The Last of the Gullivers
Page 15
“Looks like a model,” the pilot said. “A kid’s toy.”
“Is it yours?” Stanley asked the children.
“No,” Michael answered.
“I know what that is.” The Magistrate—like Cicero, a seeker of Truth—reached for the binoculars in the cruiser cabin. “It’s the old wood ship that’s been in the window at Gadbury’s since I was a child.”
The Magistrate scanned the river till he found the Adventure’s bow, and a tiny carved mermaid, eyes set on the future. A small tattered flag still hung from the spar. Michael had wanted to take it off; it was old and worn. “Let’s leave it,” Mrs. Topgallant had said to him. “It’s the flag that’s flown when the Admiral of the Fleet is on board.”
“Did you steal that thing?” Stanley asked Michael.
“No—we bought it.”
“Must’ve cost a lot,” said the officer.
“I guess,” Michael nodded. “But it was worth it.”
“Are you telling me,” Stanley went on, “you spent all that money, just so you could let it go in the river?”
“That’s right,” Jane answered.
The Magistrate brought the little ship into better focus and saw the crew of tiny People, swarming its rigging, tightening the sails. On its deck, a crowd of tiny passengers gathered at the rail, watching the passing scene. And he saw another man looking straight back at him through a little telescope: Burton Topgallant, former G.P., Potentate, Pooh-Bah, Keeper of Hopes, the End-All, Be-All, and Admiral of the Fleet. Topgallant lowered the glass and saluted Ackerby.
“Sir?” Stanley was saying now.
“What?” the Magistrate mumbled, fumbled.
“Do we need it for evidence?”
“Need what?” Horace was struck half-dumb by what he’d seen.
“The model. The little ship. If we need it for evidence, we can get it.”
“No,” the Magistrate answered finally. “No. Let it go.”
Ford looked to the children. “And what about them? What’ll we charge ’em with?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
BACK IN A FIELD OF CLOVER
Stanley Ford had already begun filling out the paperwork. “Sir . . . ,” he said again, trying to get the Magistrate’s attention back.
“What?”
“The children,” Ford reminded him. “What’s the charge going to be?”
“The children. Yes,” said Ackerby. “Let the children go.”
“Let them what?” Stanley hadn’t heard him right. “Let them go? Mr. Ackerby, they took a boat and there was the car and—”
“I’ll take care of it,” the Magistrate said.
The officers were confused, and so was Michael.
“But the boy,” Stanley went on, “he broke out of YOI, remember.”
“I remember,” the Magistrate said. “I’ll take care of it.” And that’s all he would say.
Adventure sailed on down the mud-brown river, past a spreading city where the water was full of cargo vessels and barges and broad-hulled tour boats. Anyone who saw the model ship took it for a lost toy.
The Lesser Lilliputians stood at the rail and marveled at this race of Giants and all they’d achieved: the dome of a great cathedral here, the towers of a bridge there, an ancient seat of government.
The sea-tide was pulling them at a fast clip and the river grew more crowded. Burton Topgallant called out commands, steering them clear of heavy water traffic. “To the port, steady! Trim the aft sails!” He’d only read the words in books, but now they had meaning.
And their ship sailed on.
“Do you suppose they’ll get along without us?” Docksey asked her husband. “The children? They’re so young and vulnerable.”
“They’re more capable than you’d think, my dear,” said Topgallant. “You must remember, vulnerable creatures have ways of getting by.”
Adventure reached a wide channel and the sea lay beyond.
When Michael and Jane got home, Ackerby told Jane’s father what had happened, almost every detail. There were television cameras waiting, but Ms. Bellknap said the children had been through a lot and needed to be left alone. Mr. Mallery took a second, longer look at Michael and liked what he saw.
And at the same moment, something happened that has never been explained. By some unimaginable shift in climate, the raw ugly wind suddenly stopped blowing across Moss-on-Stone. For the first time ever, the sun shone a whole day and there was only the softest breeze in the treetops. From that day and ever after, the city was known as Moss-on-Stone, Where No Wind’s Blown.
In the warming sun, as Maxine Bellknap immediately saw, the seed of chickweed and dandelion—favorite foods of House Sparrows—took root everywhere and began to thrive.
An envelope arrived at the Magistrate’s office not long after. It held a deed and a stack of legal papers, giving Michael the stone cottage and all that was in it. Freddie was carefully, legally, left out.
Over time, the Lesser Lilliputians drifted into legend. People from around the world have heard the story of Little Ones who wander the clover fields here. Hordes of visitors still come seeking them and tour buses stop in the town and the Inn is booked months in advance.
In the years since, Michael and Jane have repaired the damage done to Lesser Lilliput. They have restored every structure, replanted the tiny gardens, rebuilt the Great Hall and its glorious dome. You can go there and see this yourself, if you know where to look.
And when you’re in Moss-on-Stone, listen closely. In the stillness, you may hear Mr. Fenn trying to wheedle a tune from his ancient guitar. Just this morning, he picked up the phone and called an old friend: “I’ve been thinking—we should get the band together. Yes, The Restless Ones, you remember. You, me, Froth, Gadbury, Larry Tiswas, the rest—making music like we used to. How about it, Horace?”
FROM THE DIARY OF YOUNG FRIGARY TIDDLIN
A Friday, late in September—
We are home and a new journey begins. Slack & I have made many friends in school & Mr. Topgallant is writing a chronicle of our lives in the other world.
Mr. Ickens has become a Popular Lecturer and Mr. Phlopp’s eyebrows are starting to grow back. The brothers Butz are quiet & sullen, but I’m sure they’ll come to love this place. Life is good again, because we found something we never knew we’d Lost.
But we’d lost it, that’s for sure. Back in that other Time & Place, we thought we understood everything. We didn’t Know how much we didn’t Know. Now we do, and we have begun to Dream again . . .
* * *
So, nat’ralists observe, a flea
Hath smaller fleas that on him prey
And these have smaller yet to bite ’em,
And so proceed ad infinitum . . . Thus ev’ry poet, in his kind,
Is bit by him that comes behind.
On Poetry, Jonathan Swift
* * *