The Fall of the Families Page 7

  “Still quiet,” called Pettet, “still bright.”

  They climbed up the stone ramp and passed through a particle curtain and found themselves in a garden. Willow trees drooped above a lake. There were flowers and the path was fringed with pale blue moss. The lake shimmered. Lights from below revealed the clear water where pale fishes swam.

  “Now,” said Raleigh, “we are home. We are in the place where Pettet and I live. Rooms are assigned and you can rest or wander as you wish. Later we will gather for a feast to begin the festival.” As she spoke she gestured round the lake. There were holes, like caves, and in some of these lights were gleaming. Two youths and a young woman appeared at one of the cave openings and dived into the lake and swam across to them. They emerged, shaking the water from their hair.

  “These are three of our children,” said Raleigh. “I’ll let them make their own introductions. They will help you. What would you like to do?”

  Laurel glanced across at Paris and he nodded to her. “I think that we would like to swim,” she said. “Forge was a dry and dusty world.”

  “Nothing easier,” said the woman. She had the same blond hair as her mother. She opened her hands and showed they were webbed. She looked at Paris with a frank unambiguous interest. “Race you,” she said, and ran down to the lake and dived.

  Paris hesitated a moment and then stripped off his Way suit and followed her. Laurel glanced at Pawl and he smiled and spread his hands. “We are in the Pocket now,” he said. “Different worlds, different ways. Swim to your heart’s content. Only find out where we are sleeping and I will join you later.”

  “I don’t think I will swim,” said Peron. “I’m, er … not much given to that. But I’m too excited to rest….”

  “Would you like to see some old star charts, ships’ logs from the days of the Great Push?” asked Haberjin. Peron’s eyes brightened. “We have plenty. The Pocket is a museum. You’d be surprised what flotsam and jetsam ends up here.”

  “Well, I’d be delighted,” said Peron. “If it wouldn’t be too much –”

  “Trouble?” said Haberjin. “Well, I was going to sharpen my teeth, but I suppose I can put that off for an hour or two. Okay with you, boss?” He glanced at Pettet.

  The giant scratched his beard. “Well … there’s that old Wong ship we discovered a few years ago … the one that they’d used in the war against the Hammer. Might be a bit frightening….”

  “No. No. No,” said Peron. He could hardly get the words out fast enough. Then he realized that he was being made fun of. “I’d love to climb about in a Wong ship, if you have one. I’m an historian by profession.”

  “We know,” said Pettet. “Pawl told us. Find out what you can. We can’t translate their old documents.”

  “This way,” said Haberjin.

  When they were gone Pawl turned to Pettet. “We have a lot of talking to do, if you don’t mind.”

  “A pleasure,” rumbled Pettet.

  “Don’t mind me,” said Raleigh. “I’ll keep my eye on Odin.” She pointed down to the shore. Odin had worked his way down the path and found himself a moist place beneath one of the willows. “Only one question, Pawl. Is your friend and counsellor telepathic?”

  Pawl nodded.

  “I thought so. Then I shall keep my thought neutral. I may even be able to prise him open a little. I have never shared with an alien before. Now, don’t you two go getting drunk too soon. Tonight is when the festival begins. Bardol will be present. We’ll expect you sober to hear him.”

  Pawl and Pettet stretched out in Pettet’s study and both lit up cigars. These were a present which Pawl had brought, since tobacco was almost unobtainable in the Pocket. They drank Seppel juice and slowly mingled snippets of news with old memories. They reestablished their friendship, as old friends must after a long separation.

  But gradually Pawl became aware of a reticence in Pettet. It was not coldness. It was not secrecy. It was embarrassment.

  “Was the war hard here?” asked Pawl, probing.

  “Hard enough. We lost many good men. But we would never have opened the Pocket to the Lamprey and Xerxes even if you’d asked us to. They never fitted here, and though the fighting was hard when we came to it, we always knew we would win. The women told us so. Raleigh warned us. She loves you Pawl, as much as me.”

  “I know. Can you tell how Raleigh reacts to Laurel?”

  “She likes her. That I can tell. Laurel is the right woman for you, that much I know….”

  “Yes. Go on.”

  The giant stretched, and scratched and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Go on. You can say anything you like to me, Pettet. Get whatever is worrying you off your mind. What is the truth of it?”

  “The truth is not easy. The truth is vague. Raleigh is a witch-woman, but she does not know everything.”

  “Has she tried to read my future?”

  “Yes.”

  “And….”

  “And there is a darkness. That is all she will say.”

  “Does she see my death?”

  “No, she has never mentioned that.”

  “Laurel’s death?”

  “No, not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Just a darkness.”

  “That is very vague.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does Raleigh know you are telling me this.”

  “Hell, no.” Pettet looked at Pawl in mock terror. “She would skin me alive if she heard what I was saying. She asked me to say nothing.”

  Pawl nodded. “But yet you are worried. Thank you for your warning.” They smoked in silence for several minutes.

  “So tell me,” said Pawl, “what is happening up above, in Emerald Lake?”

  Pettet hunched his shoulders and leant over his desk. “It is my belief that that may be the cause of all our worries. None of our psychics know what is happening. Since the Lake started to brighten all our predictions have been nonsense. It is as though whatever is coming up from the Lake has muffled our psychic power. That may well explain why Raleigh cannot read your future. It is like a great damper and as the light grows brighter so our predictions grow worse. Everyone in the Pocket feels it. Not even the vivante cameras work properly now. I mean, they never worked particularly well in the Pocket, but now all we get are blurred images. We are used to physical danger and can cope with that. But now we don’t know what to expect.”

  “You have always said that the Pocket was unpredictable.”

  “Yes. And now I feel like a man who stands in a deep mist and does not know whether he is at the edge of a precipice or not People look up to me. They trust Pettet the Giant. They expect me to know what to do, and I don’t.”

  “You can only wait,” said Pawl. “I will ask Odin what is happening. He speaks the truth to me. If you are in danger I will find out. Meanwhile, what is it you used to say to me? While there is still wine in the glass there is wine to be drunk. Let’s drink to that.”

  The two friends drained their glasses.

  A distant bell began to sound.

  “Hell,” said Pettet, standing up. “That’s the call to the supper. Come on. When we’ve eaten we can listen to Bardol. You don’t want to miss that. We’ll have plenty of chances to talk in the next few days.”

  They made their way to the feast through a maze of stone tunnels. Finally they emerged on to a gallery above a large room which Pawl remembered from his previous visit. It was the cavern usually used for meetings when the Pocket people assembled three or four times a year. Now it was brightly decorated. Paintings hung from the walls: images of long dead warriors who had founded the Pocket and engineered its prosperity. Standing round the walls were tables where people were assembling. To one side was a dancing space and a small band sat on tiered seats tuning their instruments.

  In the centre of the room was a blazing fire cupped in a stone fireplace. Above it a white tiled chimney drew the smoke away. Alone by the fire sat an old man in a bla
ck rocking chair. He was smoking a long clay pipe and puffing out smoke rings.

  “Is that Bardol?” asked Pawl.

  “That’s him. We’re lucky to have him. He’s more or less in retirement now but he’s still the best singer of the old songs.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Very old. I can remember him when I was a boy, and he looked pretty much like that then. Come on, we’d better get down there. Laurel and Raleigh will be wondering.” He led the way to a narrow wooden staircase which angled down into the lower room.

  As he was descending, Pawl caught sight of Peron. He had wandered into the central area and was making a sketch of the old man and the fireplace in his journal. Probably trying to work out how they dispose of the smoke, thought Pawl.

  Laurel and Raleigh were waiting for them. Both ladies looked magnificent, Raleigh in turquoise and Laurel in silver. They stared at their menfolk in disgust. “Why you haven’t even changed,” said Laurel. “Nor you,” said Raleigh. “I warned you.”

  “You told me not to get drunk,” said Pettet.

  “Same thing. Here, we brought you some fresh clothes. Go into one of the gardens and get yourselves changed.”

  Pettet looked so crestfallen that Laurel started to giggle and even Raleigh had trouble keeping her face stern.

  Holding their fresh clothes the two men made their way round the room. At intervals there were alcoves and these led to gardens. Every square inch of available space was put to use on the world of Lumb. The first alcove led to a vegetable garden fed with artificial sunlight. Animals which looked like a cross between goats and pigs were penned there. They were busy, heads down in a trough. Away in one corner was a water cistern, and an eel with a face like an otter raised its head and blinked at the two men and then submerged again.

  The next garden was ornamental and had been turned into a creche for all the children who had arrived for the Pocket Festival. Kids were playing ball and swinging on swings and splashing about in a shallow pool. One of the children, a girl of about nine, was swinging upside down with her plaits trailing. She waved when she saw them. “Hey dad, mum’s looking for you.” Pettet waved and nodded.

  “Hello, Uncle Pawl. See how high I can swing.”

  Pawl recognized Lynn. She was little more than a baby last time he was in the Pocket. “She’s grown,” said Pawl to Pettet.

  “Mmm, takes after me, we think. Come on. The next garden should be quieter.”

  It was. The next garden was filled with fragrant shrubs. The only occupants were Paris and Pettet’s eldest daughter, the girl he had been swimming with. They moved away discreetly when they saw Pettet and Pawl.

  “It seems that Paris has made a hit with your girl.”

  “Yes, I suppose they are of an age,” said Pettet absentmindedly. “Come on, over here.”

  Quickly the men changed and when they next entered the main chamber they looked smart and brushed and ready for a feast. Pawl’s hair, which he still wore long after the manner of his youth, was coiled and fixed with a long pin. “That’ll do,” said Pettet. “We don’t want to stand on too much ceremony. The main thing is to enjoy yourself.”

  The party was getting into full swing. The tables were piled with food. The dancing floor was crowded. The potent liquor brewed on Lumb was in plentiful supply. Pawl danced with Laurel and even Pettet, who had two left feet when it came to dancing, was prevailed upon to shamble round the dance-floor until Raleigh complained that her feet were black and blue. At which Pettet hoisted her in the air and danced alone while she beat her fists on his shoulders.

  During all this the old man, Bardol, sat staring into the fire sucking on his clay pipe. Pettet introduced him to Pawl and Laurel. Pawl was surprised to see that the old man always kept one eye closed. The eye which stared at them was sharp and blue.

  “Master of Paxwax, eh? Well, well. You look so very young. I heard of the fighting recently. I’m afraid I don’t know any of the songs of the Paxwax.”

  “Nor do I,” said Pawl. “Except official songs.”

  “I mean songs of the people. A people without songs has no history. Don’t worry: even if you don’t know the songs, they exist. When people want to make their feelings known they write songs and then sing them to one another. Pettet tells me you are a writer of songs. I would like to hear them. Perhaps I could crib some of your rhymes.”

  Pawl found himself blushing. “Pettet shouldn’t have said that. I have written some verses, that is all. I write them for Laurel. I’m afraid they are not very good.”

  “If they are honest they are good.” The old man’s seeing eye fell on Laurel. “Old men when they philosophize are boring, I know, but let me say this: a woman who can inspire real songs is a rare prize and she will never be lonely. I wish you both happiness.”

  The brief interview was over and the old man returned his gaze to the fire.

  “Why does he only look at the world with one eye?” asked Laurel later, tearing some meat from a bone with her teeth.

  “You’ll see,” said Raleigh. “Soon he will begin to sing.”

  There came a point in the party when suddenly the noise dropped away. Everyone laughed and then a chant began: “Bardol. Bardol. Bardol.”

  The old man took his pipe from his lips and waved it. “Whenever you like,” he said.

  There was a scraping of chairs. Glasses were filled. A carpet was dragged down by the central fire and the children squatted down. Men and women carrying books clustered round Bardol and settled down at his feet.

  “Who are they?” whispered Peron.

  “They are his apprentices,” answered Haberjin. “They are learning the songs. Watch.”

  Deliberately the old man set his pipe aside. Then he turned his chair until he was facing most of the audience. “We’ll begin with a song you all know: ‘The Mating of Mabel’.” With a blink he closed his bright blue eye and after a pause opened his other eye to reveal a red socket. He began to sing. At first his voice was soft but it gathered strength and resonance with each verse. The song was a bawdy ditty about a woman called Mabel who had thirty-two husbands and managed to enjoy them all without them ever suspecting the others. It had a simple chorus and Peron soon found himself joining in.

  “Now,” said Mabel,

  “I’ll turn out the light

  For love sees best

  In the dark, dark night.”

  “A good song,” said Peron to Haberjin while the audience were clapping.

  “It’s a mnemonic,” said Haberjin. “Mabel is a rogue planet that comes round every hundred years or so. The names of the husbands are the names of the moons. The belief is that one day Lumb will be captured by Mabel. When that happens I hope we are all well gone.”

  “How long before her next return?”

  “Five or six years. We’re on the lookout for her now.”

  *

  The second song was a quiet ballad about a spaceman who was on solitary duty aboard a signal satellite and dreamed every night he was back home. Again the song had a refrain and again almost everyone joined in. At the end of the song the spaceman cast himself adrift in space in the belief that he was going home. Peron was surprised to see that some of the people listening to the song were crying.

  Haberjin explained, “You see most of the people here have done solitary out in space. They know what it is like. The hallucinations are amazing. Have you ever been alone out there with just a rock for company?” Peron shook his head. “Well, perhaps one day you will be, and then you’ll try to remember the words of this song to keep you sane.”

  The third song was a variation on the tale of Noah, in which a family did everything they could to save the livestock from their world before it was drawn in to the maw of a black hole.

  And after this song Peron stopped taking notes and just listened. Bardol seemed to have grown in stature. He played all the parts, mimicking with his face and arms the expressions and gestures of his characters.

  The chorus of appr
entices matched the words and movements of the master.

  Finally he drew breath. “One last song for the night,” he said. “What’ll it be? We ought to honour our founder.”

  A child’s voice piped up. “Sing about John Death Elliott and his ship the Fare-Thee-Well.” Everyone started clapping.

  “The children love this one,” whispered Haberjin. “Listen closely. You’ll learn the history of Elliott’s Pocket … how we came here … where we came from. Each year the singer improvises new verses.”

  “All right,” called the singer, “we’ll have the ballad of John Death Elliott. Just let me see who’s here.” He opened his good eye and glanced round the assembly. He looked at Raleigh and Pettet, and then straight at Haberjin, who raised his hand and waved, and at the children and a gaunt-faced girl who was stirring a pot of stew close to the fire. And then he changed eyes again.

  The song began boisterously. It told how John Death Elliott and his sister Elizabeth became pirates aboard a wondrous alien ship called the Fare-Thee-Well. They attacked the Proctor trading ships and became terrors of the space ways.

  “This song must date back to the years just after the Great Push,” whispered Peron.

  “Yes. It does. Hush. Listen.”

  Finally, Pippin, the Master of the Proctor Family, tired of being humiliated by John Death Elliott and his sister, offered a prince’s ransom to any man or woman who could capture the Fare-Thee-Well.

  Now the first mate aboard the Fare-Thee-Well was called Lester John and he was a traitor.

  Lester John had fists of iron,

  His eyes were merry and green.

  But bonny face and clever tongue

  May mask a mind that’s mean.

  Lester John drank beer one night,

  Slapped Jack Death on the arm.

  “Oh I will love your sister true

  And never do her harm.”

  Then he watched and waited and bided his time,

  Stole the keys to Landship three,

  Took Bett from her bed with a gun at her head,

  Broke open the door to the Landship shed,