Worldshaker 01; Worldshaker

by Richard Harland

  “No, lower!”

  “From the left!”

  “Forward and back! Hit and pull out!”

  Faster and faster they went at it, panting and grunting. Col could feel the improvement in himself: a rhythm and tightness to all his movements. After a while, Riff couldn’t just swerve aside, but had to use her hands to deflect his blows.

  Then she called a break. “Good, you’re gettin’ it,” she said. “Remember, never get boxed in. You say there’s a whole gang against yer. Stay arm’s length, keep yer freedom of movement.”

  Col’s sleeveless jumper was soaked through with sweat. It had been gathering sweat night after night and now smelled sour and rank.

  Suddenly Col didn’t care about propriety. So what if he looked like a male Filthy? He wanted to fight like a Filthy, he might as well look one too…He pulled off the jumper and stood bare to the waist.

  “Yeah, better,” said Riff, eyeing him curiously.

  They resumed training. Riff devised a new exercise involving the rolled-up blanket and Col’s pillow and socks. Arming herself with the socks, she propped the pillow on one end of his bed, the blanket on the other. He had to deal with opponent after opponent as she called out in random order, “Blanket!’ ‘Pillow!’ ‘Me!” He swung around and around, hitting and dodging, while socks came flying at him through the air.

  Everything became a blur. He hardly knew what he was doing, yet he was strangely infallible. His body had taken over from his mind. He wasn’t thinking about tomorrow or school or anything. Just this instant…and the next…and the next…Movement flowing into movement! He wanted to shout and laugh with the intoxication of it.

  “Me!” called Riff.

  He ducked under a sock, pivoted and aimed at her solar plexus. Almost too quick! She missed his fist with her hand and only half blocked it with her forearm. The blow caught her glancingly just above the hip.

  “Uff!” she gasped.

  Before he could draw back, she grabbed his arm, twisted, knelt, pulled and flipped him over her right shoulder.

  In one split second, he was hurtling towards the bedroom wall…in the next split second, he reacted and countered. He met the wall with hands and feet, absorbing the impact like a spring, then recoiled and launched straight back at her.

  He caught her by surprise and tumbled her to the floor. They sprawled together in a tangle of arms and legs.

  So close, his bare chest weighing down on her arm, his face above hers…

  He couldn’t tell whether she was spluttering with laughter or with anger. All he knew was the blood pounding in his ears and a sensation of drowning in a dark wave.

  It was like the time when she’d kissed him…

  He leaned forward, closed his eyes and pressed his lips to hers.

  At once she twisted aside. A moan of disappointment came out of his mouth.

  When he opened his eyes, she was looking at him. Raised eyebrows, quizzical expression.

  “Full of surprises, ain’t yer?” she said.

  She didn’t seem especially shocked. But he was. He couldn’t believe what he’d just tried to do. His behaviour would have been unacceptable even for a Filthy. And the moan that had escaped from his lips…like an animal! There was no excuse and no justification. Where did it come from, that dark wave rising up in him? Where had it been hidden? It was like someone else’s personality. He would never be able to trust himself again.

  She disengaged her arms and legs, and jumped up. “Okay, come on, let’s get back to it.”

  The training resumed but Col’s heart wasn’t in it. When they practised the same exercise, Riff dodged his attacking moves with ease. He wasn’t afraid of hitting her, he was afraid of letting go. He didn’t dare risk his body taking over from his mind again.

  “What’s wrong with yer?” she asked after a while.

  He didn’t answer. He kept picturing the way she’d twisted aside. Of course, if she was partnered with Padder, she couldn’t let just any boy kiss her. Shame and mortification twisted a knot in the pit of his stomach.

  Finally, Riff called it quits. “I guess you ain’t fit enough to train non-stop.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “I reckon you are. You’re slowin’ down.”

  “I wish I had more time. I’m not ready to fight tomorrow.”

  Riff shrugged. “You can still win. Just think like a winner.” Col nodded, but he didn’t believe it.

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Forty-Eight

  There were no lessons on the last day of term. Mr Gibber patted Murgatrude in his wastepaper basket and allowed the class to amuse themselves. Mostly they played games of hangman or noughts and crosses, swivelling in their seats to form pairs. Col wasn’t surprised that no one offered to include him in a game.

  He was surprised that a few of the grindboys and crawlers looked a tiny bit sorry for him. Everyone must know what the Squellinghams intended to do. The peaceful lethargy in the classroom was like the calm before the storm.

  Morning break was the first danger period. Col stayed close by the master on playground duty, hovering in the middle of the yard while Mr Dandrum puffed on his pipe and swung back and forth on the swing. He hated himself for doing it. Only one day, he told himself. I’ll be better trained after the holidays.

  The Squellingham group didn’t approach, but roamed round the yard in a pack. They were co-opting new members. By the end of the break, they had added two climbers from 4A, Prewitt and Melstruther, and two older boys from 5A. The odds had climbed from six against one to ten against one.

  The next danger period was the lunch break. Now Mr Gortliss swung on the swing, while Mrs Stummer stood talking to him. Even better. Col pretended to be studying cracks in the surface of the yard.

  But he was famished. The trestle table where two Menials served out food was twenty paces away. Perhaps when the queue of students had gone…

  He checked around for the Squellingham group. They weren’t in a pack, but had split up and ranged themselves around the sides of the yard.

  Five minutes, ten minutes passed. The savoury smells of pies and sausage rolls made him salivate.

  Finally, there were no more students waiting to be served. Mrs Stummer was still talking to Mr Gortliss. He made his move.

  But two girls from 3B moved first. They lined up at the food table in front of him and he had to stand and wait his turn.

  The two of them discussed the merits of cheese or chutney sandwiches. They couldn’t make up their minds.

  Already his enemies were starting to come forward, converging towards him. Surely they wouldn’t attack with two teachers only twenty paces away?

  But when he looked again, Mrs Stummer was walking off. The conversation was over and Mr Gortliss was facing the other way.

  No time! He lunged forward between the two girls, snatched up a sausage roll, turned to run – and someone grabbed him by the elbow.

  Fefferley! His fat, buttery face was one big smirk of triumph.

  Col squashed the sausage roll over the bridge of his nose, right between the eyes.

  Fefferley staggered and Col broke free. The rest of the Squellingham group rushed towards him. Impossible to get back to the safety of Mr Gortliss, they’d cut him off first.

  He took off in the other direction, narrowly evading Lumbridge’s outstretched arms. The toilets were his only hope of refuge. He swerved round other students or knocked them out of the way.

  He reached the toilets just ahead of his pursuers. He swung into the first empty cubicle, slammed the door and fastened the catch.

  There was no light inside, only nameless smells and the sound of dripping water. All toilets were kept dark to preserve the modesty of those who visited them. The toilet bowl was a mere pale ghost of a shape. Col lowered the wooden seat and sat on it.

  Voices outside. “Come out, Porpentine!”

  “Come and get what’s coming to you!”

  Col stayed where he was. The smell was stomach
-churning. Shadows of feet moved back and forth in the narrow band of light under the door.

  Then they began pounding on the door with their fists. The thumps and bangs were deafening in the small closed space, but the door was made of solid wood. Mere noise wouldn’t drive him out.

  After a while, the banging stopped. He could hear them whispering. Then something moved in the crack at the side of the door.

  It was a ruler. They were planning to lift and unhook the catch! Col leaped forward and seized hold of the end before they could work it upwards. He pulled the whole ruler in through the crack and out of their hands.

  There was a baffled cry from outside. He snapped the ruler in half, kicked the two bits out under the door and returned to his seat.

  Time passed. They were still out there, still whispering. What next?

  A massive weight crashed against the door. Someone was shoulder-charging the door, trying to batter it down. Lumbridge, at a guess.

  Col jumped up, planted his feet and braced himself against the wood.

  A second run-up, a second crash. The impact jarred his bones and rattled his teeth.

  “More! More! More!” came the chant from outside.

  Crash after crash after crash. Col’s shoulder was bruised and aching. He guessed that the hinges would burst before the wood broke. Already the screws were coming loose. Probably another two or three charges…

  He decided then. Even though he couldn’t outfight them all, he wouldn’t be caught like a rat in a trap. He’d take a few of them by surprise, at least.

  “Let’s get it over with,” he muttered, and prepared to raise the catch.

  But he dropped his hand when the bell rang for the end of the lunch break.

  Reprieved!

  “We’ll get you after school, Porpentine,” hissed a voice through the crack. “We’ll get you ten times worse.”

  He listened to the receding sounds outside. Gradually the schoolyard hubbub faded to silence. By the time he came out, everyone had gone except for the two Menials.

  They were preparing to pack up the food table. Still there was one sandwich left. Col swooped on it: cheese and ham. He ate it in three bites as he made his way up the ramp and back to the 4A classroom.

  Mr Gibber rubbed his bobble of a nose but made no comment on Col’s late return. The Squellingham group didn’t even glance in his direction. Everyone had gone back to their games of hangman and noughts and crosses.

  When Col opened the lid of his desk, he found a new note waiting for him.

  YOU’LL WISH YOU’D NEVER BEEN BORN!

  THIS IS THE END FOR YOU!

  YOU’RE DEAD!

  How could they have done it? He stared at the red letters and remembered Riff’s idea. Who had a bottle of red ink in their desk?

  He was still thinking about it when there was a gentle knock on the classroom door.

  Dr Blessamy poked his head in. “Colbert Porpentine? Your father is here for you. Leave your satchel and come along now.”

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Forty-Nine

  Col didn’t care about the reasons, he was just grateful to escape. It turned out that his father had come to escort him up to Fifty-First Deck. With his sad, bulging eyes, Orris could never look happy, yet he seemed less hangdog than usual. In fact, Col began to suspect that he was actually elated.

  He refused to reveal why Col had been summoned. “Your grandfather doesn’t want me to tell you.”

  “The Executive Chamber is on Fifty-First Deck, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “Is there a meeting of the Executive?”

  “Your grandfather doesn’t want me to tell you.”

  Twenty minutes later, they approached the door of the Chamber. Orris didn’t enter, but turned off into a small oak-panelled anteroom.

  Inside sat Grandmother Ebnolia, perched on the room’s only chair. She was dressed in her very best clothes, with her waist almost corsetted out of existence.

  Col was becoming more curious. “What’s happening?” he asked his grandmother.

  “Shush.” She nodded towards a further double door.

  A murmur of voices filtered through from the other side. Col recognised Queen Victoria’s clear-cut enunciation and the rusty bass of Prince Albert.

  There was a crack where the two halves of the door didn’t quite meet in the middle. While Orris stared at the floor and Ebnolia remained sitting, Col sidled up to it. No one said anything to stop him when he leaned forward and applied his eye to the crack.

  It was a meeting of the Executive. The tables were arranged in a semi-circle, as for the Imperial inquiry. Sir Wisley Squellingham paced up and down, in and out of Col’s field of vision. He was making a speech to the Queen and the Executive.

  “It has come to the point, Your Imperial Majesty, where your Supreme Commander no longer commands automatic trust and respect from the members of your Executive. Although he bears the keys of office, I am sorry to say that his judgement is suspect. He has failed to show leadership since a certain event of a fortnight ago.”

  Sir Mormus rose in his seat on the Queen’s right-hand side. Col expected a contemptuous blast of rebuttal. But Sir Mormus said nothing.

  “It is a grave step we propose, Your Majesty.” Sir Wisley stabbed the air with his forefinger. “A motion of no confidence in your Supreme Commander. But we must have unity on the Executive. We have asked for this vote to be taken in your presence.”

  Prince Albert harrumphed. “And if Porpentine loses?”

  Sir Wisley opted for humility. “I leave it for my Queen to decide what should happen.”

  Queen Victoria turned to her Supreme Commander. “Well, Sir Mormus?”

  “Certainly.” Sir Mormus was at his most magnificent. “Let Squellingham have his vote, if he wants. I have more important things to think about.”

  “More important?”

  “Your Imperial Majesty, I have a request to make on behalf of the Porpentine and Turbot families.”

  Sir Wisley swivelled to shoot a venomous glance at Chief Helmsman Turbot. Then back to Queen Victoria. “The motion comes first,” he hissed.

  But he had been caught off-balance and his protest lacked conviction.

  “No, no,” said Queen Victoria. “Let’s see what can be more important than a no-confidence motion.”

  Sir Mormus turned to face the double door, as though looking straight at Col. “My grandson Colbert,” he boomed. “Let him step forth.”

  Suddenly, the two halves of the door were flung open. Col realised with surprise that his father had come up on his left and his grandmother on his right.

  He found himself ushered out into the middle of the Chamber. The members of the Executive gaped at him.

  “What is this?”

  “What’s going on?”

  Sir Mormus addressed himself exclusively to Queen Victoria. “My grandson wishes to get married, Your Majesty.”

  Gasps came from all around the Chamber – and one of them was Col’s.

  “He asks for your permission to marry Sephaltina Turbot,” Sir Mormus went on.

  On Col’s left, Orris was nodding his head in silent approval.

  Queen Victoria knitted her brow. “Isn’t he rather young?”

  Sir Wisley broke in. “Impossible! Of course it’s impossible! He’s not twenty-one. Nowhere near twenty-one.”

  “He’s sixteen.” Ebnolia dropped a hint of a curtsey towards Her Imperial Majesty. “Sephaltina Turbot is seventeen. They can still get married by special dispensation from the Queen.”

  “It’s not right!” Sir Wisley was livid. “It’s against all precedent!”

  “There have been precedents.” Ebnolia’s sweet tones cut through his bluster like a knife. “Three times before. It’s all in the records of the Imperial Church. I can show you, if you’d like.”

  Sir Wisley took a deep breath. “There must have been reasons before. Reasons of state, reasons of something. There are no reasons now. Except fo
r a plot to frustrate the will of the Executive.”

  Queen Victoria spoke up. “What reasons, Sir Mormus? What reasons, Lady Porpentine?”

  Ebnolia answered with her most grandmotherly smile. “They love each other, Your Majesty.”

  Chief Helmsman Turbot rose to his feet. He pointed to a matching double door on the opposite side of the Chamber. “Let my daughter present herself.”

  The second double door flew open and Sephaltina stepped forward, accompanied by the Honourable Hommelia Turbot.

  Col stared in surprise. The last time he had seen Sephaltina, she had been wearing school uniform. Now her flaxen hair was dressed in elaborate plaits and bound with blue ribbons. Her cheeks had been powdered and her rosebud mouth seemed even smaller and rosier.

  “Let them stand together,” said Sir Mormus.

  Ebnolia and Hommelia shepherded Col and Sephaltina into position, side by side. Sephaltina nibbled bashfully at her lower lip.

  “Don’t they make a lovely couple?” murmured Ebnolia.

  “Too young,” snarled Sir Wisley.

  Queen Victoria waved him to silence and spoke to Col and Sephaltina. “And where did the two of you meet?”

  “At Dr Blessamy’s Academy,” said Sephaltina.

  Queen Victoria clapped her hands. “How delightful! And do you really and truly love each other?”

  “Say yes,” murmured Orris in a low voice that carried only to Col’s ear.

  “Yes,” Col answered Queen Victoria. “Your Majesty.”

  “And the young girl?”

  Sephaltina blushed and lowered her eyes.

  “She’s been quite insistent.” Hommelia spoke up for her daughter. “Hasn’t she, Turbot?”

  “Indeed,” said the Chief Helmsman. “Very determined on the idea.”

  Queen Victoria’s long horse-face was almost girlish as she turned to her Consort. “What do you think, my dear? Shall I grant my special permission?”