me like a child.’

  ‘You are a child, my dear.’

  ‘I’m old enough to hold this stone.’

  ‘You’ve got to tell us,’ Theo’s voice said. ‘You can’t just stop. We’ve got to know. If we’re going to carry on.’

  ‘Yes. I know it’s sad for you. But we’ve got to see what happened.’

  For a while there was greyness in her mind. The stone burned in her hand like a freshly boiled egg. Then slowly a picture took shape out of the gloom. It was another camp, by another stream. The boys were chopping with axes, shaping a log canoe. Their clothes were more ragged now. Each had a cloth bag tied around his neck. The stones were inside – she saw a glow of red through the cloth of Johan’s bag.

  ‘This is Deep Creek at Torbay,’ said the voice in her mind. ‘We lived there for almost a year. The Maori brought us food. We made friends with them. They had never seen red hair before. They would have taken us out to the island too – but we made our own canoe instead. There seemed to be no reason for hurry. The Wilberforces were still underground, hollowing out their chambers. I spied on them from time to time. There’s no way they can keep me out. We made our canoe. We fished and we swam. And the boys hunted for birds. This is Johan.’ They saw a boy of fourteen in tattered clothes and a belt of woven flax. His red hair fell to his waist. He was sitting cross-legged on the sand, playing a tune on a wooden flute. ‘He made the flute. Listen.’ The tune came clearly – a light, skipping, merry sound made of half a dozen notes. Then they saw a camp-fire and Johan playing once more – this time slowly, mournfully. ‘He’s remembering his homeland. Johan was a dreamer. A poet. Mysteries didn’t upset him. Like you, Rachel. And Lenart – he was the scientist, the one who wanted explanations.’

  They saw the second boy, freckle-faced, sturdy, with his red hair tied in a knot. He was throwing pipi shells into the wind, curving them first to the left, then to the right. ‘He was the one who designed the canoe. See, he even made a sail of flax. And his stone – he never stopped peering into it, trying to see what made it work. It gave him a burn now and then when he got too cheeky.’

  The picture faded. She saw a lean-to hut under the stars. The boys were sleeping on beds of fern. Mr Jones sat in the doorway, watching.

  ‘I came to think of them as my sons. I didn’t want it to end.’

  The greyness came down on her mind again. It lasted a long time.

  ‘Don’t go on if you don’t want to.’

  But slowly a day dawned – sunny, cloudless, blue. She felt a breeze on her cheeks. The canoe was skimming along on the sea with its flax sail round as a melon and its outrigger lifting. Lenart was in the stern, using his paddle as a rudder, and Johan at the bow. Mr Jones was crouching by the mast, staring at Rangitoto straight ahead.

  ‘Why there?’ Theo’s voice said.

  ‘Because that’s where the red stone must be used.’

  The island came closer, grew taller. They saw its black reefs jutting into the sea. Johan had his stone clutched in his hand.

  Abruptly the view changed. They were somewhere below the surface. Overhead the waves sparkled, undulated. The canoe cut through them, leaving a silver trail. And deep down, among the spines of petrified lava, something moved. At first it seemed a growth on a jutting stone. Then it detached itself and slid into the open. In shape it was between shark and stingray – in colour black and grey. They saw it passing their faces only a body’s length away. Its thick tail drove it with threshing motions. It drove up towards the canoe, aiming for the centre of the hull.

  The blow of its snout broke the canoe’s back, lifted it clear of the water. The boys turned in the air in slow motion, flopping like broken dolls. They splashed down, yelling with terror, and Mr Jones, flickering now, turning into a figure of light, plunged towards the nearer – Lenart. He could save only one.

  They saw Johan go down. The shark – the Wilberforce – had grown a bulbous limb and with this it held Johan’s hair in a thick unbreakable grip. They went down, trailing bubbles, and vanished into a cave in the lava flow.

  The red stone had dropped from Johan’s hand. It sank with a gentle motion and settled among the anemones on the bed of the sea.

  Grey
ness came down. The kitchen was utterly quiet. Large warm tears rolled down Rachel’s cheeks. The stone in her hand had the warmth of blood.

  By nightfall Theo could see the shape of his stone for almost half a minute at a time. He had tried holding it, had held it for as long as seven seconds. But the pain had been too great. He felt as if the skin were shrivelling on his palm. When he looked at it afterwards he was astonished to find it as pink as ever, unblistered.

  Rachel watched, pale-faced. She had spoken very little through the afternoon. The story of the Swedish twins throbbed in her mind. Mr Jones had recovered Johan’s stone – the Wilberforces could not touch it. He had found his body floating in the sea. They buried it beside Deep Creek. Then he had taken Lenart back to Sweden. But the boy had lost all interest in life. He died on the journey.

  ‘I’ll hold this thing if it kills me,’ Theo said.

  ‘That’s enough for today. I’ll take you home now. You can get a good night’s sleep and we’ll try again tomorrow.’

  ‘What if the Wilberforces come after us?’

  ‘Lock all the doors. All the windows. I’ll be outside. I’ll be guarding you every minute.’

  ‘Can I take my stone? Johan’s stone?’ Rachel asked.

  Mr Jones went to his bedroom. He came back with two small bags made of a cloth like silk. They were white, threaded with draw-strings, one blue, one red. ‘Wear them round your necks. They’re yours now.’

  They put the stones in the bags – Theo handling his like a hot potato. But when it lay against his chest it had only a faint warmth.

  They walked home through the dusk with Mr Jones between them. Theo felt he was the old man’s protector rather than the other way round.

  The stone – Lenart’s stone he had to think of it now – was warm against his breastbone. Tomorrow he would hold it. For the moment it was a companion. It made him less afraid.

  8

  IN TIME FOR THE PARTY

  Aunt Noeline had left them a note on the dining-room table:

  Dear Twins, Uncle and I have gone out to a bridge evening. We’ll be home about midnight. Ricky will look after you. Don’t stay up too late. Love, Auntie.