The White Mountains (The Tripods)

by John Christopher

  The tentacle sliced into the bushes, and this time we were spattered with earth as it pulled them up. Beanpole said: “There are four.”

  He handed one each to Henry and me. “I will take the others. If we pull out the rings, count five, then stand up and throw. At the leg that is nearest. The hemisphere is too high.”

  This time I saw the tentacle through the bushes as it scooped up more. Beanpole said, “Now!”

  He pulled the rings from his eggs, and Henry did the same. I had taken mine in my left hand, and I needed to transfer it to the right. As I did so, pain ripped my armpit again, and I dropped it. I was fumbling on the ground to pick it up when Beanpole said, “Now!” again. They scrambled to their feet, and I grabbed the last egg, ignoring the pain of the moment, and got up with them. I ripped out the ring just as they threw.

  The nearest foot of the Tripod was planted on the slope, thirty yards or so above us. Beanpole’s first throw was wild—he did not get within ten yards of his target. But his second throw, and Henry’s, were close to the mark. One of them hit metal, with a clang that we could hear. Almost at once they exploded. There were three nearly simultaneous bangs, and fountains of earth and dust spouted into the air.

  But they did not obscure one plain fact: the eggs had done no damage to the Tripod. It stood as firmly as before, and the tentacle was swishing down, this time directly toward us. We started to run, or rather, in my case, prepared to. Because before I could move, it had me around the waist.

  I plucked at it with my left hand, but it was like trying to bend a rock. It held me with amazing precision, tight but not crushing, and lifted me as I might lift a mouse. Except that a mouse could bite, and I could do nothing against the hard gleaming surface that held me. I was lifted up, up. The ground shrank below me, and with it the figures of Beanpole and Henry. I saw them darting away like ants. I was steeplehigh, higher. I looked up, and saw the hole in the side of the hemisphere. And remembered the iron egg still clutched in my right hand.

  How long was it since I had pulled the ring out? I had forgotten to count in my fear and confusion. Several seconds—it could not be long before it exploded. The tentacle was swinging me inwards now. The hole was forty feet away, thirty-five, thirty. I braced myself back, straining against the encircling band. Pain leapt in my arm again, but I ignored it. I hurled the egg with all my strength, and what accuracy I could muster. I thought at first that I had missed, but the egg hit the edge of the opening and ricocheted inside. The tentacle continued to carry me forward. Twenty feet, fifteen, ten …

  Although I was nearer, the explosion was not as loud as the others had been, probably because it took place inside the hemisphere. There was just a dull, rather hollow bang. Despair came back: that was my last chance gone. But at that instant I felt the tentacle holding me relax and fall away.

  I was three times the height of a tall pine; my bones would shatter when I hit the ground. I clutched desperately at the thing against which, a few seconds earlier, I had been struggling. My hands gripped the metal, but I was falling, falling. I looked down, and closed my eyes as the earth rushed up to meet me. And then there was a jerk which almost tore me from my hold, and the falling stopped. My feet shivered, only a few inches above the ground. All I had to do was let go, and step down.

  The others came to me. We stared up, in awe, at the Tripod. It stood there, tilted slightly but upright. From where we stood it showed no sign of damage. But its tentacle drooped like a dead snake. Our tormentor would not torment us again.

  Beanpole said, “I do not know if it could tell others before it died, but I think we had better not stay here.”

  Henry and I quickly agreed. For my part, even though I knew it was dead, I still, irrationally, feared it. I had a vision of it toppling, crushing us beneath its stupendous weight. I wanted desperately to get away from this place.

  “If others come,” Beanpole said, “they will search the surrounding part. The more distant we are before that happens, the better for us.”

  We set off up the hill, running. We ran until we were straining for breath, hearts pounding deliriously, leg muscles tortured with fatigue, and still staggered on. My arm was hurting a lot, but after a time I felt it less than I felt the other aches and pains. Once I fell, and it was an exquisite pleasure just to lie there, panting but not moving, my face pressed against grass and powdery earth. The others helped me up, and I was partly angry as well as grateful.

  It took us about half an hour to get to the top. Beanpole stopped then, and we stopped with him—I do not think I could have gone more than a few more yards, anyway, before falling again. And this time no help would have got me to my feet. I gulped in breath, which hurt me but which I had to have. Gradually the tightness in my chest eased, and I could breathe without pain.

  I looked down the long slope up which we had come. Darkness was falling, but I could still see the Tripod there. Was it really possible that I had killed it? I could begin to appreciate the enormity of what I had done, not so much with pride as with wonder. The unchallenged, impregnable masters of the earth—and my right hand had smashed one to death. I thought I knew how David had felt, when he saw Goliath topple in the dust of the valley of Elah.

  Beanpole said, “Look.”

  His voice did not generally tell one much, but there was alarm in it. I said, “Where?”

  “To the west.”

  He pointed. In the far distance, something moved. A familiar hateful shape heaved itself over the skyline, followed by a second, and a third. They were a long way off yet, but the Tripods were coming.

  • • •

  We ran again, down the other side of the ridge. We lost sight of them at once, but that was small consolation, knowing they were in the next valley, and realizing the feebleness of the best speed we could manage in comparison with theirs. I hoped they would stay with the dead Tripod for some time, but doubted if they would. Seeking revenge for its destruction was more likely to be their immediate concern. I put my foot on uneven ground, stumbled, and came near falling. At least, it was dark and getting darker. Unless they had cat’s eyes, it made our chances just a little better.

  And we needed all the help we could get. There appeared to be no more cover in this valley than the last—less, because I could not see a single bush, let alone a clump of them. It was all rough grass, with outcroppings of stone. We rested against one of these when exhaustion finally halted us. Stars were out, but there was no moon: it would not rise for some hours. I was very glad of that.

  No moon, but, above the ridge, a light in the sky, a light that moved, changing shape. A number of lights? I drew Beanpole’s attention to it. He said,

  “Yes. I have seen that.”

  “The Tripods?”

  “What else?”

  The light became beams, thrusting forward across the sky like arms. They shortened, and one of them swung in a stabbing arc across the sky, so that it pointed down instead of up. I could not see what lay behind the beam, but it was easy enough to imagine. The Tripod had come over the crest. The beams of light came from the hemispheres, and enabled them to see their way.

  They were spaced out, a hundred yards or so apart, and the beams of light swept the ground before and between them. They were traveling more slowly than I had seen a Tripod travel, but even so they were going faster than we could run. And were, as far as we knew, tireless. They made no sound, save for the dull thumping of their feet, and somehow this was more frightening than the howling of the other Tripod had been.

  We ran, and rested, and ran again. Rather than endure the extra effort of scaling the far side, we followed the valley to the west. In the darkness we stumbled and fell over the uneven ground, bruising ourselves. Behind us, the light followed, relentlessly weaving to and fro. In one pause, we saw that the Tripods had split up, one going up the other side of the valley and another marching to the east. But the third was coming our way, and gaining on us.

  We heard a stream and, on Beanpole’s sugges
tion, made for it. Since the three of them were apparently searching in different directions, it did not seem likely that they were following a scent, but there was a chance that they might, or might follow our tracks through grass and where the earth was soft. We got into the stream, and splashed our way along. It was only a few feet wide, luckily quite shallow and with an even, pebbly bed. The wonderful leather boots that had been made for me by the cobbler at the castle would not be improved by the soaking, but I had more pressing things to think about.

  We paused again. The stream splashed against our legs, just above our ankles. I said, “We can’t go on like this. It will have reached us in another quarter of an hour.”

  Henry said, “What else can we do?”

  “There’s only one Tripod now. Its light covers just about the whole of the valley floor, and perhaps a little of the sides. If we make a break for it, up the slope—it might miss us and go on past.”

  “Or it might trace our tracks out of the stream, and follow us.”

  “We should take the risk. We have no chance at all this way.” He did not say anything. “What do you think, Beanpole?”

  “I?” he said. “I think it is too late already. Look ahead.”

  Along the valley there was a light, which brightened and, as I watched, became a beam. We gazed at it in silence and despair. Then another light appeared above the ridge which I had suggested our climbing, twisted in the air, and arced down. And there were other lights, less distinct above the opposite slope. It was no longer a question of one Tripod, remorselessly gaining on us from behind. They were here in force, and all around.

  “Should we scatter?” Henry suggested. “I suppose we might have more chance separated than together.”

  I said, “No. The same chance. None at all, that is.”

  “I think I’m going to try,” Henry said. “The way it is, once they spot one, they’ve got us all.”

  Beanpole said, “Wait.”

  “For what? A few minutes and it will be too late.”

  “That rock, there.”

  Visibility was better, because of the light diffused from the Tripods’ beams. We could see each other, as though in dim moonlight, and a little of our surroundings. Beanpole pointed down the stream. Some twenty yards ahead, there was a shadowy ridge of rock, more than head high.

  “It may give some cover,” Beanpole said.

  I doubted that. We might flatten ourselves against it, but the beams would still catch us. But I had nothing better to offer. Beanpole splashed off along the stream, and we splashed after him. The course of the stream ran right beside the rock, which I saw had diverted its course to some extent. The reef was about thirty feet long. Its upper part was smooth and flat with a gentle backward slope, providing no protection at all. But the lower part …

  Some time in the past the stream had been stronger and more turbulent than it was now, and its fierceness had worn away a band of stone at the base. We bent down, exploring it with our hands. At its maximum the crevice was not more than two feet high, and about as deep; but it seemed to run the length of the rock. Two more beams appeared on the northern escarpment of the valley, and one of them was flicking far ahead, making spots of light that darted perilously near to where we stood. There was no room for delay. We snuggled ourselves into the crevice, in line, head to toe—Beanpole, then Henry, with myself at the end. My right arm was against rock, but my left side felt terribly exposed. I tried to force myself farther in, even though it hurt my arm to do so. If I lifted my head just a fraction, my forehead touched the stone overhang. The sound of my breathing seemed loud in this confinement.

  Beanpole whispered, “No talking. We must stay here quietly. For an hour, perhaps.”

  I watched the scene outside brighten, as the Tripods came nearer, and heard the thump, heavier and heavier, of their feet. Eventually I could see light reflected from the surface of the stream farther up. Then, directly in front of my face, night became day, and I could see small stones, blades of grass, a beetle frozen into immobility, all with tremendous clarity. And the ground shook as the foot of a Tripod slammed down only a few yards from us. I pressed myself tightly against the rock. It was going to be a long hour.

  A long hour, indeed. All night the beams of light played across the hills, advancing and retreating, crossing and recrossing the ground. Dawn broke at last, but the hunt did not stop. The Tripods came and went in a constant traffic: allowing for the same ones passing over us time after time, there must still have been dozens of them.

  But they had not seen us, and as the hours wore slowly on we became more and more confident that they would not. Even in daylight, our cleft must be invisible from the height of the hemispheres. But by the same token, we dared not leave its shelter. We lay there in increasing discomfort and boredom and hunger, seasoned in my case with pain. My arm began to hurt very badly, and there were times when I thought I would make my lip bleed with biting on it, and I felt tears come to my eyes and run down my cheeks.

  By midday, the intensity of the search had begun to slacken. There were periods of as long as five or ten minutes in which we dared to creep out and stretch our legs, but always they ended with the distant sight of another Tripod, and every now and then a troop of them would come stamping through the valley. We could not go far from the crevice; there was no other cover of any kind.

  Day drifted into dusk, and dusk into night, and there were the beams of light again. There were not so many as before, but there was never a time that one could not see them either in the valley or lighting the sky beyond the heights. Occasionally I dozed off into sleep, but never for long. The awareness of rock directly above my face was smothering—I was cold and aching, and my arm was burning and throbbing. Once I woke up, moaning with the pain of it. Surely they would go with daybreak? I watched the sky, greedy for the first inkling of natural light. It came at last, a gray cloudy dawn, and we emerged, shivering, and looked about us. There had been no beams of light for half an hour or more, and there were none now. But five minutes later we scurried back into hiding, as another Tripod lurched up the valley.

  So it went on, all that morning and long into the afternoon. I was too miserable, dazed with hunger and pain, to pay attention to anything but the business of enduring from one moment to the next, and I do not think the others were in much better shape. When, toward evening, a lengthening period without Tripods made it seem that the search might finally be off, we found it difficult to take it in. We came out of the cleft but for a couple of hours at least sat huddled by the stream, watching for signs of their return.

  Darkness was falling by the time we made up our minds to go on, and it was an indication of our wretchedness and confusion that we should have done so. We were weak from hunger, and utterly weary. A mile or two farther on, we collapsed and lay all night in the open, with no hope of concealment if the Tripods came back. But they did not, and dawn showed us an empty valley, flanked by silent hills.

  The days that followed were hard. For me, particularly, because my arm had festered. In the end, Beanpole cut it again, and I am afraid I was less stoical this time, and shrieked with pain. Afterward Beanpole put some of the healing herbs, which he had found, on the wound, binding them in place with a bandage made from the tail of my shirt, and Henry said he knew it must have been pretty agonizing: he would have shrieked a lot more. I was more glad of his kindness than I would have expected.

  We found a few roots and berries, but we were hungry all the time and we shivered in our thin clothes, especially during the nights. The weather had changed. There was a lot of cloud and a cold breeze from the south. We reached high ground, from where it should have been possible to see the White Mountains, but there was no sign of them—only an empty gray horizon. There were moments when I felt that what we had seen before had been a mirage rather than a reality.

  Then we came down into a plain, and there was a stretch of water so immense that one could not see its end: the Great Lake of the map. The country wa
s rich and fertile. We were able to get more food, and better, and with the satisfaction of hunger, our spirits began to pick up. Beanpole’s herbs, I found, had worked; my arm was healing cleanly now.

  One morning, after a good night’s sleep among hay in a barn, we awoke to find the sky once more blue, and all things bright and light. There were the hills which fringed the plain to the south, and beyond them, splendid and looking so close that one almost felt one could reach out and touch them, the snowy peaks of the White Mountains.

  Of course, they were nothing like as close as they seemed. There were miles of plain still, and then the foothills. But at least we could see them, and we set out in good heart. We had been traveling for an hour, and Henry and I were making jokes about Beanpole’s gigantic steam-kettle, when he stopped us. I thought the jokes had annoyed him, but then felt, as he had already done, the earth quiver beneath our feet.

  They were coming from the northeast, from our left and behind—two Tripods, moving fast and heading directly for us. I looked around desperately, but knew what I would see. The land was green and flat, without a tree or rock, a hedge or ditch, and the nearest farmhouse was half a mile away.

  Henry said, “Shall we run for it?”

  “Run where?” Beanpole asked. “It is no good.”

  His voice was flat. If he recognized it was hopeless, I thought, then it was hopeless indeed. In a minute or two they would be on us. I looked away from them to the gleaming battlements of white. To have come so far, endured so much, and to lose with our goal in sight—it was unfair.

  The earth shook more violently. They were a hundred yards away, fifty … They marched side by side, I saw, and their tentacles were doing strange things, probing and retreating from each other, describing elaborate patterns in the air. And something moved between and above them, a golden something that flashed with brightness, tossed to and fro against the blue of sky.

  They were on us. I waited for a tentacle to reach down and seize me, conscious less of fear than of a futile anger. A great foot slammed down a few yards from us. And then they were past, and going away, and my legs felt as though they were buckling. Beanpole said, in wonder, “They did not see us. Because they were too concerned with each other? Some ritual of mating, perhaps? But they are machines. What then? It is a puzzle to which I would like the answer.”