The World in Winter

by John Christopher

  Mutalli said, smiling but more watchful: ‘What things?’

  ‘We have to have better discipline,’ Abonitu said. ‘And delegated authority. One man on each craft who is responsible for it, and a man named as deputy to him in case he gets hurt or lost. We need to have decisions made firmly, and then kept – not chopping and changing all the time.’

  There was a further noise of approval. For the moment, Abonitu had them, Andrew saw. Mutalli saw it, too.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

  ‘It doesn’t need thinking about,’ Abonitu said. He stared at the bigger, more powerful figure of Mutalli. This was different from the usual independence displayed at meetings like this: it was a challenge, and the challenge was personal. Andrew saw Mutalli’s hand drop to the knife they all carried at their belts. Abonitu turned away from him to look at the others. ‘It has to be done,’ he said, ‘if we want to get back home when this is over.’

  The agreement was quieter, more growling, but as positive as before. Mutalli looked around the assembled faces, and read his present isolation in them. He nodded in acceptance.

  ‘O.K. Abonitu, you take charge of your Hovercraft from now on. I’ll fix other captains soon. And you’re responsible for discipline, O.K.? Set the watches, keep them to it, all that. Any trouble, I expect you to deal with it, not come running to me.’

  Abonitu nodded: ‘Just as you say.’

  Mutalli grinned. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘how’s that dinner coming along? How is it, boys? You hungry for that stew?’

  The situation had been well turned. He had made the minimum concession, and at the same time burdened Abonitu with the task in which he was most likely to incur unpopularity. And at the right time, Andrew guessed, he would strike at him. The usual undisciplined arguing did not affect Mutalli’s supremacy; in a way, general and unfocused as it was, it confirmed it. But the emergence of an opposition centred on one man was quite a different thing. Andrew did not think that Mutalli would tolerate this for long.

  The showdown, however, came sooner than he had expected. The squadron pushed on in the afternoon, north-east in the direction of London. They followed the Itchen valley to Winchester, where they saw the first signs of human life in England. Figures moved across the snow at the edge of the town. They fled to the cover of the buildings when Mutalli diverted the squadron towards them. The squadron continued on its way. A halt was made in later afternoon in the rolling empty country south of Basingstoke. When the Africans clustered, as usual, around Mutalli’s craft, he called out:

  ‘Abonitu! Set your guards, boy. Anything gets in this camp, you answer for it.’

  ‘Are we pitching camp here?’

  ‘How does it look to you?’

  ‘A little early, I would say. We have quite a bit of daylight in front of us.’

  Mutalli leaned his huge head slightly towards Abonitu.

  ‘Shut up.’ Abonitu was silent, watching him. ‘You wanted discipline, boy, you’d better start taking it. I give the orders round here.’

  Abonitu nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Mutalli said. ‘Remember that discipline.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Abonitu said.

  His face was impassive, his eyes unwinking behind his spectacles. He stared at Mutalli and then turned away and made arrangements for the guard duty. The roster which he made up included Prentice.

  Prentice said: ‘I’ve done a guard already. Your pal, Leedon, hasn’t done one yet.’

  Abonitu said shortly: ‘Leedon had a heavy night last night.’

  ‘There are plenty of others,’ Prentice said, ‘who haven’t stood a guard.’

  Mutalli, within earshot, was watching the scene with amusement. Abonitu said:

  ‘No arguments, Prentice. You’ll go on guard, as arranged.’

  Prentice looked at him in sullen anger. Carlow pulled his arm and led him away. They stood together, apart from the others, Carlow talking and Prentice listening. Abonitu continued to call out the names of those on guard.

  Twelve guards had been set, on a three-watch rotation. In the morning only three guards were on duty; the fourth, an African of the Fulani tribe, was still in his sleeping bag when Abonitu went looking for him. He was not abashed by this. No one had called him for duty. His predecessor on watch, Abonitu found, should have been Prentice.

  Neither Carlow nor Prentice was in the camp area. It seemed fairly clear what had happened. They had taken their automatics, and a good supply of ammunition and of food.

  ‘The fools,’ Abonitu said. ‘How long do they think they will last on their own, out there?’

  ‘They heard what you said about Guernsey,’ Andrew reminded him. ‘They probably think they can carve out a little kingdom on their own.’

  ‘That was an island, protected by the sea. There is no comparison.’

  Andrew shrugged. ‘Or perhaps they think any kind of risk is preferable to going on with this.’

  ‘This?’

  ‘Life as a member of the lower orders. They’re back in their own country now. Frozen up, but their own country.’

  Abonitu’s voice, when he spoke, had an impatient, almost truculent bitterness:

  ‘One has to take life as it is. I thought you understood that, Andrew. It was a lesson your people taught us.’

  ‘I understand it. I was suggesting that they might not have done. It’s a thin line between hope and fantasy.’

  They were standing by their own Hovercraft. Mutalli approached them, with a score or more of the men behind him. He said, in a heavy sarcastic voice:

  ‘That was a fine guard you organized last night, boy. You really deserve credit for it. You don’t mind taking the responsibility, I hope?’

  ‘No,’ Abonitu said, ‘I don’t mind that. We have to work out punishments, don’t we? What I have in mind is no coffee for three days and extra guard duties.’

  ‘Who for?’

  ‘For the three who did duty on the last watch, and the three on the watch before.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Negligence in not realizing there was a man missing. An elementary part of a sentry’s duty is keeping in contact with his fellow sentries.’

  ‘You got it worked out, boy, really worked out. You worked out how we’re going to get those two bastards back?’

  ‘We aren’t.’ He gestured towards wooded country to the south. ‘Their tracks lead that way. They’re shrewd enough to know that if they stayed out in the open we would run them down with the Hovercraft. But Hovercraft can’t go through trees. We could go after them on foot, but they have at least two hours’ start – maybe four. And I believe Carlow came from somewhere in these parts. It would be a wasted effort to look for them.’

  ‘So we’ve lost our two mechanics? You take it easy.’

  ‘No. But several of our men have picked up enough by now to handle minor troubles. And the big troubles were always likely to involve workshop repairs which Carlow and Prentice had no facilities for, anyway. We’re not much worse off.’

  Mutalli was plainly irritated, both by the reasonableness of Abonitu’s arguments and by his calmness of tone. Almost shouting, he said:

  ‘You can’t trust white men. You ought to know that, boy! You ought to know you can’t trust them.’

  ‘I didn’t choose those two for the expedition,’ Abonitu said.

  While the interchange had been going on, more of the Africans had been coming up to listen. They tended, Andrew saw, to collect around one or the other of the two men. Most were with Mutalli, but Abonitu’s minority was a substantial one. And on the other side, there were signs that some were more impressed by the calmness than by the bluster. Mutalli seemed aware of this, too. There was a pause before he spoke, and when he did it was in a quieter, yet more venomous tone.

  ‘Not those two. But you chose yourself a white man, didn’t you, boy? Maybe you got to like white men, that time you went to England. You want to keep one with you – give you advice, tell you what to do, how to
get discipline, how to set a guard on the camp? That the idea, boy?’

  It had its effect. The swing of sympathy was perceptible. One or two of the others shouted angry phrases of agreement. Abonitu said:

  ‘Leedon is a technician. He was chosen for that.’

  ‘Like those other two bastards – both technicians. But you chose this one. You have any ideas on that situation?’

  Abonitu said quietly: ‘What ideas should I have?’

  ‘I’ll tell you mine,’ Mutalli said. ‘Maybe you’ll pick it up from there. My idea, we’ve had enough of white men in this expedition. My idea, we make sure we don’t have more treachery, when it hits us worse maybe. You’re in charge of your craft, Abonitu. I leave it to you.’

  ‘I’ll speak for Leedon,’ Abonitu said. ‘You have nothing to worry about with him.’

  There was a shout of derision at this. Andrew heard individual voices, raised in hostility. An African nearby shook a fist in his direction.

  ‘You pick it up slow,’ Mutalli said. ‘All I’m asking you, you work out the best way of doing it. You think he’s worth a bullet? The knife’s just as quick, and more economical.’

  He took his own knife from his belt, tossed it in the air, and caught it. The early morning sunshine danced on the blade. Mutalli did not return it to his belt but hefted it in his large right hand.

  Abonitu said, his voice still even: ‘This is nonsense.’

  Mutalli shook his head. ‘You soft, boy? I thought you were the big hero, from what you said yesterday.’

  ‘And barbarous.’ Abonitu raised his voice slightly. ‘What you would expect from an Ibo.’

  There were other Ibo in the expedition, but they were greatly outnumbered by men from other tribes, notably the Yoruba. Andrew saw what Abonitu was trying to exploit. It was a dangerous gambit if it failed to work; and here it failed. There was a roar of anger from the Ibo clustered round Mutalli, silence from the rest.

  Mutalli said, his voice steady but carrying an undertone of triumph:

  ‘I’m giving you an order, Abonitu. You kill this white man. You kill him any way you choose, but you kill him. O.K.? That clear enough for you?’

  Abonitu shook his head very slowly. He said:

  ‘You’re trying to make me look small. All right, I’m small. You’re running this expedition. We all agree on that. You’ve made your point. Now let’s get on with the work.’

  Mutalli smiled. He offered the knife to Abonitu, hilt first.

  ‘I’ve just given you a job. Maybe you didn’t hear me?’

  Abonitu shrugged, and began to turn away. Mutalli said, in a louder voice:

  ‘I’m going to count up to ten. Before I finish, I want to see something happen.’

  He counted the numbers out. Andrew felt fear crawl along his nerve ends. Abonitu’s isolation was nothing to his; whether or not Abonitu succeeded in escaping from the trap, Andrew saw that Mutalli was determined on a victim. And the mob was with him.

  Mutalli came to ten. Abonitu had said nothing, done nothing. He stared at the bigger man: his face was impassive, set in a brooding frown. Mutalli said:

  ‘Disobeying orders? That’s mutiny, boy.’ He made a flicking motion with his head. ‘O.K. Finish them off – both of them.’

  As the other men began to surge forward, Abonitu spoke. His voice was sharp, and it stopped them.

  ‘Wait.’ His eyes fixed on Mutalli’s. ‘Are you telling them to murder me, Mutalli?’

  ‘Not murder. Execute, not murder. You thinking about your uncle? I guess he’ll still look after you, Abonitu. He’ll give you a medal, boy. Does that make you feel good?’

  ‘No,’ Abonitu said, ‘not that. I feel good because you have shown yourself for the coward you are. When you wanted the white man killed, you told me to do it. And now that you want me killed, you look to the others to do it for you. A brave man would do it himself – or try to. But you are not brave, Mutalli, are you? And, to make up for it, you are wise. Because if you came to me on your own, with a knife in your hand and no one helping, you think I might kill you.’

  Mutalli did not answer. Instead, he tossed the knife from right hand to left, and back to right again. He held it by the hilt, the point upwards and pointing towards Abonitu. As he stepped forward, the others moved back, forming a rough circle in the snow. Two of them grabbed Andrew’s arms, and pulled him roughly back with them. There was nothing he could do but acquiesce. Inside the circle, the two men closed on each other, both silent now. It was Mutalli who advanced more, but it was Abonitu who attacked first. When Mutalli was a couple of yards from him, he leapt forward, reaching with his free hand for the hand that held the knife, his own knife scything through the air towards his opponent’s neck. The two men met and reeled together, grunting with the exertion, kicking frozen snow as they fought for footholds.

  Abonitu gave way. He was borne backwards, and his arms pressed down by superior weight and strength. At last he managed, by a sudden twist, to disengage himself. As he did so, Mutalli’s hand with the knife swept after him. His back was towards Andrew, but Andrew saw his spectacles spin through the air, a lens flashing sunlight. They landed in the snow between the two men, and Mutalli, moving quickly, stamped them with his right foot. Abonitu continued to back away, and Andrew saw also that blood was dripping from somewhere on his face. The small drops of red spread out on the snow. Around the two men, the other Africans murmured with excitement.

  Abonitu backed as Mutalli advanced on a slow circuit of the ring. Once or twice Mutalli lunged forward quickly, but Abonitu evaded the attack. Mutalli began to talk to him, in a low mocking voice:

  ‘Come on, boy. You not afraid, boy, are you? Let’s see the big hero man fight. Come on, make it quick. You going to get cold, crawling around like that. Let’s see that knife move, boy. Let’s have some action now.’

  Abonitu made a rush, as though goaded. Mutalli dodged, swaying with unexpected lightness and agility. His knife waved, and it was Abonitu’s hand, this time, which dripped blood. The others roared. Mutalli said:

  ‘I think I’ll carve you up a little bit, boy. You got a lot of blood in you. Come right on in, and I’ll tickle you some more.’

  They continued to circle, Mutalli advancing, Abonitu retreating. The snow inside the circle was treading down under their feet.

  ‘Come in,’ Mutalli said. ‘Come in again, boy. Come in, you brave hero man.’

  He himself moved forward more quickly, and Abonitu backed off. It was beginning to turn into a chase. As Abonitu moved round the circle, hands pushed at him and prodded him. They could see the blood, and were beginning to shout for more. Andrew debated making an effort to tear himself free and run for it. Once Abonitu was dead, they would kill him. Nothing was more certain.

  ‘If you don’t come in,’ Mutalli said, ‘then I have to come and get you, don’t I, boy? I think I’ll get you right now.’

  The circle grew a corner. They closed in on either side of Abonitu, forcing him to stand and give battle. He was at bay as Mutalli came towards him. Someone pushed him between the shoulders, knocking his head forward. At that, Abonitu leapt to his right, cannoning against the crowding Africans. Obviously he was trying to escape from Mutalli again, and as obviously he had no chance. The bigger man swayed to the left, swinging for him.

  But Mutalli stumbled in mid-swing, his right foot slipping on a patch of frozen snow. He checked, and retained his footing, but he was off balance. In that instant, Abonitu flung his body forward. His head caught the other man high on the chest, his left fist simultaneously punching him in the stomach. Mutalli crashed back into the snow. As he hit the ground he twisted to one side, his hands reaching out to find a position from which he could regain his footing. One of them still held the knife. Abonitu brought his boot down on it and the knife fell free. He stared at his fallen opponent, at the hand flattened under his foot. With the other boot he kicked Mutalli savagely in the face, the head rolling back under the impact. Then he stooped, his own knife
poised for the kill.

  At the last minute, dazed as he was, Mutalli wrenched to one side and simultaneously swept his right arm round against the backs of Abonitu’s legs. His knees crumpled and they were down together, rolling in the snow. But it was Mutalli’s last effort. Abonitu sawed at him with the knife, wounding him in the arm, the body, the face, before he managed at last to drive the knife deep into the hollow of his chest. Mutalli coughed and lay still, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth.

  Slowly Abonitu got to his feet. He looked round the ring of faces, assessing their reactions. Their expressions, Andrew saw, were blank for the most part. They had been shocked, as well they might be, by the outcome of the struggle, and were unsure how to take it. They were still capable of turning on Abonitu. It only required a spark from a small section – from the Ibos – to set off a conflagration of murderous hate and revenge.

  As though aware of this, Abonitu stared most fixedly at the group of Ibo men, his eyes challenging theirs. He held them for a moment or two. Then, with deliberate and casual contempt, he kicked Mutalli’s body.

  ‘Take this away,’ he said. He paused. There was a sighing exhalation of breath. ‘Bury it,’ Abonitu went on. ‘We do not leave our dead for scavengers. The ground is too hard for digging. You will need to use the power drills.’

  He turned on his heel, and walked away. The circle parted as he approached. When he had gone perhaps twenty yards, he stopped and looked back. He pointed to Andrew.

  ‘Let that man go. And let the cooks get on with the breakfast. We break camp an hour from now.’

  There was no attempt to challenge Abonitu’s supremacy. When camp was broken, his Hovercraft moved off first, the others falling into line behind it. At the midday halt, the men scrambled from their craft and gathered round Abonitu’s, as, in the past, they had done round Mutalli’s. He had been busy, during the morning, with paper and pencil. Standing as far from him and as inconspicuously as possible, Andrew recognized that he had taken on stature, a conscious awareness of leadership.

  He said: ‘These are the names of the men who are to be in charge of each Hovercraft.’ He read the names in a clear voice. ‘They will be responsible to me. Each will appoint a deputy, to take charge in an emergency where he himself can’t act, and report the name of the deputy to me this evening. I am appointing a deputy myself. That is Colonel Zigguri. If anything happens to me, he takes over. Is that understood?’