Swiftly: A Novel (GollanczF.)

by Adam Roberts

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘To the west is York, and to the morrow is a battle. This day now dawning. The sun intimates its coming by painting the walls of the eastern horizon with orange and yellow. And the battle is here, sir.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘You were travelling to the city.’ This was not a question.

  ‘Indeed. But the military needs—’

  ‘Mr Dean of York,’ said this French officer of military. ‘Am I to take it you are by way of an advance party?’

  ‘Advance?’ repeated the Dean, a little confused.

  You have ridden your giant horse—’ and here, as if reminded of the existence of the Brobdingnagians, the Frenchman shook his head and t’t-t’ted. ‘Such poor allies. So great their strength, and yet they can only with the greatest effort be persuaded to use it against human life! They are peaceable. Quakers in spirit if not in name, sir.’

  ‘I do not believe you have honoured me with you name, sir,’ said Oldenberg.

  ‘And this light in the sky has distracted them further,’ said the Frenchman, talking as if the Dean had not spoken. ‘My men are - how do we say it in English - spooked by the light as well. My captains are having a devil’s job of keeping their minds on the coming battle. They take it as an omen, sir.’

  The Dean looked up. The sky was now pearl, the eastern stars swallowed up in the pre-dawn, the western stars shrivelled and greyed. The sliver of the moon looked as insubstantial as a magic-lantern projection against the pale screen of the atmosphere. But the great white circle still shone, like a silver sun, or a great globe of glass suspended in the heavens and lit from within. For the first time the sheer strangeness of this apparition penetrated the Dean’s resolute self-absorption. ‘It is queer,’ he said. ‘What is it? It is an oddity. It is a comet. We saw a comet in Scarborough - has it come so close to the world?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the French - Colonel, General, whoever he was. ‘What else?’

  ‘It has swung perilous close to the world,’ said the Dean.

  ‘You observed its approach?’

  ‘I - did not,’ said the Dean, reluctant to add that he had been inside a pocket, for fear that it would paint him in a ridiculous light. He had a great fear, as do most pompous men, of appearing to others as ridiculous.

  ‘No?’ said the Frenchman. ‘It was a curious thing. There was rain, a mighty deal of rain. But then, of a sudden, as if it had veered rapidly in, the light of the comet was apparent behind the clouds. Understand this: the clouds were black, black in themselves and black in the night. Thick clouds, like blankets, and rain pouring from them. But nevertheless the light became visible, first a smudge, and then a blot of brightness. Then the clouds thinned and parted, as if driven away by the light. As a breath of hot air may drive away cold fog. And they boiled and separated and in the middle was black sky and the great circle of light. It swelled. It swelled and grew. My men - we were all looking up, and some cried aloud in grief and some threw themselves down and prayed, for it looked as though the comet was to collide into the earth. To crash into our heads.’

  ‘Good lord,’ said the Dean, weakly.

  ‘It is fortunate that we have discipline in the Army French, fortunate. I ordered the troops from their tents and to form lines. A soldier feels more comfortable facing death if he is in an orderly line, with his comrades on either side. So we lined up. And the light grew and grew and - stopped. It is an unaccountable comet. It may have become tangled in the rigging of the sky, or perhaps it is spinning, or perhaps the explanation is some other thing. But it is coming no closer.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing,’ said the Dean.

  ‘Indeed. But we are soldiers, and we have the job before us. The sun is coming up, and in no more than an hour we shall go to battle. The English are arrayed before York town, and we must attack.’

  ‘Attack?’ said the Dean, half-comprehendingly.

  ‘Indeed. What else are soldiers for?’

  ‘There was a comet presaging disaster before Hastings,’ said the Dean, his head back. ‘The tapestry-maker at Bayeux stitched it into his fabric. Made of dabs of fabric rather than dabs of light. Though that one did not come so close, at Hastings, yet they are both cometary. Cometary. A comet, and then King Harold goes to battle against the French at Hastings . . .’

  ‘Ten and sixty-six,’ said the French commander. ‘It presaged disaster, but only for the English. Not for the French.’ He smiled broadly. ‘And I have told my troops so.’

  ‘I cannot tear my eyes from the sight,’ said the Dean in a desolate voice, still looking up.

  ‘You,’ said the French commander. ‘You have come from Monsieur le Colonel Larroche.’

  ‘I - we have.’

  ‘You are, in other words, by way of an advance guard?’

  ‘I fear I do not...’ started the Dean. His eyes were constantly pulled upwards towards the light in the sky.

  ‘Sir you are slow,’ said the French commander, for the first time appearing to lose a little of his temper. ‘Larroche is my man. I know what his mission is. Why he would send someone as unmilitary as yourself I know not - unless it be that only a man of the Church could persuade the Brobdingnagian giant to carry them - for of course they are as superstitious and religious in their minds as they are stubborn and peaceable in their habits. So: is it thus? Larroche sent you because the giant would carry none other? But he sent you to inform me that he is marching hard over the countryside to join us? Is this your message?’

  The Dean looked at the French commander with wide-opened eyes. ‘It is to say,’ he started, and paused. ‘It is to say,’ he tried again. With a knot of resolution he pushed the lie through: ‘You hit it exactly, Monsieur le Commandant. This is exactly the situation. Colonel Larroche is force-marching to . . .’

  ‘Colonel Larroche and a force of. . .?’

  But the Dean was unused to lying, and poor at thinking on his feet. ‘I am,’ he began, ‘which is to say, I am unsure as to the numbers of men . . .’

  ‘Surely the Colonel would not send you on such a mission without this information? It is vital that I know.’

  ‘But of course,’ said the Dean, looking at the ground. The light was strong enough now to etch each of the blades of grass dark blue and green in the sward by his boots. Nearby was the dint pressed flat, as big as the keel of a great ship, by the giant’s foot; and beyond it the impressions of other feet. ‘The Colonel leads a force of,’ he plucked a number from the air, ‘four hundred men.’

  ‘So many?’

  ‘We were reinforced from the sea,’ said the Dean. He twirled his right hand.

  ‘It matters not. How far are they? For our hostilities will commence very soon, and the sooner they arrive the better.’

  ‘A few hours’ march, no more.’

  ‘A few?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Two hours?’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘Good, very good, but tell me, Monsieur,’ said the Frenchman. ‘This is not the true purpose of the Colonel’s mission. He has the device? Yes?’

  And here the Dean had no need to lie. ‘He has,’ he said.

  ‘He brings it?’

  ‘It is well guarded,’ he said, ‘and brought hither drawn by horses. Yes he brings it.’ It occurred to him to add And I have the key to it in my pocket, but he restrained himself. He had no idea where these lies were taking him. Indeed, he did not know quite what he was doing, or why he had said what he had said, except that he felt it prudent to ingratiate himself with this unnamed commander. But the full import of what he had been told began to sink through his mental slowness. A battle was about to commence!

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said, starting forward and laying a hand on the sleeve of the Frenchman’s uniform. ‘The battle is almost upon us. This lady ...’ and he gestured towards Eleanor.

  ‘I confess I am surprised that Larroche would send a gentlewoman upon such a mission.’

  As Walter Scott wrote, it is a horrib
ly entangling business when one first essays deception. How to explain her presence? ‘It is unusual, I grant,’ he said. ‘The lady is my fiancée.’ Should he have said wife? It was too late. ‘She was disinclined to be separated from me.’

  ‘So, so, and thus you have brought her to a very dangerous place,’ said the Frenchman.

  ‘Is there no haven, so safe place in which she could shelter?’

  ‘Look about you, sir,’ said the Frenchman.

  It was now plain day. To the east the sun, molten orange and coldly bright, lay upon the high horizon as if it had been balanced there. Its illumination combined with the white light from above to light in pale yellow the whole of their surroundings. Oldenberg could see that they were on a broad sloping hill, pasture all the way up, westward, to a distant line of trees. Below them, away to the east, was a broad and shallow valley, a twisting river, the tessellated parallelograms and strips of fields marked out by stone walls. Closer at hand lay a host of pyramidal blue tents and the black asterists of numerous dead campfires; and there, being mustered by their mounted officers, many thousands of blue-uniformed troops. And beyond this scene, on the far side of the little river, toy multitudes of English soldiers, likewise forming ranks. The officers, likewise mounted, were conspicuous in their red coats; the ordinary soldiers milled and formed up. The red looked like some thousand flames in amongst the dark green. On both sides of the river units were wheeling; men were readying their rifles and fussing about the cannon.

  ‘You see there is no shelter,’ said the Frenchman. ‘I should say to your fiancée to remain behind the lines; but when the artillery begins this will be no guarantee of security. You should not have brought her.’

  ‘Eleanor,’ the Dean cried, turning, and turning about to find her. ‘Eleanor !’

  He could not see her. She had gone.

  He looked again, and saw her rushing towards the legs of the two distant giants. It occurred to the Dean (and as he thought it he thought to himself how strange that this had not occurred to him before) how very large and easy a target the giants must make to the cannonaders. ‘Eleanor!’ he cried. That was no safe place, where she was going. He took two steps towards her, and stopped. ‘Eleanor, where are you going? Not there! Not there!’

  Then things happened very suddenly, although in a distinct sequence and without ever losing a sense of perfect clarity. Eleanor was running towards the giants; or if not running exactly then proceeding rapidly, walking at the briskest of paces. The light hung in the sky. Then it suddenly increased in intensity, like a lucifer’s flare or a candle about to gutter. There was an unreal vividness in the very air; every one of the French commander’s wrinkles and pores, every untrimmed stalk of bristle on his chin and lip, leapt out at Oldenberg. An abrupt stench of scorched hair, or something very like it. The Dean turned to face the direction of this flare of light, and was dazzled, whiteness, blankness, and then the bleached-out vision of startled eyes, in which the sight of things returns to the senses but with a hollowed-out quality. He blinked, and blinked again. The air was burly around him. There was a wind blowing, a sudden and violent wind; it made the grass struggle frantically below and it flapped the tails of his coat with great force. Then, strong as it was, the wind grew sharply in intensity, and the Dean felt it shove at his body, such that he lost his footing and fell backwards.

  He climbed to his feet again, and the air was still. The comet was still large in the sky above him. The two giants, who had been standing a few hundred yards away, had vanished. And so had Eleanor.

  [6]

  Conviction lent speed to his heels, but the going was not easy. Gugglerum flew in his craft, tracing carrion-bird circles up above, and Bates pressed on as fast as he could. But he was not a man in prime physical condition, and his sufferings over the previous days had drained him further. He struggled along the York road, but was compelled frequently to rest. He sat on the grass bank with his legs out straight, and the angle between them no greater than thirty degrees. The buzzing of the flying device distracted him. Memories of nightmare, the bird of prey, the pigeonhawk swooping on the pigeon, death coming from above, these thoughts assaulted his mind. It was a plague of fantasy. He told himself: But this Lilliputian is my friend! Yet it had a hollow sound. Though little, his escort possessed the sky, while Bates was confined to the trudgy ground, and each step felt like the step towards his own death. He went slow. Gugglerum would fly off, swoop higher, swing low, and land bouncing and wobbly on the grass beside him.

  ‘We must move more quickly.’

  ‘I am exhausted.’

  ‘This is as nothing. Your tiredness does not signify.’

  Bates shook his head, as a dog shakes himself dry. ‘I shall try to gather myself. But my head is light, and my limbs weary. If we had a machine-for-flying of an appropriate size,’ he added, ‘then we might progress more rapidly.’

  ‘You are too big.’

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘On! On!’

  Bates got to his feet.

  The road went downhill and alongside a river. The waters were plump and rapid with the previous day’s heavy rain. Where there were submerged obstacles - boulders, say—the flow cast humps and arcs of clear glass from the fluid medium. It sounded continually in his ears.

  Above him, in the morning sky, the comet was so prominent that it was clearly visible now by day. It was a disc, clearly defined against the blue but gleaming and bright with silver light. From time to time Bates would find his eye drawn up to it. His expertise in astronomical affairs was limited, but he could think of no comet in history that had approached so close to the Earth as this one. In the daytime its tail was invisible, but it was as large as the moon, and brighter - self-luminous, compared with reflected light of that satellite. Bates, as he jogged along, tried to reason it out: it had swept up to the world so rapidly, surely it must speed on with equal celerity, must hurtle past and away into interplanetary space. And then he must perforce stop again and regain his breath, leaning over his own stomach with his arms braced on his legs.

  The landscape through which Bates moved, though green, was a desert. Each cottage or hut he passed was empty. In some of the yards animals lay motionless, and death blew its great bubble into their guts. And ever and above the buzzing of the Blefuscudan’s flying toy. The chirruping of death. Pigeonhawk, pigeon, pigeonhawk.

  Around the corner the road ran through a copse, the leaves dark, the tree stems tall. There were human bodies here: one man face-down in the middle of the road, two more lying on their backs with their boots on the path. Bates peered into the shadow and saw more corpses. There was a smell. He hurried through. The sound of rushing water was continually in his ears, as if all the noise of the night’s storm had been distilled into the nearby stream. It seemed to be hushing him, mockingly. Hush, hush, hush. Why do you strive? Hush and be still.

  Eleanor !

  Out of the wood and into the sunlight and Bates hurried through a village. It was perfectly deserted.

  The comet in the day sky was an ill omen. It shone with an ill light.

  He knocked on doors and peered inside windows, but there was the stench of decay in the air and he dared probe no further. Here was a public house, the Duke of Cumberland, its pendulous inn sign gleaming in the sunshine as if recently painted. Stepping cautiously through the door, Bates found a fat man sitting in a chair beside a cold and sooty grate, his head tilted back. He was dead. There was, as yet, no smell, so the death must be recent. Upon the bar stood some bottles, but all had been opened. Bates peered at the contents of one of these, debating whether to taste or leave it be, until his thirst overcame his squeamishness and he drank the beer. Behind the bar was a door and a larder-room in which a ham dangled like a hanged man. There were flies on it, and a green tint to the flesh, but he pulled the meat apart with his fingers and dug chunks from inside.

  He went through to the inn yard hoping to find a stabled horse upon which he could ride the rest of the way. He found
instead a horrid sight: the bodies of many people, men and women both, piled in an unruly heap with faggots stuffed in between them. Somebody, perhaps the fat man inside, had intended to immolate them. Perhaps the wet weather had prevented it. This holocaust had a foul smell upon it. Bates felt the food rise in his gorge, and hurried out onto the main road. The sound of the river was still there, hushing, hushing.

  ‘We must move on,’ said Gugglerum. The little one had landed his plane in the middle of the main street, and had disembarked. He was speaking through his cone. ‘These continual stoppings, stoppings, we shall never reach our destination.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ gasped Bates.

  ‘You have within you,’ Gugglerum chirruped, ‘what is necessary to save your people. Without it your people will die. The battle that was fought in your body was fought when that army knew not what enemy it would face.’