The Sleeping Mountain

by John Harris

  The wind had died suddenly, shrivelled to nothingness by the stuffy air, and as the fall of stones stopped again, more groups of agitated people began to spill from the doorways and join the crowd, grey-faced in the terrifying gloom, chattering nervously, cowering at every hideous explosion that set the dogs barking and sent the pigeons fluttering noisily, among the roof tops. Every corner of the little town, every alley, every courtyard, seemed to hold the sickly smell of sulphuretted hydrogen and the acrid taste of cinders.

  Patch, thrusting towards the Via Pescatori, saw Mamma Meucci standing in the street with her family, clutching the two smallest children to her skirts and trying to prevent them being knocked over.

  ‘Mamma Meucci, where’s Cecilia?’

  ‘In her rooms, I suppose. Meucci’s gone to the boat. Signor Tom, for the sake of the Lord Jesus Christ–!’

  ‘Get to the beach, Mamma! Go by the back streets! Hurry, before the crowd starts! I’ve got to go now!’

  As he turned away, Patch bumped into Emiliano who had stopped to help Don Gustavo with a crippled woman.

  ‘Father, will it be all right?’ he was asking.

  ‘It will be all right, Emiliano. Pray to the Holy Mother that no harm will come. The Church’s a strong building.’

  ‘It’s my bar I’m thinking of, Father. I’ve already built it twice.’

  ‘Then have you any reason to fear that the Holy Mother won’t be as merciful as ever?’

  A flurry of shouting people blocked the street again, sweeping Emiliano away, and Patch had to wait for them to pass. Then someone remembered the Great Watling Street and started shouting to the crowd to head for the mole.

  ‘The ship,’ he yelled. ‘Make for the ship! We’ll be safe there!’ Through the swarming people, Patch saw the Haywards pushing towards him.

  ‘Patch.’ Hayward’s face was drawn with fatigue and his wife, her normally immaculate hair over her face, her makeup and jewellery missing for once, hung over his arm. ‘Patch, old boy, the car ran off the road.’

  ‘Get to the mole,’ Patch shouted above the din. ‘Get going. Now. Before the crowd, or you’ll never make it.’

  Hayward nodded, not questioning why Patch was heading the other way, and set off for the ship, dragging his wife.

  As they thrust down the street, the press of the crowd swept round Patch again. The panic had spread like wildfire and everyone was heading uncertainly towards the mole now. A man went past dragging a goat which squatted on its haunches against the pull of the rope.

  ‘Andiamo’ he was shrieking. ‘Get going!’

  A Fiat was nosing among the crowd, hooting furiously, followed by two or three couples on motor-scooters who had obviously come into town from higher up the slopes of the mountain. There were farm carts, too, lumbering and awkward, probably belonging to people who had left San Giorgio after the rush of mud from Amarea had destroyed their farms.

  Patch pressed back into an alleyway out of the way and stumbled over a box. Then, above the din, he heard a boy’s voice, crooning in the darkness.

  ‘’Niello. ‘’Niello.’

  It was Cristoforo, kneeling on the cobbles alongside his dog, which was stretched out in the shadows. Patch could only just see it in the reflected glow from the crater.

  ‘Cristoforo,’ he shouted in the boy’s car. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Masaniello, Signor Tom!’ Cristoforo swung round and faced Patch. ‘I followed him. He’d run from the noise. I escaped from my uncle.’

  ‘What’s happened to him?’ Patch knelt alongside the dog.

  ‘A cart, Signor Tom. It broke his back. The policeman had to shoot him.’

  The alleyway was illuminated by a fresh outburst from Amarea and Patch straightened up.

  ‘Cristoforo,’ he yelled. ‘Captain Hannay wants you. He wants you aboard his ship. You must get down there. The whole town’s going to the beach and the mole. Get to his ship. Don’t wait any longer.’

  Cristoforo lifted his face again, the tears on his cheeks glinting in the glare. ‘What about Masaniello?’ he asked.

  He gently pulled the dog’s muzzle from behind its ear and lifted it over the bloodied jaws. Then he looked quickly up at Patch.

  ‘Signor Tom, I shall have to bury him.’

  Another explosion lit up the alley as though all the lights in the houses around had been switched on and all the shutters thrown back at once. The din made the glass shudder in the window-frames, drumming it noisily with an increasing viciousness so that Patch and Cristoforo instinctively huddled together as the alleyway seemed to expand and contract, and the very stones of the buildings seemed to rattle against each other.

  Then, as the din subsided again, Patch straightened up and, grabbing the boy by the arm, swung him out of the alley, spinning him round into the middle of the street.

  ‘For God’s sake, get going, Cristoforo! Before it’s too late.’

  Cristoforo hesitated for a moment, staring at Patch, then he saw the expression on his face and turned and started walking.

  ‘Hurry,’ Patch shouted after him. ‘Go by the back streets!’

  Cristoforo glanced back and set off running as hard as he could.

  When Patch came out of the alley, the street had emptied and he was alone in a nightmare of noise and lurid light. From somewhere among the houses the crackle of flames came thinly through the roaring of the explosions, where a lamp had been upset in the rush and set fire to curtains, and he ducked again as he heard another flurried rattle of stones on the roofs and saw a shower of glowing cinders bounce into the roadway.

  The street was deserted. The pigeons had disappeared in one vast flapping of wings at the first terrifying snore and the dogs had vanished after their owners. The cats had melted into the dark corners and down the alleys. From inside the houses, lights still flickered. The windows of the Church of Sant’ Agata still glowed but the chanting was indistinct now beneath the noise of the shouting.

  Symbolic of the abandonment of the town, a rat ran unheeded out of the shadows, paused at a box dropped by someone on the cobbles in their fright, and disappeared again in a slithering jerky movement. Patch watched it go, his face lit by the glow from Amarea, feeling like the only living soul in a town of the dead.

  Then he swung on his heel and ran up the Via Pescatori.

  Thirty-eight

  The first indication of the mass of people bearing down on the Great Watling Street was the appearance on board the ship of Anderson, the missing Mate. His face like his figure was at that moment loose and disjointed with mingled surprise and excitement.

  ‘Skipper,’ he panted. ‘They’re all coming down the main street. Talk about panic. They say the cable to the mainland’s broken. The houses are on fire and the water supply’s dried up. It’s burning the whole east end of the town.’

  He paused for a word of praise which he thought in a moment of self-gratification might be forthcoming but the grim-faced Hannay disappointed with his reaction.

  ‘Shut your mouth, Mister,’ he said. ‘You look like a spent whippet!’

  Anderson’s jaw clicked shut and Hannay scowled at the mountain. ‘Ever read anything in Instructions to Masters about what to do in an eruption, Mister?’ he said. ‘Thank God, we’ve got steam up. Turn everyone out if they’re not out already. Let’s have the Chief Engineer up here. We’ll post a couple of men at the top of the gangway. We might as well be ready for ’em. If they’re coming on board, they’ve got to come in an orderly fashion and not like the tap-room at opening-time.’

  He had switched on the deck lights, covering the ship with a bright white glare that showed up the booms and stanchions with an etched sharpness against their own shadows. The crew lining the rail were staring along the mole, waiting, their eyes strained towards the town.

  Then a boy came running out of the shadows, stumbling with exhaustion.

  ‘Cristoforo!’ Hannay almost fell down the bridge ladder to the deck and, pushing aside the men cluster
ed round the gangway, he caught the boy as he fell into his arms.

  ‘Thank God, Chris boy! You made it. Mabel’ll be glad to see you.’

  ‘Sir Captain, Signor Tom told me to come. I came over the walls and through the gardens. The crowd’s just behind me.’

  ‘Where’s your uncle?’

  ‘I don’t know. I escaped.’

  ‘Glory be to God!’

  Hannay’s troublesome conscience deserted him as he swung the boy triumphantly into the arms of a brawny sea-man.

  ‘Put him in the saloon,’ he said. ‘Cover him up. Tell the steward to keep an eye on him. Then come back to the gangway. They’re on their way.’

  They had just reached the deck again when the crowd burst out of the darkness.

  The first person to appear was a woman, then came a group of youths, and a man carrying two children under his arms, their heads bobbing as he ran. Both of them had their mouths open and they were screaming with fright. Then the whole crowd behind them flooded into the light and Hannay found himself staring from the wing bridge at a dense mass of people swirling about on the mole.

  Half of them held children. One or two of them had snatched up parcels of belongings, blankets and even chicken coops.

  ‘Signor Capitano,’ he heard one man shout. ‘Let us aboard!’

  The women were beating their breasts and snatching at their hair in their anxiety, bobbing their heads and muttering Ave Marias, their faces puffed and ugly with weeping and fear as they tried to quieten their children.

  Hannay’s face was troubled. There were a great many people by the ship now, all wailing and shouting at him, and he was afraid of a panic which might destroy his command. Then he saw the lights of the Procida, swinging as she turned to head in towards the shore, and he made up his mind quickly.

  ‘Single up the moorings,’ he told Anderson. ‘We might need to get away from here dead quick. Station your men at the top of the gangway. If there’s any sign of a rush, push ’em back.

  ‘Now,’ he shouted in his appalling Italian down to the mole. ‘You can start coming aboard. Women and children first. Keep calm.’

  The women pushed the children forward, shouting their thanks up to Hannay. ‘Grazie, Signor Capitano! Mille grazie!’

  The crowd began to open up to let the children approach the gangway and scared figures began to shuffle forward, pushed from behind by the men.

  They could see the Procida closing the shore now, and they heard her cable rattle as the anchor went down. Then her searchlight flared out, sharp and white in the night, and through its beam they saw a squadron of small boats heading for the shore, forcing their way among the fishing boats which were already heading out to her from the Piazza del Mare, where the crowd was lining the sea wall and the narrow strip of dark sand. Behind the Procida, the Ladybird and the Francis X. Adnauer had appeared and Hannay could see the lights of another ship he assumed were those of the Amsterdamster closing up. A few small yachts were alongside the wall already, their crews cramming the frightened people below on to the chintzy cushions while they tried to single up and get clear without losing anyone in the water.

  The children and women were still hurrying across the gangway to the Great Watling Street when Hannay saw a commotion among the surging crowd as a big hatless figure in a torn shirt began to push through to the front.

  ‘Thief! Murderer! Child-stealer!’ His face tautened as he heard the furious voice of Angelo Devoto carrying above the wailing of the crowd. ‘Give me back my Cristoforo!’

  Using his fists and feet, he was thrusting people aside in an effort to reach the gangway, watched all the time by Hannay from the wing bridge.

  ‘Robber! Assassin! Savage! If he goes, I go too!’

  ‘Hold up, you ape–’ a fisherman with long hair grabbed him by the arm and swung him back, ‘–you wait your turn!’

  Devoto wheeled and, in the glare from the deck lights, Hannay saw his mean handsome face twisted into rage as he drove his fist into the fisherman’s face and began again to thrust forward.

  The fisherman recovered quickly and, wiping his bleeding mouth with the back of his hand, made a grab and Devoto disappeared in a tangle of flying fists.

  Then the mountain roared up again and Hannay forgot him as the high-pitched whistle became agony to his ears.

  One of the crew pointed.

  ‘Look!’

  Hannay stared upwards. Three great fiery streaks were spilling through the broken cone of the crater and down the mountainside, like immense crimson serpents, glowing golden at their source and dying away to a dull red at their probing tips. They moved down the slopes with incredible speed at first, then disappeared for a while behind a fold of rock, reappearing again a little lower down. A thick incandescent column of spurting lava that fell back into the crater hovered permanently over the throat of the mountain while all the time flying projectiles were flung out in a fantastic fountain like the crucible of some vast furnace that could be seen right round the island.

  At the first uproar, the people of Fumarola had run out into the streets, gathering in the flat little piazza alongside the sea. The glow from the mountain top reflected in dancing points of light on the water around them clear across the bay to Anapoli Porto.

  The lights had gone on in the church immediately as Don Dominico gathered around him in the vestry the elders of the village. It didn’t take them long to ascertain that the coast road was already too dangerous to use and an attempt to telephone to the Porto confirmed the rumours that the tremors had damaged the line, so that they could only prepare for a slow evacuation across the bay to the Porto with what they had at their disposal.

  At once, they started dragging the heavy fishing boats to the water’s edge and the women and children began to gather in an orderly fashion at the back of the church, kneeling in the smouldering scent of incense in front of the life-size figure of the Virgin, praying while the moving shadows behind the statue seemed to bring it to life. The newcomers at the back, still tying the scarves on their heads in their hurry, genuflected towards the cross on the high altar as they passed between the doors.

  There was no thought of blame for anyone in Don Dominico’s gentle mind as he grouped the people together, the oldest and the youngest first, so that as soon as he received the message from the beach that they were ready, they could march down and take to the sheltering sea.

  ‘Light all the candles!’ His voice was quite steady as he spoke to the sacristan. ‘Turn on all the lights! It will be more cheerful.’

  The lights blazed up, shining on the shabby brass haloes of the saints he had himself helped to polish only that day from the top of a pair of rickety steps. He was pleased in his simple fashion that everything was spick and span.

  Another explosion from the mountain set the shabby chandelier tinkling madly and he heard a huge piece of plaster fall with a crash outside. The candles round the walls shuddered and their flames lengthened abruptly as though a great draught of air was sucking them up, then they dropped back again to an unsteady flicker. There was a momentary pause in the rising and falling of the prayers around him, then they went on again as though in defiance of the mountain.

  The sacristan came up alongside him, his face pasty, his mouth opening and shutting several times before he could get the words out.

  ‘Father,’ he said, ‘lava’s begun to flow.’

  ‘Is the village in danger?’

  ‘Not at the moment, Father. It’s heading towards San Giorgio. But Baldicera’s here. He’s in the vestry. He’s seen steam coming from under rocks in his fields. His cattle are mad with fear. He’s brought his family down. What shall we do?’

  Don Dominico listened patiently as the prayers echoed softly round the high ceiling that seemed to soar away into the shadows but he couldn’t think of anything they hadn’t done already. Every precaution had been taken that could be taken and they were as ready as they could ever be. All they wanted was the word that the fishing boats were in
the water.

  ‘There’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at this moment that we can do but pray.’

  He moved forward to the centre of the church and his thin voice rose above the muttering and echoed round the high eaves.

  ‘Siccome Voi, o Gran Dio, siete giusto e santo in tutte le opere Vostre–’

  The voices in the church seemed to come together under his guidance and the bent humble old priest, his tired eyes watching the doors for the man who would bring the signal, felt a surge of pride in himself and his church and his people, as the chanting grew stronger and the men and women and children gathered confidence from his words.

  ‘O, sommo Bene, noi fermamente proponiamo di no offender Vi mai piu–’

  Above the sound of his own voice he heard a violent roaring outside and underneath his feet the floor of the church seemed to rise and fall like waves. He seemed to be borne upwards and then carried downwards again, then the roaring burst – above the church it seemed – like a clap of thunder, and a frightful screaming like the agonised release of a tremendous pressure of steam beat on his ears.

  Up on the dark hillside, the fissure hidden under the rocky surface of Baldicera’s field had burst open and a monstrous flood of hot water gushed out and began to pour down towards the village.

  ‘–E come umilmente Vi preghiamo–’ Don Dominico was saying, his voice never wavering.

  ‘–E come umilmente–’ replied his flock, their fears held in check by his calmness.

  ‘–Vi preghiamo de accettare queste nostre pene–’

  They were still proclaiming their humility and their faith, with the old priest standing in the centre of the church, when a man from the beach ran to tell them that all was ready. He was panting his way up the little hill when he saw the great gush of water flooding down the street, splashing and roaring as it carried away houses and swept carts before it in a vast cloud of steam. Then it struck the church and he heard a wail of horror go up and the shrieks of women as it rushed inside and swept from one end to the other in a tremendous tidal wave.