by Garth Nix
Mrs. Rossi dribbled all over Amy’s shoulder as she was lifted up. Rowan mumbled a good-bye and fled, wanting to get out into the fresh air as quickly as possible. He was glad Great-grandad was having a good day. It would make everything much easier. On his bad days, the old man wouldn’t talk, or possibly couldn’t talk—and he didn’t seem to hear anything either.
But as Amy said, he was still a wonder, even on his bad days. When he wanted to talk, he talked intelligently and clearly. When he wanted to walk, he walked, with the aid of two canes. But he was most remarkable for his age. Albert Salway was the oldest person in the Home, the oldest person in the city, the oldest in the state, maybe even the oldest in the country. He had been born in the last decade of the nineteenth century, and now he was only a day away from the beginning of the twenty-first. He was 108 years old and was actually Rowan’s great-great-grandfather. But he always said that was too many greats, and anyway, he preferred Rowan to call him Bert.
He was sitting on the bench next to the roses, watching them sway slightly in the breeze, petals ruffling. As always when he went outside, he was properly dressed in moleskin trousers, a flannel shirt, tweed coat, and hat. His two black-wood canes were propped up against the bench, their brass handles bright in the sun.
“Hello, Bert,” said Rowan. He sat down and they shook hands, the old man’s light and brittle in the boy’s, the pressure of his fingers very light, their skin barely touching. Bert smiled, showing his gold tooth on one side and the gap on the other. Apart from the gap and the gold incisor, he still had all his own teeth. Bert had outlived four dentists who couldn’t understand the healthiness of his mouth, and many more doctors who couldn’t believe his age and condition.
“You’ve got troubles, my boy,” said Bert. “I can see it in your face. Is it school?”
“No,” replied Rowan. He coughed and cleared his throat, uncertain of how to go on.
“Hmmm,” said Bert. “Something you don’t know how to tell me. Is it a girl?”
“No,” said Rowan, embarrassed. “It’s Dad.”
“Ah,” said Bert, letting out a whistling sigh. “What’s my great-grandson done now?”
“He’s…he’s selling the Hill,” Rowan blurted out. He knew he had to tell Bert, but he was afraid the news would hurt the old man badly. Maybe even kill him.
Bert stared at him, his sharp brown eyes seeming to look through Rowan and off into the distance. To the Hill, Rowan thought. The Hill was all that remained of their family property. A great saddleback of earth and stone, crowned by a forest of ancient gum trees, lording over the flat farmland around it.
The Hill was the center and the most important part of the 5,000 acres that had belonged to the Salways since 1878.
“He can’t sell that land,” said Bert finally.
“But he has!” exclaimed Rowan. “I heard him telling Mum about it last night. He’s getting three million dollars and we’re all moving to Sydney. But I don’t want to go. And I don’t want the Hill to go, either.”
“He can’t sell that land,” repeated the old man. He started to struggle up, his crooked, shrunken hands taking up the canes. “Give me a hand, Rowan.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Rowan anxiously.
“We’re going to pack my stuff,” said Bert, leaning forward onto his canes, Rowan steadying him as he took his first step.
“Then we’re going to move back to the Hill. I’ll need you to get a few things, Rowan. It’s been a few months since I’ve been up there.”
“You’ve been up there that recently?” asked Rowan, almost letting go of him in surprise. “How? I mean, Dad wouldn’t even take me this year. I had to cycle last time, and it took three hours. He shouted at me when I got back and told me to keep away from it.”
“Taxi,” said Bert. He didn’t have a lot of breath to talk when he was walking.
They had a bit of trouble getting out of the Home, but Bert had known the Matron—or Guest Health Services Director, as she was now called—for a long time. They spoke together briefly, then she even phoned for the taxi herself.
“Make sure he doesn’t get wet or cold,” she said to Rowan as she helped Bert into the car. “Good luck, Bert.”
They stopped on the way to get some food, bottled water, blankets, and kerosene for the old stove in the shack. Bert had quite a lot of money with him. Old fifty-dollar notes, the paper ones that were replaced by the smaller polymer variety years before. The checkout girl didn’t want to take them at first, particularly from Rowan, but when he showed her Bert waiting in the taxi and explained that he didn’t like the “new money,” she relented.
It took half an hour by taxi to get to the Hill. Rowan had expected the gate to be locked and had worried about the climb up the track for Bert, but it was not only unlocked, it was open. The track looked a bit rough, but the taxi driver said it wasn’t his cab so he wasn’t worried.
“Besides,” he added, “if a big Mercedes like that can make it up, we can.”
He pointed through the windscreen, and Rowan and Bert saw that there was a very large dark-blue Mercedes parked next to the shack. Two men were standing next to it. Rowan recognized his father and felt the lump of anxiety that had been in his stomach all day flower into panic. He didn’t recognize the other man, the one in the suit and glittering sun-glasses.
“Dad’s here already!” exclaimed Rowan.
“Not for long,” said Bert. “Just park up next to the shack, will you, mate?”
Rowan felt himself instinctively crouching down as they approached and both men looked over to see who it was. Both looked puzzled; then his dad’s face bloomed red as anger sent the blood swirling around his nose and cheeks. He stormed over and yanked the door open, pulling Rowan out by his shirt collar.
“What the bloody hell are you doing, son?” he shouted.
“He’s helping me,” said Bert, who was being helped out the other door by the taxi driver. “Let him go, Roger. Then you and your friend have got two minutes to get off my property.”
“Your property?” said the man in the suit, smiling. He looked at Roger. “I don’t think so.”
Bert laughed, his gold tooth gleaming.
“Another smart arse from the city who hasn’t done his homework,” he said. “Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m Albert Salway.”
“Salway?” said the man. “Salway!”
He looked at Roger Salway, the smile and his relaxed slouch gone. He was angry too, now.
“What’s his relationship to you, Roger? Does he have any claim over this land?”
“He’s my great-grandfather,” muttered Roger, not meeting the other man’s eyes and not answering his question either.
“It’s my land,” repeated Bert. “Has been for nearly seventy years. And like I said, you have one minute to get off my property.”
“Well, we seem to have got off on the wrong foot,” said the businessman, trying to smile again. “Let me introduce myself. I’m John Ragules, representing FirstLaunch Space Services. We plan to build a satellite launching facility in this area—a spaceport. We need this hill, for…well, we call it the ski launch component.”
Rowan listened in astonishment. This was the first he’d heard of the Hill being used to help launch satellites. His fascination with space was almost as great as his love for the Hill, and for a moment he found himself thinking of how fantastic it would be to have a spaceport close to home. Then he remembered that they would be moving to Sydney anyway, and that the spaceport could be built only if he lost the Hill.
“The Hill’s not for sale,” said Bert. “Plenty of other places you can build your spaceport, Mr. Ragules. Places already ruined.”
He leaned on one cane and gestured with the other, a wide sweep that encompassed all the huge gray gum trees that stood around like an army of giants, whispering in the wind.
“There’s trees here that are hundreds of years old,” said Bert. “Animals that have fled here from the farms and the
city. Birds you don’t find anywhere else anymore. There are stories here, in the stone and the red dirt, in the bark and the leaves, in the ants and the spiders, the wallabies and the kookaburras. You build a spaceport and they will all be gone, forever. You’ve got thirty seconds now. Roger, you can hand over the key to the gate as well.”
“Like hell I will,” said Roger. He stormed over to the old man and seemed about to shake him, till he saw the taxi driver watching with an unblinking stare, the tattoo of a snake on his forearm twitching up and down. Instead he bent over and whispered, “We can sell this place for three million dollars, Bert! Three bloody million! We’ll never get offered that kind of money again.”
“The land isn’t for sale,” Bert said. “We don’t need a spaceport here, anyway!”
“What are you talking about, you old fool!” spat Roger.
“Three million! And I will sell it, even if I have to have you declared senile and incompetent!”
“It still won’t be yours to sell,” said Bert. He lifted a cane and gently tapped Roger’s shin. “Now get off my land.”
“I’ll be back!” shouted Roger, the heat in his face now spread like a rash to his neck and ears. “I’ll be back with a court order to make me your guardian and stick you back in that Home for as long as it takes for you to finally bloody croak. I should have done it years ago!”
He seemed almost about to push Bert again, then he suddenly whipped around and made a beeline for Rowan, who scrambled behind the nearest tree.
“As for you, you’ll get a hiding when we get home!” he roared, lunging around the trunk. But Rowan was already fleeing farther into the bush, pushing blindly through the scrub, crashing through spiderwebs, small tree branches, and spiky shrubs. When he felt he was far enough away, he turned back to look, the pain of dozens of tiny scratches building into the greater pain he felt deep inside.
“I’m not going back!” he screamed. “I’m never going back.”
The only answer was the sudden well-modulated sound of the Mercedes engine, followed by the noise of its wheels on the gravel near the gate. Then there was silence, the silence of the bush. Wearily, Rowan found a clearer path back to the shack.
The taxi driver was helping Bert to an old chair he’d pulled out of the shack, and was unloading all the gear. When Rowan started to help him, he offered his hand to shake.
“Name’s Jake,” he said. “Your dad’s a rotten bastard, isn’t he? You’ll have to watch out for him.”
“I’m Rowan,” said Rowan. “Yeah. It’s lucky you were here, or he might have gone for Bert as well.”
“How long you planning to stay out here?” asked Jake as they took the last blanket out and he slammed the trunk shut.
“I don’t know,” said Rowan, shrugging to hide his anxiety. “I guess it depends on Bert.”
He looked over to where the old man seemed to have fallen asleep in his chair, facing the trees, his canes propped out widely, almost like oars.
“He looks a bit old to be camping out,” said Jake dubiously. “Do you reckon your dad’ll be able to have him declared senile or whatever?”
“He’s one hundred and eight,” said Rowan proudly. “And he’s always been much tougher than anyone thinks. He’s got a lot of friends in town, too, people who’ve known him all their lives. I reckon Dad’ll find it hard work to get Bert out of the way.”
“Legally, maybe,” said Jake, looking over to the old man.
“He might try something else, though. Listen, how about I come back up later to see if you’re okay?”
“I don’t know…” said Rowan, eyeing the snake tattoo. Jake seemed like a nice bloke, and he certainly had prevented his dad from running amok. But he’d seen all Bert’s money—
“I’d just like a chance to talk to Bert,” added Jake. “I mean, it’s not every day you get to talk to someone who was around last century. Hell, tomorrow he’ll have lived in three different centuries! Maybe I could bring my wife as well?”
“Okay,” agreed Rowan after a further slight hesitation. He guessed it would be safer than being here alone with Bert.
“See you later then.”
“We’ll come up after I get off work. About eight.”
“Sure,” agreed Rowan. He thought of his father and added, “Come earlier, if you like.”
When Jake left, Rowan checked on Bert, who seemed to be okay. He was just sitting, starting at the bush, blinking occasionally and humming to himself. Rowan left him alone and went in to sweep the shack clean and get the spiders and ants out of the old hammocks.
He was sweeping away vigorously when he heard a car again. Keeping the broom, he went out, his heart already beating faster. As Rowan had feared, it was his father, in the old red utility truck. The vehicle screeched to a stop at the gate, and Roger jumped out to open it.
“What’ll we do?” whispered Rowan, edging over to stand next to Bert.
“Whatever has to be done,” said the old man, sighing. “You know, when I was a boy, Rowan, the bush went all the way to town. There were no cars, no airplanes, no radio, no television, no computers. At your age I hadn’t even seen a telephone. When the twentieth century began, I didn’t think things would change much. I was wrong, of course. We’ll be in the twenty-first century tomorrow, and now everybody expects change. Change, change, change, without thinking what it’ll cost in things that can’t be replaced. I saw your face when that man said he’d build a spaceport here. You wanted it, didn’t you?”
“Not if it takes the Hill,” said Rowan anxiously, still looking down the track. “They can build it somewhere else. But what’ll we do about Dad? He’ll kill me!”
“No, he won’t,” said Bert. “Help me up.”
As soon as he was upright, the old man started shuffling off into the bush. Rowan walked along next to him, trying to anticipate a fall. Behind them, Roger Salway jumped back into the truck, and it accelerated up the path.
“Where are we going?” asked Rowan. “He’ll catch us for sure!”
“I want him to catch up with us,” said Bert. “At the right place.”
He hesitated then, looking around at the rocks and the huge gums, as if he’d forgotten where he wanted to go. Then the glint came back into his eyes and he shuffled off to the right, Rowan following him, most of his attention focused behind them. His father was already out of the truck and running, crashing through the bush without even looking for a path.
As far as Rowan could see, Bert was just making it easier for Roger to beat him up in secret. They were out of sight of the shack now, on the forward slope of the hill. Worse, there was nowhere to run to from here. The slope fell off rapidly into a series of rocky cliffs, and Rowan didn’t want to even try to climb down with his father up above throwing rocks or something. Bert wouldn’t be able to climb at all, anyway.
“This is it,” said Bert as Rowan was desperately trying to think of something to do. He could just lie on the ground, he supposed, and hope his father didn’t kick him too much.
“What?” asked Rowan. He’d missed whatever Bert said.
“This is it,” said Bert, pointing to a crevasse in the rock ahead, so narrow it was hard to see in the fading light. “We’ll just zip across this log. I bet your dad doesn’t remember the Narrow.”
Rowan looked at the crevasse they’d always called the Narrow. It looked dark and nasty, a thin mouth stretching all the way across the hill. It wasn’t that deep. He’d climbed up and down it many times. When Rowan was a small child, his father had helped him up and down, standing in the cool, fernlined shadows below. “Course he’ll remember!”
“No he won’t,” said Bert. “If he remembered, he wouldn’t be trying to sell up.”
Hesitantly, the old man put his foot out on the ancient fallen log that bridged the Narrow.
“Bert…” Rowan started to say, but the words slipped away from him as Roger came puffing through the bush, his face red and twisted with rage. Fearfully, Rowan scuttled across the log.
Roger barreled on, sticks snapping under his feet, branches whipped back by his passage. He was bellowing, waving his fists, fists that Rowan knew would happily connect with him. He might even be so crazy mad with anger that he would hit Bert.
“Don’t!” Rowan shouted. “Don’t!”
He wasn’t sure if his shout was a warning about the Narrow or a feeble attempt to turn away all that concentrated fury and those terrible fists.
It didn’t matter, because Roger was too far gone in his rage to listen. One second he was right in front of them, his face as red as the setting sun, his mouth pouring out words that were so twisted up they sounded like an animal’s howl.
Then he was gone, and there was sudden silence.
Bert shuffled to the edge of the crevasse and looked down. After a second Rowan looked too, shutting one eye because that might somehow make whatever he saw easier to cope with.
“He’s alive, anyway,” said Bert, as a whimper came up out of the Narrow. “You all right down there, Roger?”
Rowan held his breath while he waited for an answer. Finally it came. A small voice, the rage all drained away.
“I think…I think I’ve busted my wrist.”
“Forgot about the Narrow, didn’t you?” said Bert conversationally. “You used to climb up and down it enough as kid. Was it you or your dad who broke his arm down there?”
“Dad,” said Roger. He seemed a bit dazed, thought Rowan. He hadn’t heard his father speaking so quietly for ages.
“And now you’ve done your wrist,” said Bert. “Losing any blood? Anything else broken?”
“No,” said Roger shortly. “Just my wrist.”
“Must run in the family,” Bert said to Rowan, peeling back his sleeve to show a faded scar along his forearm. “Not a break. Cut it open mucking around down there.”
“I can’t climb out by myself,” said Roger. They couldn’t even see him now, the way the night had poured into the Narrow. The stars were getting brighter overhead, a great swathe of them that you couldn’t see in the city, where they were swamped by artificial light.
