‘Wow,’ said Jordy, undoing the final knot to a cord around his neck, ‘that was really something! You did good, girl. You did good.’
Chloe was staring at him.
‘Oh, what?’ he cried. ‘What have I said wrong now?’
‘Nothing. Show me your arm. Your broken arm.’
Jordy looked down at himself and saw that he’d taken his bad arm out of its sling and was using it just like the healthy one. In fact, both arms were all right. The injury had disappeared without leaving any mark that he could see. Somehow, now that they were in their own attic space all was well.
‘My watch! The hands are going the right way round again!’
He showed Chloe the watch. It was indeed back to normal.
‘Let’s go down now,’ he said, taking out his torch and stepping into the blackness of their own attic. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Chloe hung back.
‘What is it?’ asked Jordy. ‘Is it Alex?’
‘We may never see him again,’ replied Chloe, sorrow filling every artery and bone in her body. ‘Will we ever see him again, Jordy?’
Jordy replied in a flat voice, ‘I don’t know.’ Then he lifted his tone. ‘But what I do know is, he’ll be all right. He’s a dark horse, isn’t he, your brother? He’s got some guts, I’ll give him that. Follow your dream. Well, he’s following his all right. I never thought he had it in him. Oh, I know – we both want him back, but it’s got to be his decision. I bet he’ll get bored of being a bortrekker and we’ll see him back again soon.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Chloe said. ‘He’s very stubborn.’
‘Are you up there? What are you doing in the attic?’
Dipa’s voice floated up to them through the open trap-door.
‘We’re coming down!’ cried Chloe, eager to see her mother. ‘Won’t be long.’
They heard Dipa say something to Ben. She sounded annoyed.
‘Oh well,’ said Chloe to Jordy, ‘we might as well go down and face the music sooner rather than later.’
Jordy went first.
Just before Chloe followed him she took one last look into the dimness. Lo and behold, out of the half-light came her first and last dust sprite. It dashed out of the darkness of Attica, into their personal attic space, and right up to her. A grey, featureless being the size of a squirrel. Then before her eyes it went puff and fell to the boards as a cloud of motes.
The attic taunted, and teased, then it finally showed you what you wanted to see.
‘Goodbye, spirits of the attic,’ said Chloe grimly. ‘I don’t think I shall be back again.’
They descended the ladder and turned to face their parents, expecting to be chastised or overwhelmed with emotional greetings after so long an absence. Instead, Ben looked at his watch and said, ‘I don’t know, we go out for the afternoon and you all disappear. What are you messing around up there for? Aren’t you supposed to be doing some homework today, Jordy? And where’s Alex? Is he with you?’
‘Ah, Alex,’ began Jordy in a faltering voice, ‘yes, well,’ and though Jordy had intended to be entirely honest with his parents, at the last minute he chickened out. ‘He’s – he’s up there. He won’t …’
CHAPTER 19
Voyage over the Great Water Tank
The bortrekker and the board-comber helped Alex build the raft out of plastic bottles, wood and cord. When it was finished it looked like a jumble of junk, but it was serviceable. It floated well, bore his weight easily and sported a mast with a square sail made out of a bed sheet. All three boat builders were pretty pleased with themselves. They held a celebratory dinner before Alex set sail. The two young Attican pioneers gave the sailor some provisions before he set out, for which he was most grateful.
‘Stay clear of the Removal Firm,’ said the bortrekker, shaking his hand for the last time. ‘They’re ugly brutes, they are.’
‘And if you do happen to see …’ began the board-comber.
‘… any Inuit soapstone carvings,’ finished Alex with a smile, ‘yes, I’ll gather them up and leave them here, on this spot for you. Oh, that reminds me, of course, this is for you. I pinched it from my sister’s backpack. I doubt she even remembers she had it.’
Alex reached into his pocket and pulled out the soapstone walrus, handing it to the board-comber. The board-comber’s eyes widened under his mask. He took the carving reverently and stroked it. Then it disappeared into the folds of his many-coloured, many-layered clothes.
‘Thank you,’ replied the bundle of rags before him, ‘and the bat says thank you, too.’
The last thing the two attic-dwellers did was give Alex a bag full of beautiful paperweights, to trade with any creature he might come across.
Alex set sail at about the same time as Chloe and Jordy were climbing up the ladder of the tank, hauling their hang-glider behind them. He too managed to miss the Removal Firm by a very short time. They stood on the shore and shook their fists at him. Alex replied with a rather crude gesture which he knew would have shocked his mother. However, any shame he felt was crowded out by a feeling of triumph. He had beaten the Removal Firm and what was more had drawn them away from the bortrekker and board-comber, to allow those worthies to escape back into untrammelled regions, where they would be safe from these human ejectors.
Then there was the final shock of seeing Chloe and Jordy, flying high above him. He thought at first it was an attempt to get him back, but then Alex realised they were not after him. They were simply using the warm air above the water to carry them high up into the attic’s atmosphere. He watched them sweep through dusty shafts of light, waved when he realised that Chloe had seen him, then adjusted his sail and sped on. There was a heavy swell on the surface of the tank and very soon he had sailed down into a trough of water and the hang-glider was lost to his sight.
‘Bye, sis!’ he called, wondering if she could hear him. ‘Bye, Jordy!’
Then his craft called for all his attention, as he started to climb up out of the trough and on to the heights of the swell. He soon dispensed with his heavy coat and hat, and took off his boots. It was much more comfortable to sail in his shorts and bare feet only. He piled his clothes in the little cabin they had built in the middle of the raft, which kept his food dry. There was a bed in there, a canvas camping cot they had found, and several other home comforts. From the map Jordy had shown him it appeared to be several days’ sailing to the far side of the tank. Comforts would be needed.
Though the bortrekker had never made the voyage he had spoken with others who had, and had given Alex instructions.
‘You follow this star pattern, as the skylights appear over the horizon one by one, bearing in mind that this constellation here must always remain on your right shoulder, and this one here on your left. If you sail between those two groups of skylights, you can’t go wrong. Then there’s the swell, which always comes from the near left corner of the tank. It will carry you naturally to your destination, but beware of a maelstrom …’
‘Maelstrom?’ Alex had repeated.
‘Um – a whirlpool. A huge whirlpool, somewhere in the centre of the tank. It’s a drain hole that serves the pipes which lead to all the smaller tanks of the attic. It’s about a mile wide and if you get sucked in, you’ve had it, so keep a sharp look-out. Watch out, too, for obstructions – hidden underwater reefs and shoals you can’t see when you’re level with the surface. The way to spot them is to study the dust clouds above the lake. They’ll reflect what’s below them, to a degree. So you’ll expect to see dark shadows on the dust clouds, in among the golden specks.’
‘What are these reefs and shoals?’
‘Oh, clusters of pipes, mostly, and there’ll be moving stuff – flotsam and jetsam – junk thrown in by irresponsible vandals. Just keep your eyes open and you should be all right.’
Alex said, ‘Thanks,’ and, feeling slightly facetious asked, ‘No giant squids or submarines?’
‘Ah, as to those, if you run into one, pr
ay like mad.’
Alex’s face fell.
The bortrekker’s own face creased as if someone had screwed it up like a piece of paper. ‘Got you,’ he said. ‘No, no squids or submarines but – but there is a monster of a kind in there, now that you mention it.’
‘Ah, you won’t get me a second time!’ said Alex, wagging his finger.
‘No, this is serious. There’s a sort of blanket creature – huge, bigger than a football pitch, it’s the only way I can describe it – which rises up with large waves and falls on to unsuspecting craft, enveloping them. I don’t know how to tell you to avoid it. Again just keep your eyes open. It enfolds ships whole and sinks with them to the bottom of the tank.’
‘Oh heck – what is it then? A live thing?’
‘It looks like green blanket-weed but it’s not a vegetable. It’s wholly animal. It’s developed an instinct, a killer’s mind. With a sharklike predator’s intellect, but a thinking mind nonetheless. It floats, imitating the water’s surface, and strikes along with the rearing waves which crash over the sailing vessels. The good news is there’s only one of them. Any new blanket-weed creatures which come about are quickly swallowed by this monster and become part of it. That’s why it’s so big.’
A lump formed in Alex’s throat.
‘Where’s it come from? I mean, how did it come about?’
‘It’s an ancient prehistoric beast, which has grown from live organisms in the tank. Minute one-celled creatures which have sought each other out and locked together for defence against larger eaters and have themselves become a feared predator. That’s all any of us are, after all – a mass of single cells – tiger, cobra, man, whatever. Any live being. This amorphous mass, which we in the attic call the Loving Flounder, will enfold you in its winglike form and drag you down, there to digest you whole.’
Alex had swallowed hard after this warning.
‘Loving Flounder – that’s a strange thing to call a horrible beast.’
‘It loves you to death.’
So, there was much to think about while he steered his makeshift craft over the surface of the tank’s water. Navigation, monsters, gales. On the first night he witnessed one of those electrical dust storms they had seen when on dry Attican boards. Entrancing, but also dangerous. Lightning flashed down around Alex and the waves were roused to turmoil by the atmospheric disturbances. If the Loving Flounder came now, he thought, I could do little to save myself, for the waves were rearing high and crashing down on the deck, draining away through the gaps in the bottles and planks.
The storm lasted all night. A howling draught accompanied it, which blew as if it had come from the pursed lips of gargantuan demons, almost stripping the raft of its sail. Alex managed to reef in the bed sheet before it was ripped to shreds in the terrible draught which whipped up the waters. The raft held up well under such a battering. The reason was it was very flexible, having been built in a loose fashion, the pliable ropes tied with firm knots. Had it been of a more rigid construction, the vessel would surely have perished in the blast, for it was a night of white blinding spray, of deep, seemingly bottomless, watery hollows, and terrible sudden squalls which spun the raft like a top while Alex clung on to the decks with all four limbs.
In the morning he was drenched, fatigued, but whole. Lightning had zig-zagged about his head, lighting up the attic sky for brief brilliant moments, but had not burned him to a crisp. Mountainous seas had all but engulfed him but had fortunately passed over, leaving him battered and breathless. Screaming draughts from the mouths of heaven and hell had nearly wrenched him from his handholds and flung him into the maw of monstrous waves, but had not managed to prise him from his grip.
There had been the thought that the Loving Flounder – such a pretty name for such an ugly monster – might enfold him, but it hadn’t. Here he was still, now sailing gently on a freshwater ocean which looked for all the world as if it were dressed in its Sunday best and off to church. It was calm. It was peaceful. It was a day for drying out in the pillars of the sun, among the warm motes of dust, while contemplating the vagaries of nature.
A white-painted sign with black lettering floated past the raft at about noon. Written on it were the words:
NOTICE
No Dreaming.
No Wishing.
No Swimming.
‘Weird,’ muttered Alex. ‘Totally weird.’
Next he saw two other craft, sailing together, passing him within hailing distance. One was an upturned table, the legs used as masts, the other was a bookcase on its back, the mariners aboard using shovels as oars. They waved to him and smiled. They were obviously sea-Atticans, small brown people with quick, light, graceful movements, not at all like land-Atticans. The latter were lumpy awkward creatures, used to manual labour in a heavy environment. These people were like the fresh draughts, nimble creatures with bright eyes and ready grins which flashed greetings even to strangers. Alex waved back and cried, ‘What are you doing out here?’
One of the sailors held up a battered fishing rod and a child’s seaside crabbing net as if they understood.
‘Fishing?’ questioned Alex.
That was plain enough. But on board the sea-Atticans also had goods, presumably to trade with. There were feather boas and other such items on the decks. Alex hove alongside one of the vessels and indicated he would like to trade one or two of his exotic paperweights. He had onyx pyramids, glass hemispheres with rainbows locked inside, mythical brass animals. The sea-going Atticans seemed delighted. They gave him a thick quilt coat in exchange for two of his treasures, happy with the bounty.
Alex had not really wanted the coat, but he had enjoyed meeting with other beings. He realised at this point that he actually needed company sometimes. That was all right, he thought, because there was company to be had. He didn’t have to deteriorate into a complete hermit in his quest to become a bortrekker.
After waving goodbye to the Attican water tank farers he set sail again on a day when the sky was reasonably clear of dust clouds and the many skylights lit up his seapath like searchlights. The mariners had given him a fishing line, which he now proceeded to employ, using bits of weed as bait. However, either the bait was no good, or the fisherman was no good, for he caught nothing. Fishing in the deep sea, Alex decided, was a difficult occupation.
He suddenly remembered he did have a companion and spent an hour or two chatting with Makishi, who was willing enough to talk, but because of his limited experience of life did not have a great deal to say. He knew about jungles, rainforests and tropical storms, but he’d already talked a lot with Alex about these and tended to get repetitive. After a while the conversation petered out and a silence fell between the pair once more.
In the afternoon Alex slept. He lashed his tiller to the mast so that the raft kept a straight course, checked his bearings with all those visual aids he had been given by the bortrekker, then dropped off into a deep and dreamless sleep. The long night of the storms had kept him awake and he was always a boy who liked his bed.
It was the tiller banging against his knee which woke him. He sat up abruptly, startled to find his tiller had worked itself free and his rudder was finding its own course. All too late it seemed he was caught on the edge of a great swirling body of water which was, at the moment, spinning the craft gently round in wide circles.
‘The maelstrom!’ he yelled, grabbing the tiller.
It was indeed the central whirlpool. Somewhere deep below him was a drain hole which was sucking water down by the thousand-gallon. If he did not free himself of its power he would taken down too and used as a plug. Not only would he drown and rot in the weeds below, but with his corpse stopping up the exit hole the tank would overflow and flood the attic, perhaps drowning many others in the process. Naturally, at the moment, he was more concerned with his own life than those of others, but if he failed to save himself he would leave behind a terrible legacy, of death and destruction.
‘Oh heck.’
&
nbsp; He grabbed the tiller in a panic and tried to steer the raft out of the current. It was of no use. The raft simply spun in the current and continued to follow the ever-decreasing circles it was drawing.
Next he fixed the tiller again then tried to paddle out, using one of the light shovels which served as his oars. He made a little progress this time, but not enough. The raft neither moved out of the current nor went further in. Stalemate. But soon his arms began to ache and tire, he weakened, and he knew he could not keep it up.
‘Help me!’ he yelled, thoroughly frightened now. ‘Somebody, please? Anyone around? Help me.’
The waters around were bare of boats or any sign of life.
‘I’m going to drown if no one helps me,’ called Alex to the attic in general. ‘Is that what you want? Eh? Get rid of the unwanted newcomers. Well, you’ve got your wish.’
He slumped back on the floor of the raft, staring up at the roof-sky, a bitterness filling his heart with black bile.
‘I hate you. I hate everyone!’
He was going to die. It didn’t seem possible. It wasn’t fair. He was only doing this to help Mr Grantham. The raft was going faster and faster now, spinning, turning, heading towards a slope of water that went down into a hole. In the centre of the mighty whirlpool was a hole where there was nothing but air. He would probably drop all the way without even touching the sides. Without even getting wet. Once his body hit the bottom though, the water would come gushing in around him and suffocate him, filling his lungs to bursting. His brain would explode in bright lights. He knew what it was like to hold his breath – most kids had tried it – and it hurt like hell. It was a horrible death. Any death was horrible.
Attica Page 25
