Worldshaker 01; Worldshaker

by Richard Harland

  “But doesn’t it depend on the Queen?” asked Leath Porpentine.

  “And she always does what you tell her,” added Morpice Porpentine.

  Sir Mormus was breathing heavily through his nostrils. “She’s in the habit of doing what I tell her, but she’s also in the habit of following tradition.”

  Still they hadn’t understood. Sir Mormus’s composure cracked completely.

  “Fools!” he roared. “If I lose the confidence of the Executive, Queen Victoria will replace me. Sir Wisley will become the new Supreme Commander.”

  Horrified cries of “No!” and “Impossible!” echoed round the room.

  “Yes,” said Sir Mormus. “Sir Wisley instead of me.”

  Col couldn’t believe it either. His grandfather as Supreme Commander was part of the natural order of things. He felt the weight of the family’s angry stares upon him.

  “If he wasn’t the nominated successor…” someone muttered.

  “Dragging us down,” said someone else.

  “What if…” another voice began.

  It was Morpice Porpentine who pointed at Col and came out with what they were all thinking. “Can’t we disown him?”

  There were nods of agreement on all sides.

  “We don’t want to associate with someone who’s been Below,” said an uncle from the Leath Porpentine branch.

  Only Orris and Quinnea objected. Orris groaned and shook his head, Quinnea let out a long, quavering wail.

  “You could nominate your other grandson as successor,” Morpice suggested.

  All eyes turned to the solemn little figure of Antrobus, seated beside Gillabeth. Gillabeth patted him on the back to make him sit up even straighter.

  “No.” Sir Mormus raised a hand to quell further discussion. “To disown my eldest grandson now would be seen as an admission of guilt. My reputation would be ruined along with his. The die is cast. We stand our ground.”

  Grandmother Ebnolia nodded her birdlike head. “And you’ll counteract Sir Wisley on the Executive?”

  “I will.”

  Morpice Porpentine still wasn’t convinced. “But what do we say when people…you know…”

  “You outface them.” Sir Mormus thrust out his chin. “You ignore them. Or you speak up for him. Praise him, be proud of him, express complete confidence in him. Let no one suspect a moment of doubt.”

  There was a long silence as the Porpentines digested Sir Mormus’s strategy. Col looked down at his feet and wished that the floor would open and swallow him up.

  Then Ebnolia spoke again. “So he goes back to school on Monday, as though nothing ever happened?”

  “Precisely.”

  A hand rose with another question. Col was surprised to see that it belonged to Gillabeth. Normally, his sister was far too proper to put herself forward in a gathering of adults.

  The hand remained aloft until Sir Mormus deigned to notice it. “Well?”

  “Sir, would it be a good idea to have someone at school to keep a watch on him? Report on any trouble brewing?”

  “Who?”

  “I’d do it, sir. If you enrolled me at Dr Blessamy’s Academy.”

  Ebnolia tut-tutted disapprovingly and Quinnea let out a little snuffle of dismay. But the general mood of the room was in favour.

  “Only for the sake of the family, sir,” Gillabeth added.

  After due consideration, Sir Mormus agreed with the general mood. “So be it. We shall make the arrangements.”

  Gillabeth lowered her eyes with an air of duty performed and virtue vindicated.

  Then Sir Mormus strode to the doors and flung them open. “Serve dinner!” he called out.

  Col went and took his seat at his grandfather’s table. On all sides, people were discussing the situation in animated voices. But no one wanted to discuss it with Col. He almost wished they’d turn on him with their blame and accusations. But no one wanted to have anything to do with him.

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Thirty-Four

  Col’s weekend was a social agony. On Saturday, he went with his mother and grandmother to a knitting club, where Menial servants knitted for charity while their mistresses chatted over tea and scones. Quinnea was no more eager to attend than Col, but Grandmother Ebnolia insisted. Sitting in a circle with the other ladies, Ebnolia kept steering the conversation onto Col’s successes at school. Never before had he been required to do so much talking, going through every result of every test in which he’d top-scored. Ebnolia was effusive in her praise and confident he would soon be first in every subject. Knowing how Mr Gibber decided the marks made it even more of a mockery in Col’s ears.

  Later, there was an evening of parlour games with the Rumpley Porpentines. Adults and children from all branches of the family were present, along with selected guests from other families. ‘I-spy’ was the main game played, in a room where every possible object had been ‘spied’ a hundred times before. The adult Porpentines smiled at Col and made a point of applauding his correct guesses.

  It was a polite façade, and they kept it up perfectly. Yet Col was always aware of their secret shame and underlying hostility. He looked across at his father and began to understand the inward torture he’d endured for so many years. Every pleasant word was like the twist of a knife.

  On Sunday, there was a subtle change. The stories about Col must have spread and the Porpentines were no longer the only ones who knew the secret. Still no one spoke out openly, yet there was a wariness in the way the other families looked at him. He sensed it in a morning social visit to the Trumpingtons and an afternoon social visit to the Jessicles. But the worst was a supper party at the Paramoughs.

  It was a party to celebrate the decoration of the Paramoughs’ new lounge room. Everyone admired the huge wall mirrors, gilded cornices and frescoed ceiling. Menials with trays kept the guests supplied with food and drink.

  As the throng circulated, Col stayed close to Ebnolia or Sir Mormus or both. He was conscious of being watched, his every action noted and examined. It was as though he was still coated in grease and grime. The moment he turned, the watchers looked the other way.

  When people came up to talk, Ebnolia included him in the conversation. They talked of recent news, of children and families, of social and public events. But there was always a silence around Friday’s events, the day when he’d fallen Below. He was sure they were all deliberately steering clear of it.

  He tried to follow his grandparents’ lead and outface the look in people’s eyes. He would blot that Friday out of existence. But he made a serious blunder towards the end of the supper party.

  It happened when a piece of the cupcake he was eating broke off and dropped to the floor. Quick as a flash, he bent down and retrieved it. It was an instantaneous reaction – like the reactions of the Filthies in their deadly, dangerous environment. But it was not proper here.

  He realised what he’d done wrong even as he straightened up with the cake in his hand. There was an “Ah!” of indrawn breath from around the room, and a pause in the flow of conversation.

  Of course, it wasn’t for a Porpentine to clean up after himself! Of course, he should have waited for a Menial to do it! Of course, of course, of course!

  Ebnolia deflected attention by snapping at the nearest Menial. “You, come here. At once. Stay alert.” She made it appear that the Menial had been slow to respond. “My grandson will have something to say to you.”

  Col took his cue and addressed the Menial in a loud, stern voice. “Be quicker next time. You shouldn’t need to be called. Put out your hand.” The Menial put out a hand and Col deposited the cake into his open palm. “Now go. Out of my sight.”

  Even as he spoke, he seemed to hear himself like another person. His tyrannical tone sounded unreal and unconvincing.

  “As I was saying…” Sir Mormus resumed.

  The moment had passed. But Col had no heart for making Smalltalk any more.

  So this is how it will be, he reflected. H
is future seemed to stretch out ahead in an infinity of wretchedness. He would be always acting a role, while everyone pretended to carry on as normal. He would know what people were really thinking…and they would know he knew…yet nobody would ever speak of it aloud. He was locked into this strange twilight state forever.

  By the end of the supper party he just wanted to scream. Instead, he hurried to his room and flung himself on his bed.

  It was a relief to turn his mind to that other world of Below, where fast reactions were the difference between life and death. He remembered his journey with Riff and her amazing acrobatic skills.

  But that memory led on to other, less pleasant memories.

  He recalled the meeting of the Revolutionary Council where he’d promised to lower a rope for her to climb up. The tattooed girl called Dunga had said, Let’s hope you don’t regret this, and Riff had answered, He’ll do it. But he still hadn’t done it…

  What would she think of him now? He couldn’t tell her what had happened on his return, how everything had become so much more difficult.

  And there was another memory from the Council meeting. In his mind’s eye, he saw the glances Riff and Padder exchanged when Fossie had said Col wasn’t bad-looking. There was a connection between them, no doubt about it.

  He groaned. He knew he ought to keep his promise. Professor Twillip had always taught that a man’s word was his bond, with countless examples from the ancient Greeks and Romans. But surely the ancient Greeks and Romans had never had to deal with a problem like this.

  He couldn’t just walk down to the food chute and lower a rope. Perhaps later, when the situation had settled down…

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Thirty-Five

  On Monday, Col dawdled to school with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He took so long on the way that the bell was ringing by the time he approached the entrance arch. But it wasn’t an ordinary start to the school day. Instead of streaming up the ramps to their classrooms, the pupils were forming up in class groups in the yard. Teachers barked orders and tried to tidy their classes into compact squares.

  Col went across to stand with 4A. The Squellingham group didn’t notice him until Fefferley let out a sudden squawk. Then they stared at him in silent amazement.

  They never expected to see me back at school, Col thought grimly.

  “Quiet! Quiet!” shouted Mr Dandrum, the deputy principal. “Dr Blessamy will address you now.”

  Dr Blessamy must have mounted a set of portable steps because he stood head and shoulders above the throng in the yard.

  “Dear, dear boys and girls,” he began. “Those of you who are dear. This is a sad day for your old headmaster. I have to tell you about an incident which…an incident that…in short, that kind of incident. A dropping-down. I’m sure I don’t have to say any more.”

  He pulled out a large white handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “After all my years of devotion to our Academy. Every one of you, a sacred trust. And now…in the autumn of my…autumnal years…”

  He broke off, blew his nose into his handkerchief, then dabbed around his eyes with it.

  “It is not for me to pass judgement. But someone has gone where they should not have gone. Someone has seen what they should not have seen. Dear boys and girls, be on your guard against lowering influences. Avoid them like…er…things to be avoided.”

  His eyes roamed over the assembly, yet always managed to miss looking at Col.

  “We must maintain our reputation. We must live pure lives and think pure thoughts. Your teachers will be your role models, and I will be their role model. Never forget our school motto: Loyalty, Integrity and…the other one.”

  Col wondered whether the students had already heard the story. Did they know which pupil they were being warned against?

  When classes began, half an hour late, Mr Gibber launched into a campaign against lowering influences.

  “We shall follow our headmaster’s example or my name’s not Bartrim Gibber. That’s Mr Gibber to you, 4A.” He stood at the front of the class with his hands behind his back. “Are we all ready to think pure thoughts? I shall be your role model. Like this.” He put on an expression like a half-dazed sheep. “Start thinking, everyone. That goes for you too, Nebblethwaite.”

  There was silence around the classroom as the pupils tried out a variety of facial expressions.

  “Good, good.” Mr Gibber cracked his knuckles. “Only pure thoughts. None of the other kind. If I suspected any of those…” He went to his cane rack, selected three canes and laid them out side by side on his desk. “That should take care of all possibilities. My Number Three, Number Seven and Number Thirteen. Now. Is anyone in this classroom thinking those other thoughts?”

  There was a general shaking of heads. Mr Gibber homed in on a boy in the front row.

  “What about you, Snellshott? A bit uncertain, are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Melstruther?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What are you thinking, Hegglenock?”

  “The same thoughts as you, sir.”

  “The same as me, the same as me.” Mr Gibber seemed highly delighted. “Is anyone not thinking the same as me?”

  He picked up one of his canes and swished it through the air. Faster and faster, until it was no more than a blur.

  “Because I’d have to drive out those other thoughts, wouldn’t I? Nasty little ideas! Dirty pictures in the mind! Not in my classroom! No, sir!”

  He began dancing back and forth, shooting sharp glances in every direction.

  “Do you know what I’d do to those thoughts, Prewitt? Do you know what I’d do, Clatterick? I’d beat them into oblivion! Ob-liv-ee-un!”

  He darted suddenly into the aisle between the desks of the Squellingham group and stopped right next to Col. He wasn’t looking at Col, yet Col had become the centre of everyone’s attention.

  “Disgusting, shameful thoughts. Filthiness, filthiness, such filthy filthiness.” Mr Gibber raised his left hand and glared at it. “If this was the hand of a boy having impure thoughts, do you know what I’d do? I’d teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget! No mercy! I wouldn’t think twice!”

  He placed his hand flat on Col’s desk and swung at it with his cane.

  “Take that! Ow!”

  He jumped back and waggled his fingers as if to cool them. He had worked up to a state of manic excitement.

  “No!” he yelled. “Take your punishment!! You don’t get off as easily as that!”

  He put his hand on someone else’s desk and dealt himself another stroke of the cane.

  “Yieee-ow!”

  The pupils were cheering and egging him on. He repeated the performance a third time.

  “Filthiness! Filthiness! Want some more, do you? Drive it out! Out, out – Aaaaaagh!”

  This time he had really hurt himself. He dropped the cane and retreated to the front of the room, blowing on his injured fingers.

  “That’ll do,” he told the class. “Now you know what you can expect if you think impure thoughts. Take out your Chemistry books.”

  Normal lessons resumed for the rest of the day. Mr Gibber kept his left hand in his breeches pocket and came back after morning break with a bandage wrapped around it. He continued to prowl about and throw out unexpected questions. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking, Wunstable?’ ‘What’s that in your mind, Swiddlington?”

  Col sensed it was all directed at him, though Mr Gibber didn’t dare make open attacks on a Porpentine. Clearly, the teachers knew the identity of the ‘someone’ Dr Blessamy had been talking about. It was only a matter of time before the whole school knew.

  Col kept away from the Squellingham group all day.

  When the twins opened their hamper for lunch, Col opted for school food: a sausage roll and a fish-paste sandwich. In the afternoon, they whispered and passed notes to one another.

  Col suspected they were plotting against him, but it se
emed somehow muffled and distant. He had the impression that a pane of glass had risen around him, cutting him off from the rest of the classroom. He let his mind float away into memories of Riff.

  The strange thing was, he couldn’t quite remember what she looked like – or he could remember too well. There were too many pictures in his mind to pin her down in any one version. Riff angry, Riff mocking, Riff amused, Riff boastful…there were so many different Riffs, so unpredictable!

  When he counted back over his encounters with her, he was amazed to realise he’d met her only four times. It seemed more like four hundred…

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Thirty-Six

  Tuesday began in the same way as Monday. Perhaps the Squellingham group’s whispering was more malevolent; probably more of the other students now looked at Col askance. He found himself standing alone at morning break and again at lunch. Then he saw his sister in the schoolyard.

  When had she arrived? This must be her first day at school. She looked neat and tidy in her new school uniform, as only Gillabeth could look neat and tidy.

  She too was standing on her own. He waved and went across, but she only glared at him.

  “No,” she hissed. “I’m here to report on what other students are saying about you. I won’t hear anything if we’re seen together.”

  “But…”

  “I have a job to do for the family. I can’t afford to be friendly with you.”

  You wouldn’t know what friendly means, Col thought to himself. “Okay,” he said aloud. “Let me know what you find out.”

  Gillabeth bridled as though what he’d suggested was the height of immorality. “Of course not. I report to Grandfather and the family. They can repeat it to you if they want.”

  She turned away and marched off. Col stared at her retreating back. Something told him that her reports would show him in a very bad light indeed.

  But if Gillabeth didn’t want to be friendly, someone else did. Before the end of the lunch break, a cluster of 4B girls approached him, giggling and nudging one another. Presumably they hadn’t heard any rumours about him yet. One of them was Sephaltina Turbot.