Wild Jack

by John Christopher

  The guard Sunyo had struck watched him being put inside. He said, “You’re going to have a bad time of it, a very bad time. And at the end you are going to crawl at my feet and admit your father was a monkey. I’m looking forward to that.”

  Sunyo looked at him through blackened eyes. “Never, to scum like you.”

  The guard laughed. “Carry on talking! It makes the final prospect that much better.”

  • • •

  Kelly and I did what we could to make things easier for him. We could not get near him during the day, but at night we were able to sneak out and talk to him through the fence. We saved our bread and tossed it over to him; there was no way of saving the watery stews and gruels which made up the rest of our diet. We also managed to roll a couple of blankets into balls and threw them over, picking them up again early the next morning before the guards were about.

  Thirst was not a problem. The hollows in the concrete floor held water, and when, as at present, there was no rain, water was thrown in from a bucket by a guard each day. But to drink, Sunyo had to crouch down like an animal and lap. I could imagine how that made him feel.

  The real agony was sleeplessness. By wadding the blankets up in a corner he could manage to doze a little during the night, sitting with his back wedged in the angle, but during the day he had no such respite. He had either to stand or to accept the torture of the jagged floor.

  The first evening he was low enough in spirits, the second utterly wretched, the third confused and rambling.

  I said, “At least this is the last night. Tomorrow afternoon you’ll be out.”

  Sunyo did not speak for a moment. Then: “I won’t crawl to him. Never. . . .”

  Kelly said, “It doesn’t mean anything. And we’ll find a way of getting back at him. The three of us.”

  I said, “You’ve got to do it, Sunyo—go through the motions, anyway.”

  He whispered again, “Never. I’d rather die.”

  As we went back to the tent, I said to Kelly, “He’ll feel different when the time comes.”

  Kelly shook his head. “I wish I could be sure of that.”

  “It would be stupid not to do it. And pointless.”

  “I agree. I’d apologize—crawl if necessary. Then one night I’d kill him. I think I may do that, anyway. But Sunyo’s different—that pride of his. . . .”

  • • •

  The desperation of Sunyo’s situation was very much in contrast with my own. Since my interview with the commandant I had thought I detected a difference in the attitude of the guards. I came in for less abuse than the others and had an impression I was being given the easier jobs, or at least not landed with the really nasty ones. The feeling was sharpened by an incident on the morning of Sunyo’s third day in the stockade.

  We were among the ruins of the town, loading granite blocks which we were removing from the crumbling ruin of a church. Most of it had fallen, but part of the belfry remained, raggedly etched against the sky. A guard said:

  “We want someone up on top with a pickax. Anderson! No, belay that. Mustn’t run risks with the councillor’s son. You get up there, Trudillo.”

  He spoke sarcastically, but it was still significant. I had told no one but Sunyo and Kelly about my father—Sunyo and Kelly and the commandant. Word must have gone out from his office to go easy on me while things were looked into.

  It was almost a week since I had been brought here, four days since I saw the commandant. The order for release could come through at any moment. I could be back in London, in my home, this very day.

  I checked my daydreaming with the thought of Sunyo. But at least the end was near; in a few hours he would be out of the stockade.

  • • •

  In the afternoon it was raining. Sunyo’s persecutor, with two other guards, opened up the gate and looked through it at Sunyo, who leaned with buckling knees against the fence.

  He said, “What a pretty sight. The son of the apes looks more like a drowned rat. Well, time’s up. You can come out now.”

  Sunyo took a few lurching steps toward him. He was soaked through by the rain, which trickled off the waterproof capes of the guards.

  “Come on, then,” the guard said. “Come on, yellow monkey. Only one little thing to do. Down on your knees and say you’re sorry.”

  Another few steps brought Sunyo in front of him; he stood there, swaying.

  “Now,” the guard said. “Down.”

  Sunyo threw himself forward, reaching for the guard’s throat, but it was a pitiable attempt. One hand sent him spinning across the stockade. The guard laughed.

  “Still not learned your lesson, monkey? Never mind, there’s plenty of time. All the time in the world.”

  • • •

  That night Kelly and I went back to the stockade. The rain had stopped and there were fitful indications of moonlight behind the clouds, but it was very dark. We threw our hunks of bread over to Sunyo, but there was not enough light for him to find them.

  I was sorry for him, but also angry. I was hungry myself and could have eaten the bread, which now lay somewhere on the wet floor of the stockade. And there was no reason for him to be there, no reason for carrying on this futile business. And the word I had been expecting from the commandant’s office had not come yet.

  Kelly tossed over the blankets, which Sunyo managed to retrieve. Kelly talked to him, trying to convince him he must give up. He was very weak now and bound to get rapidly weaker. Kelly was very earnest and persuasive. But when he finally stopped, there was only silence from the other side of the fence.

  I said bitterly, “He isn’t even listening.”

  “I’m listening,” Sunyo said feebly. “But it doesn’t do any good. I will not submit to that pig. I can’t. The words would choke me.”

  “Which would you sooner do,” I asked, “—choke or starve? Because you’re starving to death in there. You can only really defy him by staying alive, and you need strength for that.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  We both argued with him, but with no success. We left him in the end and set off back toward the tent. The clouds were breaking up, showing the light of a three-quarter moon.

  Kelly said suddenly, “Only one thing for it.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve got to get him out.”

  I laughed. “Sure. That’s the answer.”

  “I mean it. He’ll die sooner than give in. I’m certain of it.”

  “So what do you suggest? Do we go along to the guards’ houses and ask for the key to the stockade, then come back and open up?”

  “Blankets,” Kelly said. “We can tie them together in a rope and haul him out.”

  I was tired as well as hungry and looking forward to wrapping myself up in the one blanket I had left. I said, “And if we get him out, what happens? He’ll still be on the island. He’ll have to give himself up eventually. They’ll know who helped him, so all it means is that when he’s put back in the stockade, he finds us waiting for him.”

  “He doesn’t have to be on the island.” I looked at him. “There’s the boat.”

  “You said yourself that was ridiculous.”

  “I thought so then. Things have changed. He’ll die in there if we don’t get him away.”

  “He’d die in the boat. We don’t even know if it’s seaworthy. And there’s no means of navigating. Anyway, where do you wind up? If it’s a city, you get brought back here. If it’s the Outlands, you get killed by savages.”

  Kelly said, “Look, all I’m asking is for you to help me with the stockade part. You don’t have to come in the boat.”

  “The whole thing’s mad.” Kelly did not reply; we were almost at the tent. “All right, I’ll help you.”

  • • •

  We went in quietly and picked up the other two blanket
s. Everyone seemed to be asleep; at least, no one asked us what we were doing. The clouds were continuing to clear, and we could see our way back to the stockade reasonably well.

  Kelly told Sunyo what he proposed. Sunyo tried to argue, saying there was no reason why anyone else should get involved, but he was too weak and miserable to put up much opposition. Kelly knotted our two blankets together and threw them across the top of the fence, and Sunyo, though more slowly, tied his two blankets onto the end.

  But at the next stage he failed. The idea was that while Kelly and I held on, Sunyo would swarm up the blanket rope and so get out. He did make an attempt—we could hear him scrabbling against the inside of the fence—but had to give up.

  He said, “It’s no good. No strength in my arms. You go back. Thank you for trying, but it’s no use.”

  I was prepared to agree, but Kelly said, “Clive, make a back. I’m going in.”

  He climbed on my shoulders, reached for the top of the fence, and hauled himself up. He gave a grunt of pain as a spike of wood dug into him, then dropped inside. I heard his whispered instructions to Sunyo.

  “Take an end and get up on my back. I’ll crouch down.” He called through to me, “Clive, heave on your end when I say the word.”

  The first time Sunyo slipped down before the word could be given, and there was another exclamation from Kelly as he fell over along with him. But he got Sunyo in position again and pushed him up.

  “OK, Clive. Now!”

  I pulled hard on my end. The blanket was taut across the top of the fence, and there was the full weight of Sunyo on it as well. I didn’t think I could budge him. But as I sweated and strained, Kelly managed to get his hands under Sunyo’s feet and thrust him higher. I pulled again, and suddenly the tension slackened. A moment later I saw in the moonlight the dim figure of Sunyo on top of the fence. He fell rather than jumped, landing beside me.

  All that remained was to get Kelly out. He pulled himself up by means of the blanket and crashed heavily down on our side. Both he and Sunyo seemed to have made a lot of noise, but fortunately loud music was coming from the direction of the guards’ houses. It still seemed a good idea to get out of the area as quickly as possible.

  Sunyo was very weak, and we had to stop several times on the way to the beach to let him rest. When we got there, he collapsed on the sand and Kelly and I went to the place behind the rocks where we had left the boat. I had half a hope that the guards might have found it and taken it away; the sea, though calm in the moonlight, looked horribly wide and unwelcoming.

  But we found the boat. Kelly said, “I’ll take this end. OK to lift?”

  I said, “Wait a minute.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve been thinking. Those caves on the far side of the island . . . we could hide him there.”

  “Hopeless,” Kelly said. “They’d find him in a few hours with a search party. Even if they didn’t, how long do you think it could last? Days at the most, then back to the stockade. Forget it.”

  “Days might be enough. It won’t be long before my father gets me out of here. Tomorrow maybe. He might be able to do something.”

  “For you, yes. I don’t doubt that. But not for Sunyo. This place is under the International Police. Your father may be a councillor in London, but he has no authority in Kyoto.”

  I could not dispute that. I racked my brain to find another argument which would persuade him to drop this harebrained scheme.

  Kelly said, “You’ve been a great help, Clive. I mean it. I couldn’t have got him out of the stockade by myself. Just help me get the boat down now, and that’s enough. Take your two blankets back to the tent, and there’ll be no way of tying you in with us being missing. Don’t worry—we’ll make it.”

  “Make it where? To the Outlands?”

  “As far as we’re concerned, the Outlands are better than staying here. I promise you.”

  So I helped him carry the boat down. In addition to the plastic sails and ropes there was a collapsible mast. It had metal trimmings which had rusted to nothing, but the mast itself seemed in fair shape. I helped Kelly fit it into its socket and rig the sails after a fashion.

  “There’s not much wind,” I said.

  Kelly was wrestling with the boom. “Not much. But enough.”

  “And what there is is onshore.”

  “Yes, but the tide’s making northwest. We’ll get clear, all right.”

  I shrugged. Argument was plainly useless.

  Kelly said, “If we can float her and you can lend a hand with Sunyo . . .”

  We wrestled the boat over the sand and into the water. There was still a chance the hull would prove not to be watertight, and even Kelly could scarcely propose setting off in a vessel that was leaking. He clambered in while I held on.

  “How is it?”

  “Sound as a bell.” A wave splashed in, halfway up my thighs. “I’ll hang on now while you get Sunyo.”

  Sunyo did not reply when I first spoke to him, and I thought he was asleep or had fainted. But he roused himself and sat up slowly and painfully. In the moonlight he looked terrible.

  I said, “Lean on me.”

  He shook his head. “I can walk.”

  He did it, with an immense effort but unaided. I remembered he had had nothing to eat for three days except a couple of crusts of bread and tonight not even that. He waded into the sea and staggered as a small wave hit him, but recovered.

  He needed help, though, to get into the boat. Somehow Kelly and I hauled him over the side, with the dinghy rocking violently and threatening to turn over. Kelly got in after him. He said, “Thanks for everything, Clive.”

  “I still think . . .”

  “I know you do.” His teeth gleamed in moonlight as he grinned. “And you could be right. But it looks different from where we’re standing. Best of luck. I hope your release comes through soon.”

  “Best of luck to you. You need it more than I do.”

  “Sure. If you can contribute just one little push to get us moving . . .”

  I waded forward, pushing the dinghy out. The beach shelved under my feet. A receding wave tugged at the boat, pulling it from me. That was when instead of pushing I gripped the gunnel and heaved myself on board. The dinghy rocked and shipped water but righted itself.

  Kelly asked, in genuine surprise, “What do you think you’re up to?”

  “It looks as though I’m coming with you.” I looked at the shore behind us. “Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.”

  5

  I ASKED MYSELF THE QUESTION again as the dinghy drifted out on the tide and the distance from shore steadily increased, and the only answer was that I was an idiot. I did not flatter myself that I was doing Kelly and Sunyo any good by going with them; if anything, the reverse was true. The biggest danger to the boat was the risk of swamping, and the addition of a third person would only increase that.

  I had climbed aboard on impulse, and the impulse was short-lived. It was replaced by another: to dive in and swim ashore while I still could. I think I might have done so, except that Sunyo groaned faintly and Kelly said, “Clive, see if you can help him get comfortable while I deal with this sail.”

  I did what I could with the help of Kelly’s blankets. My own two were on the beach where I had left them. I should have had the sense to bring them, but, more to the point, I should have had the sense to swim back and pick them up and head for the tent. Inside ten minutes I could have been wrapped up and asleep on solid ground, instead of rocking in this cockleshell on a very large and very wet sea.

  When I looked toward shore again, it was more than a hundred yards away, not an easy swim against what was plainly a strong tide. The island was taking on shape in the moonlight, the long line of beach curving out and the higher ground to the south coming in view. I looked the other way and there was
nothing but sea, featureless except for the broad flickering path cast by the moon.

  I said to Kelly, “Is there any particular destination in mind, or do we just drift?”

  He pointed at the moon. “As long as that’s on our left, we’re heading roughly east. The coast of France is almost due east.”

  But nine miles away, I remembered. I said, “What sort of speed do you think we’re making?”

  Kelly shook his head. “No idea.”

  He sounded very cheerful, a good deal more cheerful than I felt. Much as I had hated life in the camp, I was beginning to see certain advantages to it—things like food and solid ground. And the possibility that at any moment a guard might yell, “Anderson, report to the commandant’s office!” Maybe on first parade tomorrow . . . but it would do me no good now.

  The island dwindled, fading into the moonlit haze of sea and sky. I became conscious of the empti­ness of my stomach. It was six hours or more since supper, which had been only watery stew since we had saved our bread for Sunyo.

  I thought of something else and said to Kelly, “Water. . . .”

  “Yes.” He laughed. “You don’t realize how much of it there is in the sea.”

  “Drinking water. We haven’t got any.”

  After a pause, he said, “Yes. That was a bit stupid. I didn’t think.”

  I looked at the vague, distant smudge of the island.

  “Do you think we ought to go back and get some?”

  “No chance. It’s not just the tide—what wind there is would be against us.”

  We were silent again. Kelly said, “Less than ten miles to France. If it takes all night we won’t be too bad. We’re not going to die of thirst before morning.”

  It was meant to be cheerful, and I supposed I ought to have been able to say something cheerful back, but I could not think of anything. Sunyo lay wrapped in blankets, and Kelly and I sat upright, watching the sea in silence.

  It must have been half an hour later that I said, “The moon.”

  It was moving very slowly across the sky, from its station on our left hand to a position dead ahead. That was the impression. The reality was that the boat was swinging north in a current far stronger than the gentle following wind.