Bronze Summer n-2

by Stephen Baxter

  So they set off, gathered around Vala under the ox-hide. Without old Medoc and his wounded leg, without the hobbling Okea, they were able to move quickly, wading through the ash and rock. Tibo glanced back once. He saw Medoc and Okea together, clutching each other’s arms, Medoc leaning to favour his bad leg, both bowed under the rock fall. Then, a few paces further on, they were lost in the gloom of ash and smoke.

  The oars scraped over the crust of rock on the ocean. Still the rock fell around them, a thinning hail laced with burning cinders. The journey was a fight, an endless one. All the way in, a hot wind off the land had been blowing at their backs pushing them away. And now the sea itself was surging, huge waves pulsing away from the shore. Deri imagined the land itself trembling as the mountain shuddered and roared, rocky spasms that must be disturbing the vast weight of the ocean.

  Deri wondered what time it was. Evening, maybe. It was a long time since he had seen the sun. And Deri thought he wasn’t hearing right, after that last vast bang.

  Nago grunted and fell forward over his oar. ‘Oh, by the ice giants’ bones, I am exhausted.’ He picked up a water flask, drained a last trickle into his mouth, and threw it over the side.

  Deri gave up rowing in sympathy, though it didn’t seem long since the last break, and he was desperate to get to the shore. But his body ached, his back and legs and shoulders, drained by the effort of fighting the elements for so long.

  Nago twisted on his bench and looked back beyond Deri’s shoulder. ‘Take a look at that.’

  Deri swivelled to see, and the wind off the shore hit him full in the face, hot, dry, laden with ash and smoke and stinking of sulphur. He narrowed his eyes, held a corner of his tunic over his mouth, and looked back at the island.

  The mountain’s ridged summit was now alight from end to end. It seemed to be spitting fire in great gobbets, balls white-hot that shot upwards into the great flat black cloud over the island, a chain of fire connecting the sky to the ground like the bucket chains they used in Northland to drain floods. And all along the length of the ridge he saw a heavier glow leaking out and flowing down to the lower land. Over the rest of the island he saw the more diffuse glare of fires burning — trees, probably, whole forests flaring and dying.

  Somewhere in all that was his father, his son.

  ‘I’ll say this once,’ Nago shouted back. ‘Because one of us has got to.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We’re safer out here. We could row back out, beyond the falling rock and the smoke and the rest of it. Sleep it off, out on the open sea, where it’s safe. And then come back in when the mountain’s finished its tantrum.’

  Deri nodded. ‘You’re right. One of us did have to say it. Not a family type, are you?’

  ‘My mother died giving birth to me. My father, your uncle, cleared off quick. I don’t have a family. I don’t have a wife. But there are women I look after.’

  Nago had told Deri more about himself in a few breaths than in all the years they’d worked together. ‘How many women?’

  ‘Two. The third died.’

  ‘And kids?’

  ‘Some. Of course they support themselves. But they like the fish I bring, and other stuff.’

  ‘You don’t want to stay out here any more than I do, do you?’

  ‘No.’ Nago hawked, spat out dusty phlegm, rubbed his hands and grabbed his oars. ‘Let’s get on with it. One thing. If I don’t make it through this — ’

  ‘Don’t talk like that.’

  ‘If not now, when? I want you to find them. Just ask around, it won’t be hard. Tell them about me. The kids, you know?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. And you-’

  ‘I’ll do the same. Goes without saying.’ He leaned over his oar. ‘On my stroke. One, two-’

  And on the word ‘two’ there was another fantastic bang. Another one. The sound was a physical thing, like a pulse of wind that hammered at Deri’s chest as well as his ears.

  Nago was shouting something. Deri could hear nothing but a kind of whining tone in his ears, and a dull roar from the island. He twisted again to look back.

  The fire rising from the mountain ridge was a solid wall now, burning white. And a band of light, glowing red-white, had formed all along the mountain’s face, below the summit ridge. It was descending, sweeping down the mountain’s flank as Deri watched, much faster than before. As it progressed there were brilliant splashes of light, more forests flashing to flame. It was a wall of fire, sweeping down towards the lowlands.

  Now Nago was pointing again, shouting something Deri couldn’t hear. Deri turned. A wave was coming at them from the land, a big one, a muscular rise that lifted up the floating islands of rock scum.

  Frantically they worked their oars, trying to turn the boat so its prow faced the wave.

  The latest blast was another shove in the back for Tibo, a hot wind stinking of ash and sulphur that sucked the air out of his chest. He struggled to stand, to get a breath.

  With Vala and Caxa and the rest, he was still huddled under the ox-hide. They were on a broad track now, crowded with people who forced their way through the rock drifts. This was a confluence of survivors from settlements all over the mountain’s slopes, now funnelling down this main route to the harbour, miserable people shuffling along, laden with children and possessions, invalids being carried, old people leaning on sticks. Everybody was walking; it was impossible to get a cart through the knee-deep rock.

  He turned to look back, ducking his head under the hide. The latest convulsion seemed to have cleared the air of smoke and rock, and he could see the mountain rising above the plain. And he saw a band of fire, glowing red-white and billowing, rolling down the slope. It looked almost beautiful, almost graceful. Then he remembered how far he had come that day, how far away the peak must be — and he realised how fast that wall of fire must be descending.

  ‘Run!’ he shouted.

  Nobody moved.

  He looked around at them, Vala’s pinched, anxious face, Liff’s wide eyes rimmed with dust. He realised that none of them could hear a word he said. He grabbed Vala’s arms, shook her, pointed at the mountain. ‘Fire. That cloud. We have to get to the beach, the sea. It’s our only chance. We have to run!’

  ‘Run.’ He could see her mouth the word. She looked at the mountain dully. Suddenly she understood. ‘Run!’

  Tibo pulled the ox-hide away and dumped it on the rock drifts. They would have to live with the rock fall; the hide would slow them too much. He grabbed Caxa’s hand and dragged her. Vala pushed Liff ahead, and wrapped an arm around Caxa and Mi, and pulled them forward.

  They were among the first in the crowd to understand, to start running. At first they had to push past people still shuffling slowly towards the sea. But a few looked back at the descending cloud, and saw it as Tibo did. They started to run too, dumping bags and scooping up children, running along the track.

  And then it was like a stampede, a great flow towards the water, people no longer helping each other but jostling and pushing and pressing. As he fought to keep his feet, his head aching, every muscle drained, his lungs dragging at the dense, smoky, sulphurous air, Tibo dared not look back.

  Medoc knew the game was over when he saw the glowing cloud.

  As it swept down the slope the band of light was resolving into a wall of grey smoke and ash. It was like a tremendous tide, Medoc thought. He saw it roll over a scrap of forest — it loomed high over the trees, you could see how tall it was — and the trees flashed and were gone, just like that.

  Okea sensed it too. Or maybe she just felt like giving up. They held each other’s arms, propping each other up, breathing hard, their faces grimed with ash and blood. Okea shouted, ‘We can’t outrun that.’

  ‘No, Okea, my dear. Not even if we were sixteen years old.’

  ‘The mountain has shouted many times before. In my lifetime, and yours. And my mother and grandmothers told me of other incidents. There are records too. A priest showed me once. But I never
heard of anything like that.’

  ‘Tibo and Mi and the others can warn their grandchildren, if they survive.’

  ‘Oh, they will,’ Okea said. ‘They are strong and brave. Vala is resourceful. You made a good choice there.’

  He looked at her. The ash had worked deep into the crevices of her face, making her look even older. ‘That’s the first thing you ever said about Vala that wasn’t an insult.’

  ‘Bel was my sister.’

  ‘Her dying wasn’t Vala’s fault. Or mine, come to that.’

  A roaring noise swelled, like a gathering storm. A young deer ran out of nowhere at them, skidded to avoid them, and ran on downhill, eyes wide with fear.

  ‘He might be lucky,’ Okea said.

  He felt her tremble. Tenderly, he wrapped his arms around her. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  She snorted. ‘You’re pissing your pants yourself.’

  He laughed. ‘I always liked you, Okea, you old stick, underneath it all.’

  ‘Well, I never liked you.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ The roaring was so loud he doubted if she could hear him. ‘I think-’

  It was here, looming high over him, a mass of whirling dust and smoke and whole chunks of red-hot rock, a wall taller than the one that kept out the sea from Northland, a wall rushing down on him at impossible speed, faster than any horse or deer had ever run. When it hit, Okea was dragged from his arms. He was swept up. He was flying, in the light.

  An instant of searing pain.

  The little harbour was just a cleft in the rocky coast, a stretch of black sand. But it was the only half-decent landing spot across much of the south shore of Kirike’s Land. And now it crawled with people, as if it were the greatest harbour in the world.

  But no boats were leaving. The strand was littered with vessels crushed by rock falls, or buried by the ash, or overturned and smashed, as if driven ashore by great waves. Nothing seaworthy.

  Tibo left the group and headed for the water, shoving his way through the throng on the beach, young and old, healthy and injured, all of them coated with ash and sweat and blood, white eyes glimpsed in chaotic semi-darkness. Their shouts were like the cries of gulls, against the background roar of the mountain, all jumbled up and muffled in his damaged hearing. At his feet the rock was piled up in drifts. You couldn’t even see where the waterline was, so densely was the ground carpeted by the rock fall.

  At last he found his ankles bathed in water, the rock scraping his shins. He took one stride, two, out into the water. Its cool was a huge relief for his scorched flesh.

  There were boats on the water, he saw now, and people from the shore trying to get to the boats. But whoever sat in those boats wasn’t necessarily welcoming, and Tibo saw oars and even knives wielded to keep people off. Any one of those boats could be his father’s — or Deri could be far out to sea. He called, his hands cupped. ‘Father! Deri! It’s me! Father!’ He could barely hear his own voice. He kept shouting.

  Strong hands took his shoulders and he was whirled around. It was Deri, coated in ash, his tunic wrapped around his head. Tibo threw himself into his father’s arms. Then they broke. They shouted into each other’s faces, barely able to make out the words.

  Deri pointed out to sea. ‘The boat’s out there. Nago. We must wade

  …’

  ‘I have them. Vala and the kids. The Jaguar girl.’

  They both hurried back to the family from The Black, who had come struggling down the beach after Tibo.

  ‘Come, quickly,’ Deri said. He took Puli from Vala, the little boy was an ash-coated bundle, and grabbed Vala’s hand and pulled her down the beach. Tibo took Liff’s hand and followed. Mi and Caxa came after, helping each other, holding onto each other’s arms. After all this, Mi still had her precious bow over her shoulder.

  Deri shouted at Vala, ‘Okea? My father?’

  Vala just shook her head, her lips tight. Deri turned away, and kept driving to the sea, through the crowd.

  Soon they were in the water. It deepened quickly, and Tibo had to help Liff half-wade, half-swim. When they reached the boat it was surrounded by a loose crowd of people, a dozen or more, struggling to stand in the turbulent water. Nago, kneeling up in the boat, was wielding his oar, keeping them at bay. When he saw Deri and the others he leaned over and started hauling them out and into the boat, one by one. Vala flopped into the bilge like a landed cod, and she took her soaked child from Deri’s arms.

  Deri grabbed Tibo’s shoulder, and hauled him in so he landed face down. ‘Oars,’ Deri said, taking his own place. ‘Go, Nago! You, Tibo — Caxa, Mi — you too, Liff, if you can handle an oar — take one, they’re in the bottom of the boat.’

  Tibo quickly found a place between Vala and Mi. Nago, paddling furiously, had already got the boat turned so it faced away from the land. Tibo got his oar into the rowlock, and started pulling, with muscles already spent by the day’s exertions. At first their rowing was uncoordinated and they splashed more than they pulled, but to frantic commands from Deri and Nago they soon worked into a rhythm, and the boat pushed through a surface skim of rock, out towards the open sea.

  Tibo, rowing hard, looked back at the land. That glowing cloud, now a wall of churning red-hot dust and rubble that spanned the world, was scouring down the hillside to the beach. People ran, making for the sea in a final panic, but the cloud swallowed them. Erased them. And soon it was rolling over the water.

  He rowed and rowed and rowed.

  24

  It did not grow dark that midsummer night in Northland, though the light sank to a deep grey-blue. A phenomenon of this strange northern place, Qirum supposed. Yet to the west there was a deeper darkness, a smear of black as if a pot of pitch had been spilled. Qirum fancied he could see a spark of fire at the heart of it, right on the horizon, or beyond it.

  He saw all this from the Wall, its roof, a walkway studded with huge stone slabs and the tremendous carved heads of dead Annids. Tonight beacons burned bright, all along the Wall’s length to left and right as far as he could see. Senior members of all Northland’s great Houses were up here, from the Annids to the lowly Beetles, still in their Giving finery. All of them anxiously looked west, watching the sea. And on the breast of that ocean were more lights, sparks on blue-black infinity. Boats with lanterns and beacons of their own.

  ‘You could not sleep.’

  He turned. Kilushepa stood by him, dressed in a long, warm cloak, her hand on her belly. ‘Nor you, it seems,’ he said.

  ‘Too much commotion. Shouting, running, all along the Wall.’

  ‘It is the great event in the ocean.’ He pointed to the spreading black cloud. ‘The Annids think it is a mountain of fire, far off to the west. On an island called Kirike’s Land.’

  ‘If it is so far away, why are the Northlanders so alarmed?’

  ‘Because great events on land can cause similarly great calamities at sea,’ Qirum said. ‘This is as Milaqa explained it to me. There will be a ripple, if you will. But a ripple that might challenge all these people have built. Great Seas, they call them; there have been two, as far as I know. These events are embedded deep in their memories, their culture, their sense of who they are. And so they have their beacons, and the lightships out to sea. If the wave comes the distant ships will flash a warning back to the land.’

  She frowned. ‘Will their Wall not keep out the wave?’

  ‘One would hope so. But even if not they have fallback plans. They open watercourses, abandon the lower ground — make ready to soak up the flood.’

  ‘I suppose we would have to flee.’

  ‘I imagine so.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I just found out I’m pregnant.’

  He turned to her, astonished. For a heartbeat he wondered if it could be his — but no, they had always been careful about that, she had taken him in her mouth or her anus, or they had used her protective calfskin sheathes. A brat forced on her by some faceless Hatti soldier, then. And she was
the Tawananna!

  He laughed.

  She glared out to sea.

  The breeze shifted, coming from the west, and he thought he could smell burning.

  TWO

  25

  The Year of the Fire Mountain: Late Summer

  Every day at least one of the family went up to the Wall roof to watch for Deri. Even months after midsummer there were always others up there too, friends and strangers waiting, staring out into the Northern Ocean. And all through that cold, dismal summer the nestspills had come in a trickle, sometimes just a single boat, sometimes little flotillas, packed with men, women, hungry children, sometimes even a few animals, drifting across a listless ocean and then drawing cautiously into the docks cut into the seaward face of the Wall.

  On the day her uncle Deri came home, it happened to be Milaqa who was on watch. She was sheltering from the sharp breeze coming off the sea, unseasonably cold, and was wrapped up in a thick cloak she would normally not have dug out until the autumn. But this was a particularly cold spot, for she stood in a gap between one monolith and the next: the space where the monumental sculpture of her mother’s head would one day sit, Kuma Annid of Annids. Any boatload of her family would know to pull up to the small dock at this point.

  When the boat came in, alone, a dark smudge against the grey sea, she recognised it long before it reached the Wall, its unusually slender form, the slight kink in the prow. No two boats were identical. Each boat in Northland was made by the people who would sail it, and their family and friends. The process of building itself was a happy event, shared. This was Deri’s boat, built before Milaqa was born, and her uncle had always taken her out to sea in it. The boat was like a memory from childhood, of sunlit days on the sea.

  As she waited, her arms wrapped around her torso, the cloud seemed to grow thicker, the day a little colder. It had been this way all summer, since the fire mountain. When the haze of smoke and sulphur stink had cleared away the high cloud remained, a solid roof of grey over the world. Sometimes you could see the sun as a pale disc, silver-white, with shadowy wisps passing over its face, but more often than not even that was invisible. And in the night no star shone, and barely a glimmer of moonlight, though at full moon the queen of death made the sky glow silver-grey, as if in triumph. If the sunlight was shut out, so was its warmth. The first frost had come not a month after the midsummer. Everybody had stood about amazed at the sight, frost on thick summer grass, and on the green reeds in the marshlands. Milaqa thought she had never seen so many owls out in the twilight — and the swallows and swifts had already gone, fled south in search of warmth.