AFTER MY RETURN from the land of the noble Houyhnhnm, I made every effort to reintegrate with Society. I vowed to my wife & children that I would wander no more.
In time, I took a position at the Royal Hospital of St. Brendan and enjoyed some success as a Surgeon. But, as weeks became months, the World seemed to grow stale around me. Compared to all I had seen, my own society was trivial & small. My comfortable home, I realized, was not the place I belonged.
I decided I would go where my voyage started, back to Lilliput. When my children reminded me of my vow to stay, I could only tell them that, “Promises & pie crusts were made to be broken.” By chance, I found my beloved Adventure for sale in a local port, having been scuttled by its mutinous crew years before. She was filthy & tattered, but I recognized her figurehead immediately—the Mermaid, green eyes set on the future. I had the vessel re-fitted & employed a dependable crew & returned to the sea . . .
. . . With a map fresh in memory, I set a course for Lilliput. I will spare Readers details of the Voyage, except to say it was not easy. Pirates bedeviled us & we lay trapped for weeks in the Horse Latitudes. In the vast Indian Ocean, a monsoon nearly sank us.
On March 21st, 1724, we sighted that Blessed Isle, shimmering before us. We made anchor the next day, myself & a crew of 5 heading ashore by dinghy. How my heart raced! To be back, after so many years! As we entered harbor, I found the Port of Mildendo much changed in a quarter century. Buildings & shops were unpainted, unrepaired, walls pitted & pocked as if from gunfire.
I went to find my old friend, the Minister Reldresal. He was aged & frail, his eyesight having failed. He told me that among the younger generation, I had receded to Myth. Lilliputian Schoolchildren knew the legend of a Giant found lying in a field of clover, but none believed it.
Reldresal told me the Treaty with the Blefuscudians had broken & a bloody new war had raged for decades. I saw now that their Civilization was no better than my own . . .
. . . I was saddened, sickened, and wanted to leave right away. Several Lilliputians, also grown weary of war, wanted to return with me. But that was forbidden by the aged Emperor.
“I am honor-bound to respect your Nation’s Laws,” I told them.
Still, these small souls—among them, the Admiral of their Fleet—were desperate. “And if we followed on our ship?” the old sailor inquired. “Would you stop us?”
I had to admit, I could do nothing if they chose that course.
The next moonless night, they slipped aboard a ship in the harbor and seized control. Four dozen Lilliputians joined the bold escape, bringing horses, cows, sheep, geese, donkeys, chickens, pigs, children, older relatives and a few beloved pets. Leaving a lone guard bound and gagged on the dock, they set sail. Despite a superstition against it, they renamed their vessel Adventure, in homage to my own ship . . .
. . . I returned with them to Redriff & my family was delighted by the new houseguests. But others saw them as curiosities, suited for display in a Circus or Museum. We were besieged by gawking crowds. I quickly sold my house & purchased a small Farm outside Moss-on-Stone. I built a high Wall around the back garden & begged the Little Ones never to stray beyond it.
I let them imagine great Monsters & horrible Perils in the world outside. It was not easy to stand by as they dreamed up these awful things. But if it would keep them safe, I would let it happen.
They soon founded a New & Sovereign Nation and called it Lesser Lilliput. With the passing months & years, they seemed to forget their true home. They began to see me as a Giant in their world & no longer saw themselves as small things in my World.
Is it right that I should keep them hidden away? Will the Wall always be here to protect them? Or should I let them see the other World & learn who they really are?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE GHOSTS OF GIANTS
It was late-afternoon when he finished. Michael looked out on the sea of little faces and saw—what?—curiosity, fear. They wanted to know if the story was true. Did these pages tell their real story? As the first Lemuel Gulliver knew, they had long ago forgotten where they’d come from and who they were.
“Can it be . . . ?” Topgallant fumbled for words. “Is it possible . . . ? Are we not the only ones? Are we part of a larger race?”
“It sorta looks that way,” said Michael.
In small huddled groups, the Lilliputians discussed this and all that it meant. To live so many years, thinking you were the only one of your kind and then to find you were part of some bigger thing . . . Jane brushed the dusty bottom of the vault. “There’s something else.” It was a last sheet, a fading map. In the middle of a wide sea, just northwest of Van Diemen’s Land, they saw the islands of Lilliput.
Now Michael knew what had to happen. “They’re never going to be safe here, no matter what. I have to get them back. I have to get them home.”
“How’re we going to do that?” Jane asked.
“I think I know a way,” he said. “You better let me handle it. You could get in a lot of trouble.”
“I’m supposed to be grounded,” said Jane, “but I helped break you out of prison. I’m a runaway. My picture’s all over television. Unless you’re planning on killing somebody, I couldn’t get in much more trouble.”
“Tomorrow, then,” he said. “We’ll get a good rest, and start tomorrow.”
Michael used Lemuel’s phone to call Charlie Ford and ask him to meet in the schoolyard, at dawn, and not tell a single soul.
Charlie had been there half an hour by the time Michael made his way through alleys and back gardens. “I need you to buy me something.”
“I saw you on the news, Michael,” Charlie sniffled. “You and a girl, they say you’re missing. Are you, Michael?”
“I’m here talking to you, so I’m not too missing,” he answered. “But that’s why I need you. I have to keep out of sight for a while. Will you help me, Charlie?”
The littler boy thought about it and said, “I could end up on TV, too.”
“Yeah,” said Michael. He wasn’t going to lie. “You really could, Charlie.”
“That’d be wicked cool.” Charlie wiped his runny nose.
“Will you help?” Michael asked. “It’s not going to be easy.”
“Why’d you ask me, Michael?” Charlie wanted to know. “You could’ve asked Penelope Rees or somebody smart.”
“Penelope knows stuff, but she isn’t smart. She couldn’t help, but I know you can do it, Charlie.”
He thought for a moment and said, “I’ll help, Michael, if you tell me what’s going on. All of it.”
And Michael told him. He told the whole story: Lemuel and the Lilliputians, the fire in the Garden City, YOI, Jane, all of it.
“All right,” Charlie said when he finished, “that’s all I wanted to know. I’ll help you. Just tell me what to do.”
“That’s not nearly enough money,” Gadbury told Charlie. “You got, what, fourteen, fifteen pounds here. Another twenty in trade for this bike. You got, say, a total of thirty-five pounds here. That thing’s worth a hundred fifty, easy.”
“No, it’s not,” the boy sniffled as he looked over the ship model. “It’s in lousy shape. You’d have to spend another hundred just to get it fixed.”
“It’s old,” Gadbury said.
“It’s falling apart,” Charlie said back.
“I could get ninety for it and you know it.”
And Charlie did know it. “I have a fifty pound note in my shoe,” he said.
“Sure you do,” Gadbury laughed.
“My nan gave it to me.” Charlie took out the note and smoothed it on the counter. “Altogether that makes eighty-five.”
“Allrightyeahallright,” Gadbury grumbled and took the money.
“I need a way to get it back,” Charlie adde
d. “You can throw in that wagon over there.”
“And all for eighty-five pounds! Are you trying to rob me?!”
“I’m in a hurry, bud,” Charlie sniffed.
“You little runny-nosed brass neck!” But Gadbury helped load the old ship model. “This thing weighs more than you do, kid.” It was as big as a sofa and barely balanced in the wagon, but Charlie set off down the street with it.
Michael waited, by a hedge, at the edge of town. He saw police cars cruising the narrow streets, looking for him, looking for Jane. As he waited, a new wind began to blow across Moss-on-Stone and in it you could smell the sea.
A little after ten, he saw Charlie struggling with the wagon and the big model ship. “Thanks, Charlie. I really owe you.”
“No,” said Charlie. “You really don’t.” And he left.
It took a full hour to get the wagon back to the stone cottage. The Little Ones set to work refitting it, caulking its hull, stocking its larder.
Michael and Jane went to the cottage and started searching through boxes. Inside, everything was perfect and still and windless. “Here’s one,” Michael called when he found a map of the county. “It’s old, but roads don’t change. It’ll do, right?”
Jane unfolded the map on a table. “Yeah, look, there,” she pointed. “There’s a canal, here, just outside Ambridge. It leads to the river.”
“That’s what we need,” said Michael.
But Jane shook her head. “It’s fifteen miles, Michael. And we have to carry that big ship and all the people. How can we even dream of doing something like that?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE ALL-NEW 1926 HISPANO-SUIZA
I think I know a way.”
He took the old key and went to the barn, not really sure what he’d find. They got the rotting door open and saw a wood crate—eight feet high, sixteen feet long, marked for delivery to Lemuel Gulliver.
“It’s from France, Bois-Colombes,” Jane read the marking.
They found hammers and prying bars and went at it. Each aged nail screamed as it was pulled from the wood. They peeled back the first panel and, under a blanket of dust and smoky web, they saw a giant motorcar. When they cut the steel straps that still held it, gravity rolled the monster into the farmyard.
A crowd of Little Ones stood watching a custom-built 1926 Hispano-Suiza move into sunlight, fourteen feet long, spoked-wood wheels, a canvas top folded open. The dashboard was ivory and rosewood, seats a dark leather, the carpet thick and wool. There were flower vases by the rear seats, still with the ghost-stems of roses.
“Looks like it’s never been used,” said Jane.
“I don’t think he even opened the crate,” Michael told her.
“Do you figure it’ll still run?”
Philament Phlopp had already crawled into the engine. “I can make it work,” he said. “We’ll need some petrol, oil, an hour or two.”
“But even if you got it running,” said Jane, “who would drive it?”
“I will,” Michael answered. He’d driven a digital Formula One racing car and how much harder could this be? If his feet could reach the pedals, he could drive it. He wiped greasy dust from the ornament. “It’s a stork.” A silver stork in flight was the Hispano-Suiza’s emblem. “They’re good luck, y’know.”
Mr. Phlopp spent an hour and a half inside the engine, clearing lines, cleaning each of the eight cylinders. He had everything working perfectly, except the canvas top: the metal ribs had frozen in place and would have to stay down.
Michael and Jane and the Little Ones brought the heavy ship model around and tied it across a grille on the back. It overhung the car by a few feet.
Everything was near-ready now and Topgallant organized the Exodus. Standing on the toppled town fountain, he called for the others to, “Gather livestock, pets, children, older relatives. Hurry, and bring only the essentials!”
They moved quickly, wrapping hopes and dreams in tablecloths and leaving the rest behind. Soon, a hundred ninety-one Lilliputians were gathering by the barn, ready to board their rolling ark. Burton Topgallant had a list and saw that every name was accounted for . . . all but two.
Brave Mr. Wellup had been lost to the weasels and Hoggish Butz was nowhere to be found.
After a quick search of the wrecked city, Topgallant saw him outside the trampled bakery, calmly chewing a stale éclair, Golden Helmet glinting in the mid-morning sun. “It’s time, Brother Butz,” said Burton. “We have to get moving.”
“We are NOT going,” Hoggish hmphed at him. “I am the Grand Panjandrum and I say we STAY. It is my decree, it is law.”
Burton Topgallant looked over the ruined city and sighed, “There’s no one left to listen, Brother Butz.”
Hoggish only straightened the Gold Helmet and sniffed, “This is my kingdom. It is my HOME.”
“It was a home for us all, once.” Topgallant took a seat across from him. “But it isn’t anymore. We’re part of a greater race, you and me and the rest, and we need to join it.”
Hoggish was silent and still.
“Besides, if you stay here—what will you eat?”
“Oh, Great Ghost of Bolgolam . . . ,” sighed Mr. Butz.
The Lesser Lilliputians loaded into the car, all of them and with room to spare: it was even more massive than their Great Hall had been.
“Wait, hold on,” said Jane.
“What for?” asked Michael.
“We can’t drive it like this.”
“Why not?” the boy wanted to know.
“Look at it,” she said. “It’s a mess.”
And it was, covered with decades of dust that dulled its paint and chrome. “We should clean it,” she said. “We should make it look nice.”
But Michael shook his head. “There isn’t time.”
“It won’t take LONG.” Hoggish had quietly joined them.
They agreed it was something they owed Quinbus Flestrin and, with soap and water and little rags, they went at it. The Lesser Lilliputians were all over the car, scrubbing every hidden inch. Wool carpets were cleaned, leather oiled, ivory and rosewood polished, new flowers found for the vases. Within an hour, the Hispano-Suiza shined as it had on a day in 1926.
“All right,” said Jane. “Let’s go.”
Michael started the huge engine and it hummed, healthy and full of life. He told everyone to hold on as he made a wide long turn in the field and drove up the rutted gravel road, out onto the single carriageway.
There were no cars, no lorries, no tractors on the main road. A sudden warm wind swept in from behind them and Jane’s hair flew wild and free.
“Clap on full sail,” called Topgallant. “We’re riding with the wind.”
The old car pulled from the farm, for the first and last time, and headed toward an unseen sea.
When Stanley Ford came by a few hours later, searching for Michael Pine and Jane Mallery, he would find the stone cottage quiet and empty and still. In the back, by the barn, he would find a pile of tiny wet rags.
If you’ve ever been twelve years old and at the wheel of an Hispano-Suiza, top down, throttle out, you know it’s a powerful feeling—the road, hills, and patchwork farms sailing past, the miles melting beneath you.
Jane folded the road map in her lap and watched the fields of mop-headed cows and long-fleeced sheep go by. The Lesser Lilliputians peered out at a world they’d never Imagined, never Dreamed was here.
Michael eased the long car through a roundabout. As they drove through a small village, the road narrowed to pass between a church and an inn, and he misjudged the turn. The old car bounced hard on a stone curb, shaking, rattling to its frame. The big ship model nearly fell from the back grille.
“Is everything all right, you think?” Jane asked.
“Don’t
know,” Michael answered, but everything wasn’t. A rear tire was punctured and going flat.
“I think the children may have been at the Gulliver cottage,” Officer Ford phoned to tell Horace Ackerby. “Somebody’s been here, anyway. Within the last few hours, I’d say.”
This time, the Magistrate himself called for the APW.
There was a petrol station and restaurant at the far edge of this village and Michael pulled the car to a stop. The children got out and saw a very flat tire. “Is there another one?” Jane asked. “A spare?”
“If there is,” said Michael, “I wouldn’t know how to put it on.”
Thudd Ickens slipped out of the car and crawled across the tire. “It’s only a small puncture, on the inside, close to the rim. Nothing too bad.”
“You think these people can fix it here, at the station?” Jane asked. “I have a little money, not much.”
“Maybe,” said Michael and he headed to the service bay.
“What you want?” came a voice.
Michael hadn’t seen the mechanic, half under a car. “We—my Dad—we have a flat tire. Can you fix it?” the boy asked.
“Not now I can’t,” came the voice. “Give me a half hour.”
“All right,” said Michael, “thanks.” But he didn’t have a half hour to give. When he saw a patch kit on the workbench, he grabbed it and hurried out.
Philament Phlopp was sure that he and Ickens could repair the tire. They took the patch and climbed back to find the puncture. Michael knelt and tried to help them, but a man in tweed was walking toward them from the station’s restaurant. “Michael, somebody’s coming,” Jane whispered. She quietly called for the Lesser Lilliputians to hide themselves.
“There’s something you don’t see every day,” the tweedy man was saying and he meant the car. “What is it, ’28, ’29?”
“ ’26,” Michael answered.
The Last of the Gullivers Page 13
