by Simon Clark
To my surprise, I realized I was looking forward eagerly to my arrival in New York. My spirit of adventure had been reawakened. I wanted to explore. Naturally, when I returned to the Isle of Wight I'd give a full report on whatever I might find in the American city. I'd already flagged up one area of unease. Gabriel Deeds had been quite candid about the fact that he'd been chemically castrated in return for certain privileges. On my island, where fecundity was celebrated, the notion of neutering a healthy young male created an instant, reflexive abhorrence in me. But then, the creation of a eunuch class in society certainly wasn't anything new. Ancient Rome, Byzantium, the Ottoman Empire and many Oriental cultures had practised male castration. Often regarded as an elite within society, eunuchs performed many specialist roles, ranging from guarding the Sultan's harem to priestly duties to high office in the Byzantine civil service. As a horse is blinkered to enable it to perform that bit better, so a boy would sacrifice his manhood in order to concentrate on his duties with no hormonal distractions.
Whether I found the practice detestable or not, clearly the New York eunuch was a fact of life in Gabriel's world.
***
On the evening of the second day, with the sun nothing more than a brick-red smear above the horizon, the deck suddenly exploded into a frenzy of activity. Sailors raced up from hatchways wearing expressions that were as determined as they were tense.
Captain Sharpstone called down to me where I stood on deck, his voice calm yet forceful. 'Mr Masen. Get down below, please.' In the near-dark he was no more than a dark silhouette on the bridge.
My curiosity got the better of me. 'What's wrong?'
'Nothing we can't handle. Now, I must ask you to go below deck.'
By this time some crewmen had tugged protective tarpaulins from the big deck gun, while others were hoisting machine guns onto their mountings.
'Now, Mr Masen,' the captain insisted. 'Otherwise I shall be obliged to have you escorted below for your own protection.'
Reluctantly I quit the deck for the passenger saloon below.
There the mood of the research team was tense. No one spoke. Gabriel twisted his fingers into complex tangles while gazing out through the porthole.
'What's going on?' I asked. 'The crew have manned the guns up there.'
'Just a precaution,' Rory told me. 'There's nothing to worry about.'
Well said - but I noticed Kim and Dek's worried expressions.
'Does this kind of thing happen often?' I asked. It occurred to me that these people had enemies. That out there in the darkened ocean their foe might now be stalking them.
I sat quietly, too, waiting for the sound of the first gunshot.
***
Supper, understandably enough, came late. Only after a hurriedly prepared omelette meal did a whistle sound over the ship's PA system.
When I heard the relieved sighs of the team I guessed that this was the 'all clear' signal.' The sound of tramping feet came along the corridor as sailors returned to their usual quarters.
Whatever it was, it was over without a shot being fired.
Still, seeing that flurry of activity around the ship's guns gave me plenty of food for thought. When I retired to my bunk that night. I was still wondering what Captain Sharpstone had expected to encounter on the high seas.
***
Morning didn't so much break as leak upward from the eastern horizon: a slowly spreading dull-hued stain like blood seeping through dark cloth.
I'd woken up cold. Over breakfast I learned that in order to increase our speed Captain Sharpstone had ordered that every cubic centimetre of steam should be directed into driving the engines even harder, leaving no surplus heat for the cabins. So, bundled up as warmly as possible against a bitterly cold morning, one that had left a frosting here and there on the deck gun's tarpaulin, I stood looking forward into that wintry gloom. Behind me the smudge of red slid higher into the sky. Slowly - too slowly - it grew a little brighter. By mid-morning it had attained the lustre of red foil once more. Yet it still cast precious little light.
I leaned forward, my elbows taking my weight on the guard rail. The sea, flat calm, had the look of congealing blood - a kind of viscous reddish brown. Once more I wondered if I was bound for some grim underworld.
From the distance came an eerie cry. Lonely, plaintive, ghostly with lost and dying echoes. I looked for its source. It didn't require much effort to imagine that it came from the phantom mouth of a long-dead sailor. But reason told me it must be a gull, gliding somewhere out there in that twilit world. I looked for a long while, yet never saw so much as a single seabird. The plaintive cry came again.
Between sea and sky a pale line ran as far as the eye could see. Mist, I told myself. Probably due to the cold air touching a slightly warmer sea. Then, as I gazed at it, there came a subtle transformation.
In the distance tiny shapes emerged. They were clustered densely at the centre, then thinned out toward the edges. There weren't many. Moreover, they didn't seem that large, but as I watched they became that little bit more distinct. There, emerging slowly from the mist like some enchanted Babylon, were spires and towers reaching towards the sky. A magic citadel, floating above the waves.
So taken was I with the vision that I didn't notice Kerris as she came to stand beside me.
'Quite something, isn't it?' she murmured. I turned to see her green eyes shine as, nodding, she softly said, 'Home.'
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
METROPOLIS
PHOTOGRAPHS, sketches, film, even a picture on a biscuit tin - I'd seen many images of the place. But this vision of buildings floating mysteriously and quite magically out of the mist filled me with wonder.
Beside me, her hair rippling in the breeze, Kerris too watched entranced. This had to be a sight you never tired of. No matter how many times you experienced it.
At length Kerris said, 'She looks quite something, doesn't she?'
I had to admit 'she' did.
Misty towers resolved themselves sharply into skyscrapers. Even at a distance of fifteen miles or so I easily recognized the streamlined symmetry of the Chrysler Building while the more aggressive neo-megalithic lines of the Empire State Building towered alongside. Long ago, H.G. Wells wrote: 'What a funny place New York was - all sticking up and full of windows.' I didn't think the great man had done this enchanting vista justice. Not by a long chalk.
Despite the bone-deep cold, we, by some mutual yet unspoken agreement, decided to stand there in the prow of the steamship and watch. Up on the bridge, sensed rather than seen, was the formidable presence of Captain Sharpstone, guiding his ship and crew safely home to port. Presently I glimpsed fishing boats standing like inkspots on the sea, while a destroyer, bristling with big guns and missiles, stood guard in the final approaches.
The colour of the water changed to silty brown as we passed from the open sea to the confluence of the Hudson, Harlem and East Rivers. The ship's engines slowed as the ship drew ever closer to the city now rearing hugely before us.
Moments later that famous bronze lady, the Statue of Liberty, moved past our port bow. Still a greenish hue in this meagre light I noticed with some sadness that she'd suffered a savage act of mutilation. Her eyes had been dynamited from her face, leaving the great statue blinded and monstrous-looking. On the island itself half a dozen field guns pointed out to sea, their barrels gleaming dully.
Turning to look at the city of Manhattan, I saw that the skyscrapers now towered above us, their windows reflecting that same sombre sun - a million dull red eyes seemingly glaring down at me, David Masen, a stranger in a very strange land.
There were many different kinds of boat moving around the port - tugs, fishing vessels, river pilots, police launches, barges, as well as a great number of sailing ships - which indicated much about this resource-hungry nation. Now I could see roads running away straight into the heart of the city, through canyons of steel and concrete. And there were cars, thousands of cars, trucks, buses, vans of a
ll shapes and sizes, sounding their horns and filling the air with engine sounds that sounded like a continuous low thunder. Headlights, switched on even though it was noon, shone brilliantly.
By this time Kerris had a relaxed smile on her face. For her this was home. For me… well… I'd seen nothing like it before. My chest felt tight. My head moved left and right, right and left as I tried to see everything at once.
This was a land of wonder, of amazement, of near-super-natural splendour. A strange animal passion blazed within me at that moment. I wanted, no, I craved to plunge into the heart of that vortex of movement, light and sound.
After what seemed like a whole string of delays the ship at last tied up alongside a quay. Moments later I walked down the gangway to see what this strange new world had to offer.
An official reception of sorts awaited us. A group of men and women spirited Christina away with Kim protectively holding her hand. In a way I still felt responsible for the girl and I asked Kerris where they were taking her. Kerris reassured me that Christina would be well cared for. 'The only danger is that she's going to become a celebrity; the same goes for you, too, David.' Her eyes twinkled. 'Now. This wharf we're walking along… the Titanic would have docked here in 1912 if it had made it across the Atlantic… of course, I don't know if you'd take that as a good omen or a bad omen.' She smiled as a group of uniformed men appeared. 'Well, it looks as if there will be some formalities before we can get you to the hotel.'
For an hour I completed forms in the Customs office. My photograph was taken in profile and full face for an immigration record. Then a man in a gold-braided uniform shook my hand, welcomed me to New York and invited me through a gate to where a car waited.
With Kerris by my side I sat in the back, marvelling at the city as the car nosed its way through traffic. What could I say? The sights, sounds, even the smells of exotic food - all of it was nothing less than an assault on my senses. Eyes wide, head ducking, twisting, bending this way and that I tried to absorb everything. People of all different races on the streets; the road signs with mysterious-sounding names - Tribeca, Chinatown, Little Italy, fabled Broadway. Bars, shops, cafes, restaurants, all teeming with life. Everyone walking with a rapidity that spoke volumes about the population's vitality and sense of purpose.
Even the sun had brightened in the once dingy sky. It filled the city with a soft red light, buildings glowing with every shade of red from deep copper to gold. In that confused melee of first impressions I formed a single strong sense of a clean city: well ordered, prosperous.
At that moment I shared an affinity with the ancient Briton who'd travelled in his animal skins to stand in the Imperial Rome of the Caesars. How that man must have marvelled at the heroic statues, huge temples, soaring columns and finely dressed citizens in their silks and jewels.
Suddenly I thought of my old island home. A rural backwater of winding lanes along which trundled horse-drawn carts. A hotchpotch of quaint villages, populated by sleepy yokels. It seemed a poor place in comparison with this.
Presently the car pulled up outside a towering building.
'Your hotel,' Kerris told me, then smiled at my no doubt perplexed expression. 'Don't worry, David. They're expecting you. New clothes should have been delivered, too - I telegraphed your sizes ahead. Although we still need to fix you up with more suitable shoes… sea boots in Manhattan just won't do.'
***
I was like a child at Christmas, wide-eyed with excitement, rushing from one surprise to another. Even so, I felt a twinge of disloyalty to my old home on that quiet island thousands of miles away. It had been a safe refuge for the Masen family. What grew and grazed upon its lush landscape had fed me, clothed me. Its society had done its best to educate and entertain me. But this pulsating metropolis offered so much more.
'What's that?' I asked the barman in the hotel bar.
He grinned. 'That's television, sir.'
Instantly I burned with embarrassment. I knew full well what television was. I'd seen enough of the dusty glass-fronted boxes dumped in garden sheds. But I'd never seen one, well… for want of a more appropriate word… alive before. On the set bolted high on the wall behind the bar coloured pictures flashed. In the space of what seemed like five seconds but was obviously longer came images of a dance troupe dressed in shocking pink and kicking their long legs to a brash rhythm. Then came a blonde girl saying how much she loved Pop's Poppercorn. Then a lady claiming that she always shopped at Macy's. Hard on the heels of that were shots of soldiers marching, then firing flamethrowers at triffids, and finally crushing the steaming plants to pulp with their boots. 'Jobs don't come any tougher or hotter than this,' boomed a deeply serious male voice. 'That's why I like nothing better than a long, cold drink of Rheingold. The beer that heroes go home to.'
The barman served me the beer I'd ordered as I perched myself on a stool. For the next hour I watched as a blond-haired man with an incongruously precise hairstyle rescued a succession of children and blushingly grateful young women from fifth columnists of some sort who'd hijacked a passenger liner. Infuriatingly, just as it appeared that the blond man would be blown to smithereens by a hand grenade or forced backwards over the ship's guard rail into a shark-infested sea, the suspense would be interrupted by more jangling exhortations to buy a coat of a certain cut, to acquire shoes that promised wearers would find themselves 'walking on air' or to purchase 'the gum that gets the gal'.
'Now don't go getting square eyes on me,' said a bright voice.
Kerris sat briskly beside me and ordered a beer. She wore trousers of an eyebrow-raising fit with a powder-blue sweater; around her neck she'd loosely tied a silk scarf shot through with flashes of gold and electric blue. After exchanging a few pleasantries with me she handed me an envelope.
'What's this?'
'Just some cash.'
'Kerris, I can't accept this.'
'Of course you can. You'll need money. Oh, and I've included a pass for the subway.'
'But I won't be able to pay you back.'
'Nonsense.'
'But-'
'Anyway, the money isn't mine. Consider it a welcoming gift from the city of New York.' She smiled a vivacious smile. 'Right, drink up. I can't let you waste your days alone in a hotel bar.'
'Where are we going?'
'Sightseeing.'
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE GRAND TOUR
KERRIS Baedekker didn't stint when it came to the tour. Even riding the subterranean railway system was a thing of wonder for me. Huge steel carriages thundered through tunnels that were vast enough to make me think of cathedrals. She showed me the Empire State Building with a 'That's where my father has his office'. From there we went into Greenwich Village with its much smaller buildings and an exotic bohemian atmosphere that I found strangely exciting.
Sometimes she slipped into a tour-guide role, quoting facts and figures. 'Manhattan Island is a twenty-two-square-mile slab of rock three billion years old. Fresh water arrives through a one-hundred-and-twenty-five-mile-long tunnel from three reservoir systems. Power stations are coal-fired. The name "Manhattan" comes from an explorer celebrating discovery of the island with a local group of Indians. After the rather boozy party the island was named "Mannahattanink", which means "the island of general intoxication".'
'Really?'
'Well, it's a rather fanciful story. In truth, no one really knows how the name originated. Hungry yet?'
We ate at the homely White Horse Tavern on Hudson Street, an establishment that wouldn't have been out of place alongside the pubs of the Isle of Wight.
More than once I noticed the skyward-pointing muzzle of an anti-aircraft gun on the flat roof of a building. More evidence of a defence-conscious society? Or was there a more specific threat? If there was, however, these bustling natives made no show of it affecting their nerves.
Once more we rode the underground express train. This time north to Central Park, now under cultivation with potatoes and corn. But I
did notice that the lack of natural daylight had taken its toll. Plants had turned a pale green. Stalks wilted miserably.
Kerris looked at them unhappily. 'Unless there's a return to normal daylight we're in big trouble. The crops will be dead within a week.'
We crossed what had once been an elegant formal park for the eastern side of the island. Even in that gloom I could see a pale wall running east to west. Standing perhaps twenty feet high, a number of guard towers were also clearly visible at regular intervals.
'Kerris, what's kept in there?'
'Oh, that's the 102nd Street Parallel. It cuts Manhattan Island in two.'
'Oh? Why?'
'It goes back twenty years or so.' She spoke a trifle vaguely. I waited for her to elaborate. Instead she said, 'Come on, there's lots more to see.' She took my arm, guiding me between fields of drooping corn.
The lady was right. There was lots to see. Art galleries. Museums. Libraries. Civic monuments. At one point a car pulled up on the street with a painful-sounding crunch. It appeared that its engine had suddenly and ruinously seized.