Pallahaxi

by Michael Coney

This was exactly what I was suggesting, although it was not what I’d said. Father’s intelligence was waning, he was older and set in his ways of thinking, he was used to leaning on the dignity of his position; in short, he had lost the power of reasoned argument. I had him where I wanted and now I could proceed, coolly and logically, to defeat him.

  But I had reckoned without mother. “That was a nice meal,” she said firmly, picking up the paper from where my father had thrown it in his suppressed rage. “Oh, look at this. I see our forces have taken Gorba. How nice.”

  “But that’s only what they say there, mother,” I said desperately. “So far as we know, Gorba might be nowhere near the line of battle. It might not even exist. I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Oh, but I have.” Mother was smiling indulgently at her too-clever son. I went there with my parents once, when I was a little girl. It was lovely. It’s on a river; a very old town with a lovely Phu temple in the quaintest green brick…”

  She reminisced in this vein for some time, effectively dulling the edge of the argument while father recovered his equanimity and I became merely bored. It never occurred to me to doubt the truth of what she was saying; I had already forgotten the point of my own argument. Soon father was reading again, satisfying his compulsive need to keep abreast of current affairs, as befitted one who held an important position with the Government.

  They can’t stop you thinking. I found myself remembering the time I had placed a paper in front of father which was three days old—in substitution for the current issue. He read it all with deep interest; the law reports, the political platforms, the latest news from the front. It was not until he reached the sports page that he became aware of a certain staleness in what he so eagerly devoured. I saw the flicker of a frown cross his face as he scanned the slingball results, which deepened into puzzlement as he turned to the front page again and, at last, looked at the date. I was then a little disappointed in his reaction.

  There was no bellow of rage and frustration, no scrumpling of the offending paper into a ball and hurling it into the fire, no tirade of despair and desolation over those precious moments wasted which could never be replaced and, significantly, no admission of the meaninglessness of current events or vows never again to accept as fact the printed word. Instead he shrugged, put the paper down, and gazed absently out of the window. Soon, his eyes closed and he slept.

  Nevertheless I found it comforting to remember that moment, as we got to our feet and stood waiting in the Bexton stuva bar while father haggled over the price of the meal.

  The continuous daylight gradually dimmed to twilight as we descended the hills and ran on to the coastal plain. The attitude of the people changed too; here we saw more smiling faces, more signs of genuine friendliness when we stopped for food or water. It was as though the easy life of the coast had created an easy breed of man; they went about their way slowly in the soft twilight while the sun circled just below the horizon and threw a curtain of crimson halfway up the sky.

  It was colder, of course; but summer was not far away and the chill was only temporary. Wisps of steam rose from the public heaters in the villages and old men sat with their backs against the pipes, nodding their heads in respect as we went by and they caught sight of the insignia on the side of the motorcart. Lox, singly or in tandem, dragged carts of produce from the fertile fields to the sorting centres; here there was no sign of scarcity. Lorin swung from the yellowball trees, dropping the sweet fruit accurately into tubs below. In other fields the summer crops were already showing through, green and lush.

  Rivers paralleled the road for long periods and we filled the motorcart at these whenever possible; even in these pleasant parts it was noticeable that people’s eyes dwelt longer on the distil cans than was seemly. Now there were few cans left; just enough, father told us with obvious pride in the accuracy of his calculations, to get us to Pallahaxi.

  Eventually we reached the coast and the fishing villages, and now the rim of the sun appeared on the horizon for longer periods as we bumped along the clifftop roads and watched the ocean splashed with blood. Seeing the waves scattering into pink spray against the rocks, hearing the rushing and booming, it was difficult to imagine the change which would be wrought in late summer with the coming of the grume. The ocean is timeless, yet even the ocean is subject to the seasons.

  Later the road wound inland again, following a wide estuary where the deep-hulled boats moved with trailing nets. A small town had grown about the bridge at the crossing; here we stopped for water for the last time, climbing the estuary banks with buckets, tipping the brackish water into the tank of the motorcart and moving on. People paused in their work to wave as we went.

  At last we passed a long-remembered landmark: an ancient stone fortification on a hillside, then soon we were running through the narrow street and a familiar harbour lay before us, alive with boats and seabirds, hanging nets and floating debris and busy men and the smell of fish and salt. We had reached Pallahaxi.

  CHAPTER 3

  Pallahaxi is built around a rocky inlet, the houses mostly of local stone, rise steeply from the harbour to clifftop level except on the landward side, where the inlet becomes a valley. With the passage of time the small fishing village has grown to a moderately-sized town and the houses have spilled along the clifftop and up the sides of the inland valley. Some ten years ago a cannery was built, which resulted in a further population increase. The harbour was originally large enough for local purposes, but with increased shipping a long breakwater was built out from the western arm of the harbour, enclosing an even greater expanse of water. Fishing vessels can now offload directly from a wharf on the breakwater to a small steam-powered tramway which carries the fish through the narrow streets to the cannery. There is also a market for small private fishermen situated on the inner harbour.

  On arriving at Pallahaxi my first interest was the investigation of the new cannery my father had mentioned. This was further out of the town, around the corner beyond the headland known as Finger Point. It seemed that the old cannery was incapable of extension; moreover, my father told me, the machinery was obsolete.

  I could sense a tension between my father and me over this simple matter. Suddenly I resented the new cannery. I had known the old cannery for a long time, I knew by sight a number of people who worked there, I had watched the fishing boats unload, marvelled at the intricacy of the tramway and the machinery. The cannery was an old friend. Now my father was telling me it was obsolete and in due course would be torn down to make way for houses. It was an eyesore, he said. In order to discharge their catch at the new cannery, the boats would not even have to enter the harbour, but would offload in the estuary to the north, around Finger Point. As if all this were not bad enough, the new cannery was government owned and my father was acting in some sort of advisory capacity there; a working holiday.

  Two days after our arrival I took a walk around the cliffs and viewed the new buildings from the vantage point of a rocky pinnacle, then returned to our summer cottage on the south side of the town, unimpressed. I was beginning to feel the pricklings of boredom. The cottage was empty; father was at the new cannery and mother was down at the stores. I sat on the porch and looked across the wide expanse of Pallahaxi Bay; down below to the right I could just see the lighthouse at the end of the breakwater. Due west, not so far below the horizon, lay Asta. I think this proximity to the enemy lent a little spice to life in Pallahaxi.

  The cottage was a fairly primitive wooden structure in a sloping meadow close to the cliff top; there were other cottages too, of varying shapes and sizes; lox grazed among them and scratched their backs on the timbers. On the porch of the next cottage a lorin sat in impudent mimicry of myself. I was about to shoo him off when I caught sight of a man approaching from the far end of the field. His eyes were fixed steadily on me as he walked, and it was apparent that I was his target. It was too late to retreat to the sanctuary of the cottage.

&nbs
p; “Hello there, young fellow!” he hailed me from a distance.

  I ignored him, remaining seated where I was, scuffing at the dirt with my toes and wishing he would go away. One glance, allied to his manner of speaking, had told me enough. Medium height and stocky, with hairy, jolly features and a brisk gait, he was obviously the type of person who—so my mother would say—’get along wonderfully with children.’ If you could find enough victims he would organize hikes, and sling-ball games, and tell the kids to call him uncle. Meanwhile all the mothers, my own mother to the fore, would look on fondly and remark to one another how marvellous he was, and how the kids loved him.

  And the freezing jerk would cheat at slingball, contriving to make the smallest kids and the girls win, and me lose.

  “That’s a sad face for a wonderful day like this.” He stood before me, and I knew he was grinning before I looked up.

  “Uh.”

  “You’ll be Alika-Drove, I expect. I’m pleased to meet you, young fellow. I’m a friend of your father’s; permit me to introduce myself.” He held my eyes with the friendly crinkled grin, forcing me to stand up and suffer his grip on my forearm. “My name’s Horlox-Mestler.”

  He was a long way from home, Horlox being far inland, almost at the Asta border. For a second I chased an elusive familiarity in his name, then forgot it. “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  “I was hoping to see your father.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Oh. Might I ask where he is?”

  His unflagging politeness was getting me down; I felt as though I was being given a lesson in good manners. “He’s probably at the new cannery,” I said, pulling myself together and making a real effort. “I’m sorry I can’t help you any more. I expect he’ll be back before too long. May I offer you a drink of cocha juice?”

  “Thank you very much, young fellow, but I’m afraid I don’t have time. I must get along.” He eyed me with sudden shrewdness. “Bored?”

  “Maybe.”

  “The grume will be here soon; a lad like you ought to have a boat. A boat’s a lot of fun when the grume’s running. Ah, well. I expect I’ll see your father at the cannery, if I hurry. Goodbye.” He walked off with springy steps. I watched him go, unable to make up my mind whether perhaps I liked him, after all.

  I wandered into the cottage and paused to scan the map mother had pinned to the wall. Little flags indicated the position of the Erto armies as announced daily in the papers and discussed incessantly among the adults. Red arrows showed the principal areas of advancement. We seemed to be pushing forwards everywhere, but my scepticism had grown to the extent where I would not have been unduly surprised if an enemy advance party had come knocking at the door. I changed into my swimming things and went down to the beach.

  A sentimental mood came over me as I stood on the familiar pebbles of the little cliff-sheltered cove. This was where I had first spoken to Browneyes, last year. I thought hard and shut my eyes, trying to project to her a mental message, the way a lorin is supposed to. I’m here, Browneyes, I thought. Come to the beach and meet me. When I opened my eyes she still wasn’t there…

  It was in that queer time of year between the waning of the grume and the coming of the drench that we had finally met. I had found a strange fish bopping about on the surface and Browneyes—whom I’d been watching for some time from the corner of my eye—came over to look at it. We laid the creature on the pebbles and knelt to examine it, and at last with the excuse of a mutual interest had overcome our shyness enough to talk. We sat together on the beach for the rest of that day, and the following day we’d gone walking on the cliffs. The day after that, my parents and I had left for Alika, and home. I had not wanted to go.

  But now Browneyes was not around, and my first step into the icy water sent shivers of fear up my spine, so after a while I returned to the cottage to find mother and father had arrived back.

  They greeted me in significant fashion, the way parents do when they’ve just been talking about you. We sat down to eat; they asked me what I’d been doing and I told them, and they exchanged glances.

  My father had finished eating a ripe yellowball; he dipped and dried his fingers ceremonially and cleared his throat. “Drove…I’ve something I want to discuss with you.”

  “Uh?” This sounded serious.

  “As you know, I have various duties in connection with my Government position which I find convenient to carry out while we are here in Pallahaxi on holiday. Normally these duties do not occupy much of my time, but unfortunately this year it will be different, so I heard today.”

  “I forgot to tell you, a man was looking for you. Mestler, his name was.”

  Horlox-Mestler saw me. “I hope you were polite to him, Drove. He is a man of some account.”

  “Uh”

  “It seems that from now on much of my time will be taken up with the new cannery. We shall not be together, as a family, so much as I had hoped. You will be left on your own a great deal.”

  I was silent, trying to look suitably glum.

  “And it is not fair to your mother to expect her to be continuously at your disposal. You are a boy who does not make friends readily, but I am not saying there is anything wrong in that. There are people with whom we would not wish you to make friends. However…” He paused, gazing pensively at a point some three paces behind me, trying to recall the thread of his discourse. “It is not my custom to buy you gifts,” he resumed, “Since I believe that a person should give value for what he receives.”

  “Uh.”

  “Nevertheless I cannot have you moping about the place, idle. The next thing, you’ll be getting into some mischief or other. I propose to buy you a boat.”

  “That’s freezing good of you, father!” I exclaimed in amazement. He managed to smile, ignoring my slip of the tongue. “I’ve seen a suitable craft at Silverjack’s yard. A small skimmer. You ought to be able to handle it, if you’re any sort of sailor at all.”

  Mother was smiling at me fondly. “Isn’t that good of your father, Drove?”

  “Thank you, father,” I said dutifully.

  “You can collect the boat anytime,” he said. “Just tell Pallahaxi-Silverjack who your father is.”

  The following morning I rose from breakfast and looked out of the window; the same twilight tinted the sky with pink; the same animals grazed around the edge of the patio; but today was different. Today I was going to Silverjack’s yard to collect the boat. The dim sea stretched excitedly across to the black humps of land on the far side of the bay; today I would explore that sea. I pulled on a coat.

  “Wait for me if you’re thinking of going down to the town, Drove. I have some things to buy. We can go together.” Mother looked up at me, smiling mindlessly over her stuva cup.

  I almost told her to get frozen but thought better of it. Father was watching me, listening, waiting to cancel the boat at the first sign of unpleasantness.

  My mother is short and I am tall for my age, so that it is impossible for us to keep in step as we walk. She trots along beside me, legs going like pistons, and insists that she puts her arm through mine, so that the pair of us reel along the street like drunks. Added to which she talks incessantly, looking up at me all the time and smiling fondly and generally giving the impression that a very peculiar relationship obtains between us. I find myself praying that people think she is an old prostitute I have picked up, and to emphasize this effect I try to assume a shamefaced look—which is not difficult, under the circumstances.

  When we reached the town it appeared that mother was not prepared to let me go yet. Together we visited store after store, where she flashed her Parl card whenever anyone showed unwillingness to serve her on the grounds of rationing. Before long I was struggling beneath a mountain of goods and was very relieved when mother rented a loxcart to take the stuff back.

  “I’ll be getting along now, then,” I said when the last bag was safely loaded.


  “Oh, not yet, dear. I’m dying for a cup of stuva. There’s such a nice little place down by the harbour but I don’t like going in there alone; one meets such strange people.”

  On the way to the stuva bar we passed the Golden Grummet hotel and I tried not to stare in at the windows too obviously, because mother knew who lived there and she was watching me covertly. I caught sight of Pallahaxi-Annlee, Browneyes’ mother, talking to a man so hairy that at first I thought he was a lorin, but she didn’t see me. She probably would not have recognized me anyhow; I only met her briefly once, last year.

  After we had been sitting in the stuva bar for a little while, mother began to wave to someone on the other side of the room, uttering noises of recognition and greeting. When father is out of the way she goes berserk and is quite as adept at calling attention to herself as he. I was acutely embarrassed when a couple rose to their feet, came over and joined us; the woman was my mother’s size and age, and the boy with her, about my size and age, and I’ll swear that every person in that stuva bar thought we were some weird sort of mirror images of each other. Mother introduced them as Dreba-Gwilda and Dreba-Wolff. She had met them yesterday.

  Wolff was a smooth freezer and I knew right away that my mother thought he had nice manners and would be a suitable friend for me. In fact, I already suspected that the meeting had been fixed. No doubt Gwilda’s husband was a Parl.

  Wolff was smiling at me toothily. “I understand you’re getting a boat today, Drove.”

  “Uh.”

  I’m a sailing enthusiast myself. At home I have a deep-hull sloop. Can’t bring it here, though. No point, not with the grume. Yours will be a flat-bottom skimmer, I expect?”

  “Uh.”

  “You can’t use it yet, of course. That would be asking for trouble. You’ll have to wait until the grume runs.”

  “Have you ever noticed that your nose is a funny shape?”

  “I’ll come along with you and we’ll pick it up together. I can check it over for you. You have to be careful with these Pallahaxi people. Thieves, every one of them. They’ve been spoiled by the tourists, of course.”