Pallahaxi

by Michael Coney

  “Hello, kids!” The shout came as a skimmer moved nearby, half-full of fish, the unmistakable figure of Silverjack at the tiller. The two active members of his crew were busy with vast nets slung like wings from either side of the boat, barely touching the surface and scooping stranded fish as the boat slid onwards. The bay of Pallahaxi is particularly good for grume-fishing. Fish tend to become trapped within its confines as the grume moves northwards, chasing the mass of marine life before it.

  We glanced at each other and I began to think of spies, and smuggling, and inevitably Squint, all topics we wanted to avoid on this therapeutic trip for Ribbon. I looked at her; she smiled faintly and her eyes slid past me. She was regarding the shipwreck beach where the storm drain emerged. Silverjack was passed and so, I hoped, was the dark moment.

  Eventually we reached the end of the breakwater with its small lighthouse, and passed into the open sea. The bay was alive with fish dancing like windborne tinsel on the surface, the grummets swooping in a continuous white cloud and filling the air with their screams of greed. Among them plied the skimmers, sails straining as they ran before the wind with nets outspread, reaping the rich harvest of the grume.

  It was early days yet, but it looked like being a record grume. In days to come the larger fish would be forced to the surface; the giant wingets and flatties, the man-eating snint. Around that time the mammalian grume-riders would arrive from the south, bounding over the surface with flailing flippers. There would be bloody battles on the turgid water. Lastly the bellets would come: the slender, sharptoothed scavengers whose way it was to eat anything left behind by the grume; anything. It was unwise to go swimming when the grume was on the wane…

  Ribbon was looking distinctly more cheerful, watching the activity with interest and exclaiming over the strange creatures which littered the ocean around us. Suddenly she pointed. “What’s that?”

  Far away in the ocean but making for the bay was a large vessel, trailing smoke. “That’s a deep-hull,” I said, as momentarily the blizzard of whirling grummets parted and I got a better view. “She’s left it late. They’ll have to beach her.”

  “Where?” Browneyes stared interestedly out to sea. “She’ll never get near the estuary. It’s too shallow, now. And the estuary shelf drops off sheer into the Trench. So they’ll have to bring her into the inner harbour among all the private fishing boats and things, and then there’ll hardly be room for anyone else. There could be a lot of trouble, if they did that.”

  It was interesting, the way we had tacitly assumed the ship belonged to ‘them’, and that its arrival would inevitably be to the detriment of Pallahaxi.

  “Much better if the Astans sank it before it reached here,” I said.

  When we arrived back at Ribbon’s place she turned to us and said, “Thanks.”

  “What for?” asked Browneyes. “You’re welcome to come with us any time, isn’t she, Drove?”

  “Uh,” I said.

  “Look, I don’t like to be in the way,” said Ribbon, her eyes on my face.

  I had reached another crisis and it had crept up on me without my seeing it coming. I’d overcome adult domination to a certain extent, I’d gained confidence in my own worth and was beginning to find that I really was the equal of anybody—previously I’d only told myself I was. Now—how far did I want to go? Did I want to stamp on people?

  Did I want to be the cause of Ribbon being lonely and miserable, because I would selfishly rather be with Browneyes all the time?

  Impulsively I grabbed Ribbon’s hand. “Please come along with us any time,” I said. “We like to have you around.”

  Her whole face glowed, and for the first time since the disappearance of Squint she looked really happy.

  Later that evening Strongarm asked us, “Well, are you coming to the temple?” He and Una were putting on their coats.

  I looked at him in astonishment. “I never go to temples,” I said.

  He laughed. “Oh, you won’t hear anything about the sun-god Phu or the Great Lox or anything like that, lad. This is a meeting of the townsfolk. A representative of the Government will be there.”

  “Not my father, I hope.”

  “No. I don’t know if you’ve met the man. He’s been around a lot lately, and he seems a reasonable sort of fellow. His name’s HorloxMestler.”

  When we reached the temple there was a good crowd and I saw many familiar faces. Significantly, those on the platform were mostly the people I had seen coming and going at Strongarm’s place. Ribbon, Browneyes and I sat with the body of the audience but Strongarm mounted the improvised stage and, presently, hammered on the table for order.

  “People of Pallahaxi,” he shouted. “We’ve met tonight because there are a whole lot of things we don’t like about the way Parliament’s running things. Now Horlox-Mestler here is a Parl and he’s been good enough to come and be shot at. I’m not much for talking myself, so I’ll let Mestler get on with it.”

  He sat down to ragged cheering and Horlox-Mestler stood regarding the audience thoughtfully. “I must begin by telling you that this meeting has no official status—”

  Strongarm leaped to his feet, instantly purple with rage, “Now cut that out, Mestler!” he roared. “We’re not interested in freezing status and we’re not interested in your freezing evasions. We brought you here to straighten things out. So get on with it!” He sat, and this time the audience thundered their applause.

  Mestler was smiling faintly. “I’m very sorry; the fault is mine. Strongarm is right. The meeting exists here and now. Status has nothing to do with it.” He paused, and then began to summarize the progress of the war so far. I’d heard it all before from my father and my attention wandered. I diverted myself by allowing my hands to dangle by the sides of the chair and presently found myself holding Browneyes’ hand on one side and Ribbon’s on the other, which was what I’d hoped for.

  “And so the latest news is that we’re holding the Astan advances on most fronts,” Mestler was saying after a while, “although they have broken through in the south. Certain key towns have fallen to the forces and we cannot overlook the possibility of an invasion by sea, in which case Pallahaxi might well be a target.”

  “So where are the guns?” shouted somebody.

  “Adequate protection for the town is being organized, you can be sure of that,” replied Mestler. “Although you will of course appreciate that we are unable to divert supplies from the front. Right now, the guns are needed by those brave men who are fighting to save this land of ours!”

  He paused, but if he expected applause he was disappointed. There was, indeed, a sceptical muttering. A man behind me summarized the feeling of the meeting on that point. “Rax to this land of ours!” he shouted. “What about Pallahaxi?”

  “Even in Pallahaxi the war situation is critical and is being kept under close observation,” continued Mestler. “There have been reports of enemy agents in the vicinity of the cannery—and, since the cannery is so vital to our war effort, it may in due course be necessary to redefine the restricted area. But we hope not. We hope not.”

  He went on to denounce those who took matters into their own hands with no thought for the common good, who prowled the countryside at night in mobs, thus providing cover for Astan spies, who organized illegal and unrecognized gatherings, thus wasting the time of Parliament—time which would be better spent in pursuing the war effort. In short, he took the offensive, talking all the while in his quiet persuasive tones and allowing his jolly-uncle smile to take the sting out of his words.

  I wouldn’t say he carried the audience along with him, but at least they didn’t storm the platform. Strongarm was scowling and his henchmen were whispering among themselves, but they made no move to interrupt.

  “And so after a long and painful consideration, Parliament regrets that it has no alternative but to take this unpopular measure,” Mestler was saying, and I must have missed something again, because I did
n’t know what he was talking about. The audience was muttering angrily.

  “What authority do you have?” called Browneyes’ father from the platform table. “A direction like this could ruin my business. Is that place a cannery, or is it some sort of freezing government department?”

  “This is a war situation and we have the power to take emergency local measures,” Mestler informed him. There was a growing uproar from the audience.

  “What measures?” I whispered to Browneyes.

  “A curfew.”

  “What! What are they frightened of?”

  “Ribbon’s father and his followers, I think…Drove, this means we won’t be able to go out in the evenings.” Her expression was forlorn.

  Around us the audience was leaping about and shouting and I saw the templekeeper looking nervous; his trinkets would be endangered if there were a riot. A symbolic crystal would be a handy missile for throwing at Mestler.

  Then there was silence, amazed silence, as a group of armed and uniformed men appeared from the rear of the platform and took up position behind Mestler. The Parl spoke into the quiet.

  “No, we are not imposing martial law. A number of troops will be stationed in the town to assist the local police and for obvious defence purposes. Rest assured that the measures to protect this town in the event of Astan attack are in hand. Thank you all.”

  “Wait a moment!” Baffled, Strongarm was on his feet. Somehow the initiative had been lost, the meeting turned into defeat. “We’re quite capable of defending ourselves! We don’t need these thugs!”

  Mestler looked at him sadly. “Pallahaxi-Strongarm—what do you want? You claimed the Government wasn’t looking after you—now we give you the protection you asked for, and still you’re not satisfied. Really, I’m beginning to think you’re just a troublemaker…”

  CHAPTER 12

  The following morning I called for Browneyes and we planned to walk up to Finger Point to watch the arrival of the large ship. From the high vantage point we would be able to gauge whether it was making for the harbour or, as Browneyes had suggested, the new wharf.

  “They were saying in the Grummet that it dropped anchor off the Point last night,” she said. “It might be bringing some sort of war supplies. Somebody said it was attacked by Astan men-of-war out in the ocean and the engines were damaged. That’s why it’s late. It should have been here before the grume.”

  Once again I wondered at the way in which the Golden Grummet acted as a clearing house for news and intelligence. The news Browneyes told me was usually more up-to-date and accurate than the newspapers my father so avidly read.

  We called for Ribbon, feeling sorry for her after the way her father had been treated at the meeting. She seemed cheerful enough and was obviously grateful for the diversion, as Strongarm was still furious and talking wildly of organizing a militia. Leaving Una to shoulder the burden alone, we made our way through the main street to the harbour. For a while we discussed the meeting then, out of consideration for Ribbon, we dropped the topic. It appeared that the curfew was to be imposed tonight, which did not please Browneyes. The loss of trade suffered by her father would be considerable.

  Wolff was standing near the monument, for once without his mother and looking at a loose end. Unfortunately he caught sight of us and came hurrying up, smiling easily with no hint of embarrassment; he had, after all, been avoiding us for many days and I’d been thinking that we’d seen the last of him.

  “Just the people I wanted to see,” he greeted us breezily, actually taking Ribbon’s arm as he fell in step. She glanced at him without expression and he suddenly recalled himself. “Uh…Any news of young Squint?”

  “Nothing,” said Ribbon very quietly.

  “Too bad, it’s a very terrible thing. You know, I was thinking about that, and I had a thought. Do you suppose—”

  “Look, shut up about all that, Wolff,” I snapped as I saw Ribbon biting her lip unhappily. “Let’s talk about something else.” It had been well over twenty days since Squint had disappeared and there was no point in reopening the topic.

  He looked down his long nose at me, in aristocratic surprise. “Well, now, Alika-Drove. When a child’s life is at stake I should have thought any suggestion would have been worth consideration. After all, I was there when Squint was allowed to go off on his own and I feel very much to blame—and so ought you. It seems to me that mere selfish…”

  His voice trailed away as Ribbon jerked her arm from him and buried her face in my shoulder, sobbing noisily. “For Phu’s sake make him be quiet, Drove,” she wailed desperately. “I can’t stand it!”

  I was not equipped to deal with the situation. I stood there on the crowded quay of Pallahaxi harbour, holding a sobbing girl while the bystanders eyed me curiously—none more so than Browneyes, whose sympathy for Ribbon seemed to have evaporated rapidly. I couldn’t think of anything to do, or to say; the best I could achieve was a facial expression which I hoped combined gravity and concern in the correct proportions. My one hand still lay inertly in Browneyes’ cold grip, while the other arm was draped unenthusiastically around Ribbon’s shoulders.

  My one consolation was that Wolff was even more discomfited than I. His mouth had dropped open and his face had changed colour. “Uh…” he stammered. “Uh, I’m terribly sorry, Ribbon, I didn’t realize, I mean…”

  At this I was able to forget the spectators and achieve some measure of righteous indignation; after all, I was Ribbon’s hero and protector, defending her against this lout. Morally, I had the upper hand. In fact, had I been in Wolff’s shoes I would have made a run for it. “Just shut up, Wolff,” I snapped. “The trouble with you is—”

  Then I saw my mother approaching, laden with shopping.

  I wheeled Ribbon around and let her go. “Let’s get out of here,” I said urgently, tightening my grip on Browneyes’ hand and propelling Ribbon along with an unceremonious palm on the butt. Wolff loped alongside, puzzled. I think I was the only one who had seen my mother. We rounded the corner of the quay and joined the Finger Point road.

  “Listen, I’m frightfully sorry,” Wolff panted. He thought we were running away from him.

  Safe among the beached boats, I drew to a halt. They stopped too, regarding me in bewilderment. “All right,” I said. “That was my mother back there. I’m not frightened of my mother so you can save your comments, Wolff—it’s just that I don’t want her seeing me involved in some sordid public scene. I couldn’t face the inquest afterwards. Now, are you all right, Ribbon?”

  She smiled at me wetly. “I’m fine now, Drove, thanks.”

  “If you want to come along with us you can cut out the funny stuff, right, Wolff?”

  “Uh.” He looked abashed.

  “We’re going up to Finger Point to watch the big ship. Is it all right if he comes, Ribbon?”

  “I don’t mind,” she said quietly.

  In this way Wolff rejoined our little group, willingly accepting a drop in rank.

  We stood on the Point and looked across the bright, slow sea. The surface was speckled with dancing fish and the grummets swooped endlessly, snatching a mouthful of live food, gaining height as they swallowed until they were riding the upcurrent of air level with the clifftop. Then—and some of them hovered so close we could see them gulping—they would wheel and spiral downwards, levelling out just above the oily waves, gliding so close that their feet occasionally trailed a thin wake while they scooped more fish into their downhung pouched beaks.

  The ship had raised anchor and was moving towards us although still almost a thousand paces offshore. She was being towed in unusual fashion; four steam launches had lines aboard her, two on each side; but the tugs were so positioned that they were pulling sideways against each other, as much as forwards.

  Ribbon explained. “She’s a deep-hull boat caught in the grume, you see. The thick water’s raised her and made her top-heavy; that’s why she called for the tugs. Now
they’re stretching tight lines from either side to keep her on an even keel. You see that man in the crow’s nest?” She pointed to a vaguely familiar figure perched on a platform half-way up one mast. “He has a list indicator and he controls the tugs. When she starts to heel over, he signals to the pair of tugs on that side to slacken off, while the pair on the other side pull harder—so they bring her back upright. All the time, they’re edging her nearer the wharf. When she’s close enough they’ll attach cables from land, in place of two of the tugs, and they’ll winch her in sideways.”

  “You must have seen all this before, Ribbon,” said Wolff kindly.

  “A few times. Often they use my father as the pilot in the crow’s nest, but he’s not there today. It’s a Parl ship and he won’t work for them.” There was a world of contempt in the way she said this but Wolff took it in his stride, asking more questions and generally behaving with revolting consideration and politeness.

  After a while I said to Browneyes, “Let’s go for a walk.”

  We left the others sitting on the clifftop and strolled among the trees. Browneyes had been quiet for some time, but once we were out of earshot she said acidly, “Funny how she turned to you.”

  There was a sinking feeling in my stomach. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it’s funny how Ribbon started c-cuddling up to you down there on the quay when she was crying. And she always comes everywhere with us. You and she always seem to be talking together, always.” She sniffled, and I realized with despair that she was going to cry. It was not my day. “And don’t think I didn’t see you holding her hand in the meeting last night.”

  I sat on the grass and pulled her down after me. It was warm midmorning, and only the trees were near. She sat upright with head bowed, her hand resting passively in mine. “I wouldn’t have asked you to come for a walk if I’d wanted to stay around her,” I said reasonably.

  She sniffed again, her shoulders shook once, then suddenly she tossed her hair back from her eyes and looked straight at me. “I think I might be losing out, Drove,” she said in a voice of surprising calmness. “It’s not your fault so I think it must be mine. I can’t really blame Ribbon. But I think I’m going to lose you and I don’t know what to do about it.”