Castle Kidnapped

by John Dechancie

  So every day, Trent would go down to the lagoon—the “shipyards,” as he called it—and work on the raft. Sheila spent most of her time now braiding rope. The raft needed lots of it to hold its heavy logs together. Trent said that he would have built an outrigger canoe, had there been more time. But the raft would be seaworthy, of that he was sure. A square-rigged sail would have been ideal, if there had been any fabric to make a sail out of. As it was, they would have to trust in God (and the gods, in Trent's case) and hope for a good current.

  But Trent kept thinking about a sail.

  “Where there's a will, there's a government research grant, usually. You'll have to fish today while I go up the mountain and see if I can find anything."

  “I'll dig up some shellfish and make chowder,” Sheila said. “You go do your research."

  “I knew you were a Democrat."

  When Sheila wasn't braiding, she would work on magic, as did Trent when he wasn't shipbuilding. They called it “Research and Development,” and although no breakthroughs had happened since Trent's tentative levitation of a neo-coconut, Sheila felt that one was possible. There was some obstacle that she couldn't quite see her way around. It was a difficult problem, and she needed more time.

  Unfortunately the volcano's output steadily increased, its smoke column turning black and ugly. There might not be any time at all. Trent said that an eruption was inevitable. It was just a matter of when and how bad.

  R&D's chief technological spin-off to date was fire. Their was no flint or chert to be had on the island, but a primitive spell made sparks fly when you rubbed two ordinary stones together. The grilled fish was delicious, but Sheila wouldn't eat the lizard, even though Trent said it tasted exactly like chicken. She couldn't bring herself to eat something that was green and looked like a miniature dinosaur.

  But she was getting tired of seafood. Maybe eventually, when she got a real craving for meat...

  Meanwhile, they led an idyllic life, swimming every morning in the bright surf and in the warm tides at evening. They made love on the beach every night, and afterward lay together beneath a night canopy of brilliant stars and smoky, spiral nebulae.

  Sheila had asked Trent what they were.

  “Galaxies,” he'd said. “This planet seems to be in the thick of a galactic cluster."

  “Why can't you see any of those from Earth?"

  “You can, you just need field glasses or a telescope."

  “They're so beautiful."

  “They are. And so are you, my darling."

  “Thank you. But you do need glasses."

  “You keep throwing my compliments back at me. Don't you know you're a good-looking woman?"

  “I guess not. I'm glad to hear it. Oh, I'm sorry, Trent. Really. I guess I can't take a compliment, not even from you."

  “That's sad."

  “Now you're making me feel rotten."

  “Sorry.” He kissed her. “I want to make you feel good."

  “You have. You don't know how much. After my marriage—"

  “Tell me about it. About him."

  “He was a jerk. Oh, my God, was he a jerk."

  “Did he beat you?"

  “No. I would have killed him, the rat. No, he just screwed around on me, drank like a fish, and peed away all our money. So I tell him to get out, and he gets ticked off. Refuses. Finally I pack up all his clothes and put them in his car, and he gets the idea. But when the process server gives him the paper, what does he do? He breaks into the house and trashes it from top to bottom, after he takes the stereo and the VCR and all his stuff out. Breaks up all the furniture, smashes windows. Does ten thousand dollars in damage."

  “Did you have the blackguard thrown in the clink?"

  “No. What good would it have done? My lawyer filed a judgment on him for the damage, but I haven't seen a penny. Meanwhile, I'm paying the mortgage on one salary."

  “On behalf of my sex, let me tender our sincerest apologies."

  “Don't apologize for your sex. Your sex is fine with me. Even when it's tender."

  “Oh. You mean that sex."

  “I love you, Trent."

  “And I you, beloved."

  “The way you talk sometimes, in that language. It's so beautiful. And I understand it, too, somehow."

  “Of course. It's Haplan, an ancient tongue. You hear it all the time in the castle. The servants speak it. It's a great language for expressing poetic intimacy."

  “Is it ever. Say more."

  “Let me speak with another tongue."

  She drew a long breath.

  Days passed, and the volcano spewed more ash, a fine gray film of it dusting the palms, the grass, and the rocks.

  They put a crash raft-building program into action. After a day and a half of frantic preparation, the craft still wasn't entirely ready, but Trent said that they would leave regardless on the morning tide.

  “She's not as big as I wanted, and the sail will never hold up in a high wind, but—"

  “It's a wonderful ship. How in the world did you do it with only stone tools?"

  What Trent had constructed was a cross between a raft and a catamaran. It was little more than a deck of long thin logs lashed to a pair of larger, tapered tree trunks which formed a twin “hull.” These latter were solid; the wood of these particular trees was lighter than balsa, but stronger. They made ideal pontoons, and with a crude stone ax, Trent had sculpted their prows into something that would cut water.

  The sail was a technological wonder, a quilt of thin woven mats coated with a tree resin that resembled latex. This technique made for a sail that was small, clumsy, and inordinately heavy, but it worked. Trent made a test run late in the evening. To his amazement, the makeshift rigging held and the sail actually caught wind.

  “Trent, do you think we'll make it in this thing?"

  “Depends. Depends on how far we have to go. As to a heading and course, we'll just be guessing. I've never had time to do much watching, but wouldn't you say that the birds come and go in a generally easterly direction?"

  “You're right. I see them against the morning sun all the time."

  “Then that's our heading, east, away from the volcano. Good."

  They gathered as much food as they could. Neo-coconut shells made excellent canteens, and they loaded up with fresh water. There wasn't time, though, to finish the matting for the sunscreen.

  “Do we need it?” Sheila asked.

  “Definitely."

  “Why? We'll just lie out and get tanned."

  “We'll get good and burned. Neither of us has a shirt and that grass skirt of yours is some protection for your legs, but not much. No, we need a little cabin, crude as it is. Besides, we have to keep the fresh food out of the sun, too."

  “Okay, but we're leaving tomorrow."

  “Palm leaves will have to do. It's either that or give up the sail."

  “Palm leaves it is. Up that tree, Tarzan."

  At last, they were ready.

  The volcano wasn't on the same schedule. Late that night, Sheila awoke and looked out the hut's lone window. It took her a disoriented second or two to realize that what she was seeing wasn't snow covering the ground, but an inch-deep layer of volcanic ash. The sky was a hell of dark clouds outlined in red light.

  Trent was already up.

  “Time to go, Sheila. The volcano's going at it pretty good this time. Looks like a full-scale eruption."

  They made haste, leaving tracks through the warm ash.

  They piled everything they could think of on the raft and cast off. The sail caught a sulphurous breeze, and they were under way.

  The tide was in, and the waterline was high against the rocks at the mouth of the cove. Once past this natural breakwater, the craft hit the choppy currents of the open sea.

  Orange clouds brooded above, and the smell of brimstone filled the air.

  “Maybe we should have gambled and holed up in the cave."

  “I hate bats,” Sheila said.r />
  They sailed on into the fiery night, demon's breath speeding them on their way.

  Philadelphia, Outskirts

  The driver was a young one, mid-twenties, maybe. He wore his head hair cropped at the sides and long in the back. The back of his head looked like the tail end of an animal Snowclaw hunted out in the tundra. The kid smoked skinny, wrinkled cigarettes that emitted a weedy, pungent smoke.

  “Hey, you want a toke, Snowy?"

  “What is it?"

  The kid laughed, showing yellowed teeth. “It's smoke, man."

  “No, thanks."

  “Hey, all right. Just trying to be friendly. How long you been working for Mr. Iannucco?"

  “Not long."

  “Uh-huh. Where you from?"

  “Canada."

  The sky was dark, but the countryside blazed with a million lights. Snowy had trouble understanding how anyone could sleep around here, it was so bright at night.

  “How're the women in Canada? I never been there."

  Snowy shrugged. Darned if he knew. He said, “Fine. Same as everywhere, I guess."

  “Hey, women are different different places. Know what I mean?"

  “Nope."

  “Like, New York women are real wise-ass. You can't pull anything on them. Try to hustle ‘em, and they'll put you down slicker than owl shit. But f'rinstance you take down South. Man, they'll look at you with big eyes and buy the whole store. Ever been to Miami?"

  “No."

  “In Miami—” The kid looked over and scowled. “Hey, you're not even listening."

  “Huh? Sorry. They have so many lights around here."

  The kid didn't know what to make of that. He turned his eyes back to the road.

  They drove on into the night, galaxies of bright lights shooting by. Snowy had never realized until he got here how heavily populated this world was. Human dwellings blanketed the land, arrayed in rows on an endless crust of concrete. There was barely any dirt showing. Here and there, a stand of trees relieved the monotony. Things had looked the same outside since they left New York, two and a half hours ago.

  “Christ, I'm hungry,” the kid complained. “I always get hungry on the road. You want to stop and get something to eat?"

  “Um, maybe."

  “I'm gonna get off the greenstamp and get something. Some burgers or maybe a hero sandwich. You gonna have something to eat, or what?"

  “What's a hero sandwich?” Snowy asked.

  “Don't they got ‘em in Canada? What do they call ‘em? Submarines, hoagies?"

  “Uh ... I don't know. I'll have one of those hero sandwiches, though, if you don't mind."

  “Christ awmighty. I never seen anything like it."

  “What's wrong?” Snowy asked through a mouthful of Italian cold cuts and bread.

  “I never seen anyone eat like that."

  “Is this too much?"

  “Too much?” The kid hooted. “Four goddamn whole hero sandwiches. Jesus, that's four goddamn whole loaves of bread you got there!"

  Snowy finished off the first one and bit a huge chunk out of the second. “Sorry."

  “Hey, it's nothing to be sorry about. I just never seen anybody eat like that. You gonna ...?"

  Snowy chewed three times, swallowed, then bit off another astonishing hunk, leaving only a lettuce-draped nub of bread.

  “Jesus Christ, y'makin’ me sick."

  The kid heaved his own sandwich and soft drink out the window, not bothering to watch them splat against the asphalt of the parking lot. He lit up another skinny cigarette.

  “Let's boogie."

  Endless night, frigid night. But not cold enough for Snowy. The cab of the truck was a roaring furnace, and Snowy tried to persuade the kid to feather back the heater, to no avail. So he cranked down his window halfway, letting in a soothing, icy blast.

  “Whaddayou, a goddamn Eskimo?” the kid demanded.

  Snowy was getting annoyed, but thought better of giving the kid the head-whacking he deserved.

  “Come on, close the goddamn window!” the kid screamed. “Waddayou, crazy or what?"

  Snowy said mildly, “Buddy, where I come from, it's not so wise to mouth off to a guy as big as me, especially for a little twerp as skinny—” Snowy blinked. “What's wrong?"

  “Jesus Christ.” The kid was staring tearfully at Snowy, mouth hanging open.

  “What—?” Snowy halted a motion to scratch his head and realized what the kid was seeing. His hand had turned furry, the fingers tipped with milk-white claws. It was his normal hand. He felt his face. Sheila's spell was fading.

  The kid tore his eyes away to glance at the road, then looked back. “Hey..."

  In the intervening instant, Snowy's hand had turned human again, the fur and claws gone. His face felt smooth.

  “What the hell's going on?” the kid said. “Did you—did you just—?"

  “What's that you say?"

  The kid focused his stare on the road, his face set grimly.

  “Nothin',” the kid said. “Forget it.” He opened his own window and threw out the butt of the joint he'd been sucking on. “Forget that shit, too."

  Great White Stuff, Snowy thought. This is going to be a long trip.

  Castle

  Jeremy didn't know what he was crouching on—it could have been floor, wall, or ceiling. He couldn't tell. Things had gotten to the point where it didn't matter. Everything was crazy, everything was totally out to lunch.

  He had lost sight of Linda, although he could still hear her. She was off somewhere to the left, as far as he could tell, lost in a nightmare of bulging walls and constricted passageways.

  Linda called his name, and he answered.

  “Are you all right?” she yelled back.

  “Uh ... yeah! Well, not really."

  “Hang on, I'm going to try getting to you."

  After a minute or so she appeared, sticking her head out of a small tunnel about ten feet above Jeremy's head.

  “There you are,” she said. “It seems to be quieting down a little."

  “Yeah."

  As if in defiance, things began to shift again, Linda's tunnel sliding off to the right somewhat.

  “Whoa!"

  The slab of stone under Jeremy began to tilt. He reached for the computer but it slipped away.

  “Shit!” He lunged after it and slid to a level spot. Fishing the computer out of a trough in the “floor,” he checked it for damage.

  “Your computer's beeping again,” Linda said.

  “Yeah, I know.” Jeremy flipped up the readout screen.

  REALITY PROCESSING? CAN DO.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Jeremy asked of no one in particular.

  “What does what mean?"

  “Nothing. It's just that this thing has gone bat shit, too."

  “How so?"

  “Well, it's in WordStar—it gets it out of ROM—and it's telling me it can do ‘REALITY PROCESSING.’ Whatever the hell that is."

  “Sounds like we could use some of that."

  “Yeah. I don't know, this is really—” Jeremy typed out a query.

  WHO ARE YOU?

  Came the answer: YOUR COMPUTER, DUMMY.

  “Holy shit. This thing is alive."

  “Great,” Linda said. “Ask it what we ought to do."

  “Yeah. Right."

  WHAT SHOULD WE DO? Jeremy keyed.

  WELL, NOW, HAVEN'T I JUST MADE A SUGGESTION?

  WHAT WAS THAT? Jeremy replied.

  WE CAN REPROCESS THE IMMEDIATE ENVIRONMENT AND ACHIEVE TEMPORARY STABILITY.

  Jeremy typed, OKAY. RUN THE PROGRAM.

  PRESS RETURN, the computer directed.

  Jeremy did.

  Things got blurry, and Jeremy thought he might be passing out. But the computer wasn't blurry, and neither was he. He strained to see Linda, but couldn't make her out in the wavering nonreality that surrounded him.

  Then the world refocused again, and he was squatting on a level, stationary floor. He l
ooked up and saw Linda getting to her feet.

  Linda brushed hair from her eyes. “Whew! Whatever you did, it worked."

  “Yeah. I didn't do anything, though."

  “Yes, you did. You brought that computer with you. If you hadn't, we'd be goners."

  Jeremy grunted. “I guess. What now?"

  They were becalmed in the eye of a strange, reality-changing hurricane. Down the hall in both directions lay chaos, the nightmare jumble that Jeremy's computer had just set aright locally.

  “We have to get through a portal,” Linda said. “But I don't think that's going to be possible right now. If Sheila were here, she might be able to summon one, but maybe not, in this mess."

  “So, what else?"

  “So, what else have you got? Look, you have the ball, Jeremy. You're going to have to run with it."

  “Me? What do I know about this place?"

  “Use your magic. You obviously have the right stuff. Just learn to use it, and do it quick."

  “But...” Jeremy lifted his shoulders. “All right, but this is—"

  “Stop saying things are crazy,” Linda snapped. “Sure they're crazy, but no crazier than the nutty world we come from. It's just different, that's all. You have the power to deal with it. So do deal with it."

  “Right.” He knelt at the computer and typed.

  WHAT SHOULD I DO NOW?

  WANT SUGGESTIONS, DO YOU?

  YES, Jeremy answered.

  VERY WELL. START WALKING. REALITY STABILIZATION FIELD WILL FOLLOW.

  Linda was looking over his shoulder. “That sounds like a good idea. If we come across an area that's supposed to have a portal, maybe it'll be there."

  They strolled a good distance down the hall, but no portals appeared. The jumble in both directions seemed to stay the same distance away.

  “The trouble might be affecting things,” Linda said. “Blocking off the portals, or chasing them away, I don't know."

  Jeremy set the computer down and queried again.