Pallahaxi

by Michael Coney

  “That’s right. My father is Alika-Burt. My name is Alika-Drove. And now if you’ll get your ass out of here, we’ll resume our voyage. I’m quite capable of handling this boat myself.”

  He shrugged and there was a curious expression behind his eyes as he murmured, “I’m sure you are. Have a pleasant voyage.” He swung himself on board the gunboat, which sheered off and sped away. The confrontation was over so quickly that it was almost as though had never happened—but not quite…

  I made my way to the stern and Wolff stepped aside, relinquishing the helm. He eyed me with respect. I knew it wouldn’t last, but just for a moment he eyed me with respect. “That was an impressive display, Alika-Drove,” he said.

  We discussed the spy on the way back to the harbour. Squint was in favour of an expedition at the dead of night, during which we would scour the country around the cannery for the mysterious foreigner. Ribbon pointed out the fault in his reasoning: at the dead of night the spy was likely to be in bed and asleep and therefore difficult to locate. Wolff had a better suggestion.

  “Why not ask your father if any of the men at the cannery have Astan accents, Drove?”

  This solution appealed to me—partly because it would give me the chance to try out my new-found maturity. I would, quite simply, demand an explanation, man to man. I might even reprimand my father for sending me out with a drunken skipper.

  After I had piloted us expertly through Pallahaxi harbour and tied the boat up at the quay, we agreed to meet the following morning. It was late afternoon and the light was fading rapidly as Wolff, Squint and Ribbon departed and I entered the boatyard. I wanted to make sure my skimmer was all right; I hadn’t had a chance to look at it for days.

  While I was examining the hull and worrying about a few scratches in the varnish, Silverjack came shambling up, rubbing huge, hairy fists into his red-rimmed eyes. “You should have woken me, lad,” he said. “When did we arrive back?”

  “Not long ago.”

  “I was asleep.”

  “You were drunk.”

  “Come now, lad.” He was regarding me in alarm. “That’s not a pleasant thing to go spreading around, is it now?”

  “Oh, forget it.” I made to walk away, but he caught me by the arm.

  “You won’t tell your father, eh, lad?”

  “I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I reckon I’ll tell him I saw you smuggling distil into the Golden Grummet, as well.” Immediately I wished I hadn’t said that.

  “Come into my office, will you, Drove,” he said quietly, letting go of my arm and allowing me to make my own decision. I followed him. “Sit down,” he said, sliding behind his desk and lighting up a vile weed. “You and I have some talking to do.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss.”

  He looked at me steadily; he seemed to have pulled himself together. “All right,” he said. “Then I have some talking to do. Now, first of all, I want you to take a look around this place. Nice little business, would you say?”

  “I imagine you do all right.”

  “Well, I don’t. This place has been losing money for years. Then last year the Government brought in the new fishing regulations to cut down on the numbers of small boats, and to cut down on the the smuggling, I reckon. I’m just not equipped to build the big trawlers so I have to make a living building a few small pleasure craft, like your skimmer, and doing repair jobs. You follow me?”

  “So far.”

  “Right, so I make a little money on the side with a few, uh, deliveries, just to keep my head above water. Times are hard, with the war—and I knew a lot of Astan sailors, good fellows, during the peace; so I have plenty of contacts. We ship in a few necessities, we ship out a few things they need, and everybody’s happy. And in any case I’m getting out of that business soon because your father’s offered me a job with good pay. If you go spreading stories around he’s going to change his mind.”

  “I’m not sure father ought to hire a traitor.”

  Suddenly he stood. He didn’t look threatening, merely sick and exasperated. “Your father’s a Parl and I suppose that’s the way you think, too. Now just listen to this, lad. Here in Pallahaxi we wouldn’t know there was a war if it wasn’t for the Government and their rationing and their freezing restrictions and their nasty little secrets. We still trade with Asta—although we have to do it on the quiet; we still produce as much fish and grain as we ever did—but Parliament tells us we can’t use it, and takes it away from us. The inland towns are starving, they say. Then how did they manage before the war, that’s what I’d like to know? It seems to me this is Parliament’s war, not ours. Why they can’t leave us alone, and fight the Astans by themselves, I don’t know!”

  His voice had risen to a shout and I stared at him. “It’s a good thing everybody doesn’t think like you,” I said, using a favourite phrase of father’s.

  He gripped my shoulder tightly. “But everybody does, Drove lad,” he whispered. “Everybody does. You’ll find Parliament has no friends here in Pallahaxi.”

  I did some serious thinking as I walked slowly back to the cottage. There was a feeling of elation within me and it took some time to pin it down; but as I paused on the steps to the clifftop and looked across the harbour at the boats riding at anchor, the houses on the opposite hillside with the old cannery among them, the people working and playing and sitting around the quay just watching, I knew what it was.

  I loved the town of Pallahaxi in an all-embracing way: the boats, the life, the atmosphere. And if Pallahaxi was against Parliament and the discipline and regulations it represented, then so was I. In my growing awareness of myself as an individual I think I had been needing a cause to identify with; I had probably realized that nobody can go it completely alone—and here was my cause. Pallahaxi. As I resumed my climb I passed an old woman. She looked hard and worn and tired, yet undefeated; and suddenly she seemed to symbolize the town under the yoke of the Government and I wanted to seize her arm and say: Mother, I’m on your side.

  Realizing that although symbolic she was human and probably dominated a faithful unmarried daughter while constantly complaining about her arthritis and wetting the bed, I kept my hands to myself.

  My parents wanted to know every detail of the trip but I gave them an edited report, omitting to mention Silverjack’s shortcomings. Then I asked the question. “Father, we came across a man fishing and he had an Astan accent. He went up the estuary and we were following to find out who he was, but they wouldn’t let us in. What would an Astan be doing near the new cannery?”

  He smiled with disappointing ease; he seemed in great humour. “He’d be working there, Drove. We had several refugees; people born in Erto who were living in Asta when war was declared, who managed to get out before they were interned. Some of them had been living in Asta since their childhood but they still had to get out or be locked away.”

  “They lost everything they had,” put in my mother. “That’s the sort of fiends the Astans are.”

  CHAPTER 8

  After breakfast on the following morning I made my way down to the quay. Over the past few days the brilliant sunshine had given way to the slight haze which presages the onset of the grume, but it was nevertheless a fine day and I found myself hoping it would be uneventful. A few early news-pigeons fluttered about the tall tower of the message post and, at the waterside, snowdivers lined the roof of the fishmarket. There were fewer seabirds than usual; large numbers had already flown northwards, sensing the approach of the grume. Business at the fishmarket was slow but I paused for a few moments to watch the auctioneer selling off a varied catch; as usual I was unable to comprehend his rapid-fire patter and after a while drifted on. In a short while, when the grume began to run, the days would not be long enough for the auctioneer to dispose of the vast catches and the auction would run long into the nights. Lamps would be lit and portable heaters installed, and whey-faced buyers from far inland would nod their bids and arrange
shipment to Alika and Horlox and Ibana.

  Always provided that Parliament, with its insatiable desire for control, did not take the whole thing over, arrange quotas, and allow half the catch to go putrid in some forgotten warehouse.

  Beyond the fishmarket stands a monument to some long forgotten event. I never understood the reason for Parliament’s compulsion to erect monuments to this, that and every minor event or person—but the obelisk at Pallahaxi does serve as an excellent meeting place. Everyone knows where it is, even if they don’t know its purpose. Leaning against the railing overlooking the water, their backs to me, stood Wolff, Ribbon, Squint—and Browneyes. Suddenly I had that breathless feeling again and I knew I was going to make a fool of myself. I tried to remember that since yesterday I had come to terms with myself and ought to be able to take such encounters in my stride.

  “Hello,” I said, coming up behind them. Wolff and Ribbon ignored me, of course, carrying on some absorbing private conversation, but Squint turned round and so did Browneyes.

  Browneyes smiled faintly and Squint said, “Right, then. Are we all ready?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “We’re going to catch that stinking spy, aren’t we? Lay him by the heels.”

  “There isn’t a spy,” I said. I told him what my father said, but he didn’t want to be convinced.

  “Well anyway,” he said, “We’ve decided to go for a walk up around Finger Point, so we can sort of poke about at the same time.”

  “There’s no point in going there,” I said irritably.

  Wolff turned around casually, acknowledging my presence for the first time. “Suit yourself,” he said. “We’re going anyway. Come on, Ribbon.” He took her arm and they began to stroll away.

  Squint said, “Come on, Drove,” and since I didn’t know what Browneyes’ attitude was, and certainly didn’t wish to be left out of anything, I followed.

  The road to Finger Point follows the edge of the harbour before climbing steeply into the heavily-wooded area above. We paused for a while at the small beach near the leeward end of the breakwater and watched the fishermen laying up the deepboats in preparation for the grume. It was an unusual procedure. About twenty men would split into two teams and take hold of either side of a floating boat. At a given signal they would heave, legs pumping and feet constantly slipping on the round pebbles that rolled away from under them, and haul the boat on to a series of short logs laid parallel to the water’s edge. A few lorin helped, wet fur matted against their stocky legs. The theory was, of course, that the boat would then roll up the logs to its resting place well up the beach—but things never worked out that way. Due to the size of the pebbles, the logs would not revolve but remained obstinately stationary, sinking into the beach under the weight of the boat. I always felt they would be better off without the logs, but the whole thing had become traditional, and the men wore special clothes and sang chants as they pulled, while spectators lined the harbour wall.

  One day, someone would think to have a preacher pray to the sungod Phu for a successful grume, and the whole performance would be rounded off.

  I preferred to watch them beach the larger boats. This was accomplished in a crude but practical manner which appealed to me. Temporary track was laid from the old cannery tramway down the beach, the steam engine was hitched to the bows of the boat and, with a staccato bark of exhaust and scream of spinning wheels, dragged it relentlessly to the required position.

  We climbed up into the shade of the trees where the road degenerated into a track. A few lorin watched us from among the branches and, in the manner of their kind, warned us with a chattering whenever we approached too close to the sentient mantrapper; the dangerous anemone tree common in this region. Some say that the mantrapper was originally a water creature, but due to being left behind on the low tides of countless grumes it adapted itself to life on land and now infests most coastal areas. It is much larger than the inland variety; apparently it is distantly related to the ice-devil.

  Wolff stopped with an exclamation, staring down at the harbour which was still visible through the trees. “Look! Down there, that boat with the yellow wheelhouse!” He pointed. “That’s the boat I was telling you about. that’s the one they use for the smuggling!”

  We left the track and advanced through the trees to the edge of the cliff, which hereabouts crumbled away in a cataract of mighty boulders to the blue water far below. The boat in question was riding at anchor in the outer harbour, about half-way along the breakwater. As we watched, a figure emerged from the deckhouse, made his way forward and hauled steadily on the anchor chain. Events seemed a long way off, and remote. Eventually the tiny figure laid the anchor on the deck, and re-entered the wheelhouse. Puffs of smoke rose from the short funnel and the boat nosed its way among the moored craft, making for the beach where the laying-up teams worked.

  “That was Silverjack,” breathed Squint in awe. “Silverjack’s a smuggler!”

  Wolff turned away with the air of one who had seen enough. “Remember what I said, Drove?”

  “He can’t do any smuggling if he’s laying the boat up,” I objected.

  He regarded me pityingly. “You don’t think a little detail like the grume would stop a man like that, do you? He’ll be getting his skimmer ready, mark my words. And when he does, we’ll be waiting for him. We’ll catch him red-handed as he unloads the stuff.” He glanced suddenly at Browneyes. “What do you think of that?”

  She blushed, but I’m sure she knew nothing of her parents’ involvement with Silverjack. I’d noticed before that she always blushed when addressed unexpectedly. “Do you really think he’s a smuggler?” she asked quietly.

  “I’m sure of it, girl. I’m sure of it.” He took Ribbon’s arm again and they led the way back to the track.

  Browneyes and I walked silently behind, while Squint capered around the four of us, unable to suppress his delight. “Silverjack’s a smuggler,” he chanted, over and over until Ribbon told him brutally to shut up. Momentarily chastened, he fell behind, scuffing his feet in the dirt and whistling.

  I watched Ribbon and Wolff as they walked ahead, arm in arm, heads bent together as they conversed in low tones. Ribbon was wearing a short dress which showed off her undeniably good legs and I found I was watching the backs of her knees as she walked.

  “Ribbon looks very pretty, doesn’t she?” said Browneyes.

  I fouled it up. I had the ideal opportunity to praise Browneyes’ appearance at Ribbon’s expense, but I didn’t have the nerve. “She looks all right, I suppose,” I muttered.

  “Do you like tall girls? I wish I was tall like Ribbon.”

  I turned to look at her. She was smiling up at me with her eyes warm and beautiful and her sweet dimples showing. I hesitated. I think I was about to say that I liked girls who looked like Browneyes, but Wolff had stopped talking and might have been listening.

  “They’re building a wharf down there,” he said. “Look.”

  We had rounded the point of the headland and the path had veered to the very edge of the cliff. Far below, men were working, shovelling, leading lox which hauled cartloads of boulders, wielding picks, hacking at the cliff face. A rough road ran from the wharf along the foot of the cliff, winding out of sight beyond an overhang.

  “The water’s deep, there,” observed Ribbon. “It must have taken an awful lot of rock to build that road. What’s it all for?”

  Wolff was silent. He didn’t know.

  “When the grume comes, they won’t be able to take the big fishing boats up the estuary to the new cannery,” I explained. “They’re building this so they’ll have somewhere to unload; then they’ll take the fish to the cannery by loxcart. They might even build a tramway. Offshore there,” I pointed, “is the Pallahaxi Trench, which goes right out to the middle of the ocean. That’ll never get shallow, not even during the grume, so the boats can always approach from that direction and come right up to this wharf.” />
  “I know all about the Trench,” said Wolff.

  “Look out there,” said Browneyes.

  The clear blue of the sea was interrupted in several places by the brown and foaming white of protruding rocks which had not been there yesterday. The sea level was falling fast; soon the grume would be here.

  We began to descend the escarpment from Finger Point and the trees thinned out; the countryside lay stretched below us.

  Far in the distance we could just make out the Yellow Mountains where the desert began, then the hills rolled towards us, green and fertile. Close below, the estuary narrowed to a river, sinuous and gleaming in the hazy sun, then disappeared among the inland hills. The new cannery lay directly below, an untidy jumble of buildings and heaps of excavated soil; a new road ran like a scar around to our right, back to Pallahaxi. Nearby, I noticed a warren of large lorin holes in a grass-fringed bank. Such holes are common in the soft soil around Pallahaxi; they are reputed to form networks as deep as fifty paces down. A few fishing boats moved about the estuary and we could see the tiny figures of men, walking between the buildings and around the riverside. Trails of dust rose from vehicles.

  “It’s like a picture,” said Browneyes, entranced. I wondered how often she was able to get away from her parents and all the work at the Grummet; how often she had the chance really to see the place she lived in.

  As she said, it was like a picture and therefore just a little unreal. I found myself wondering if those tiny figures were really men—if they really thought and urinated and battled with their wives and children—or if they were merely a moving tapestry provided for my pleasure. I felt powerful, watching them from on high while they toiled unknowing; I felt as though with a stroke of my mind I could wipe them all out…

  Later we walked through the river valley and stopped at a small wayside store to buy food. The place belonged to an old woman who looked as though she’d been there as long as the river itself; gnarled she was, and all covered with hair the way old people get. She looked like Silverjack’s mother and Wolff and Ribbon treated her with contempt, calling her grandma and joking with each other about her appearance and the look of the store; I must admit, the place could have been cleaner.