Part 8 (2/2)

'Joshua,' he whispered. 'Feel for Charlie. Twist his nose.'

He heard Joshua move. Then there was a sudden light and a burst of sound. Charlie Rabbit twitched, and his eyes shone with a deep, bright-green glow; his paws went up and down, and his internal speaker began to hum.

Abbas pushed Charlie Rabbit into the gap above, then used the broken timber to shove the toy through, into the open air. As it emerged, the rabbit started to sing its trademark song: 'Hoppity, hoppity, hoppity me, I'm as happy as I can be. Carrot, lettuce, radishes, too, I'm Charlie Rabbit, how do you do? Hoppity, hoppity, hoppity through, Let's all be happy, too-'

The song suddenly stopped.

Abbas waited, holding his breath, hoping that he would hear the stupid song start again, or someone call out to them, or something. But there was nothing. The chill water was up under his arms, rising even more swiftly now.

'Joshua,' said Abbas quietly, 'crawl up as far as you can and put your face against that hole. Pull your legs up, out of the water.'

'Charlie Rabbit will get help,' said Joshua confidently as he curled into a small ball.

'Yes,' said Abbas in the darkness. He closed his eyes and let his head rest on the ground, close to the water that was caressing his neck. He was so cold now, he couldn't really care what happened. 'Charlie Rabbit will get help.'

'Hoppity, hoppity, hoppity through, Let's all be happy, too,' sang Joshua. 'Hoppity, hoppity . . . Abbas!'

'What?'

'Look, Abbas! Light!'

Abbas opened his eyes. The concrete block was rising up, rising into the air. Harsh, white electric light spilled down the chute, so bright he had to s.h.i.+eld his eyes. Hands came reaching down to take Joshua, and then Abbas was lifted out himself, water spilling out onto the street behind him. Loud voices were all around him, shouting, asking questions, too much noise for Abbas to make any sense of it, save for one small voice that cut through everything. Joshua's voice, shrill in the night.

'Charlie! I want my Charlie Rabbit!'

FROM THE LIGHTHOUSE.

INTRODUCTION TO FROM THE LIGHTHOUSE.

BOTH MY MEMORY AND MY RECORDS ARE rather blank on this story. I thought I wrote it specifically for the 1998 anthology rather blank on this story. I thought I wrote it specifically for the 1998 anthology Fantastic Worlds Fantastic Worlds (edited by Paul Collins), but when I checked the copyright date for 'From the Lighthouse,' I found it was 1996, and all the other stories were 1998. Which suggests the story appeared somewhere else first, and I do have a faint niggling memory that it did see print somewhere obscure before being collected in (edited by Paul Collins), but when I checked the copyright date for 'From the Lighthouse,' I found it was 1996, and all the other stories were 1998. Which suggests the story appeared somewhere else first, and I do have a faint niggling memory that it did see print somewhere obscure before being collected in Fantastic Worlds. Fantastic Worlds.

This completely destroys my explanation of the origins of the story. When I thought it first appeared in Fantastic Worlds, Fantastic Worlds, I was going to say that I must have started with landscape because of the anthology t.i.tle, with the idea of an island in the ice, protected by a Summer Field. I'm pretty certain that the setting came first, and some of the details of the place and its people, but it can't have been sparked by the anthology t.i.tle. I was going to say that I must have started with landscape because of the anthology t.i.tle, with the idea of an island in the ice, protected by a Summer Field. I'm pretty certain that the setting came first, and some of the details of the place and its people, but it can't have been sparked by the anthology t.i.tle.

This is one of my notionally science fiction stories, in that it features technology and some vague explanation of that technology, but it still has the feel of fantasy. Perhaps it is science fantasy, a handy label for one of the many borderlands of the overlapping genres. I've never written any 'hard' science fiction, in which the science can bear rigorous examination or is a real extrapolation of current knowledge. I'd like to think that this is not just laziness and a lack of intellectual stamina, but rather a love of story, which always is paramount to me. Having to make the science work as well as everything else just seems too hard. I like to read it, though, which suggests that I am actually just lazy.

I suspect that I originally intended to revisit this setting in another story, and I do have a faint recollection of jotting down some notes about the island and its people. But those notes are lost, seemingly like everything else related to 'From the Lighthouse,' apart from a few letters having to do with Fantastic Worlds Fantastic Worlds. But as I haven't revisited the oasis island of Lisden for about a decade, I guess it can wait until I find a story welling up out of my subconscious that wants or needs to be set there, at which time I can reinvent everything I made up before.

FROM THE LIGHTHOUSE.

1. ARRIVAL.

EVERY ONE GATHERED AT THE WHARF when the gold-hulled ice cruiser docked. Not because they'd been told to, though some people thought there had been some sort of instruction, or invitation. It was simply curiosity. when the gold-hulled ice cruiser docked. Not because they'd been told to, though some people thought there had been some sort of instruction, or invitation. It was simply curiosity.

The Kranu hunters had met the yacht some five relgues offsh.o.r.e and, finding the Kranu refusing to rise through the hot holes and the day dull, had formed up around it as an escort. The villagers, seeing the hunters skating in two lines on either side of a great vessel with sun-colored sails, had naturally come to see the hunters' prize.

Marcus Kilman saw it quite differently. From the p.o.o.p of the Mercurial Gadfly Mercurial Gadfly he waved left-handed, in the manner of a ruler to newfound va.s.sals. His right hand crept finger by finger between the b.u.t.tons of his crisp white suit. In his gold-heeled boots he was five foot one, and thanks to a nightly exercise with lead sinkers his earlobes were almost pendulous enough to be handsome. he waved left-handed, in the manner of a ruler to newfound va.s.sals. His right hand crept finger by finger between the b.u.t.tons of his crisp white suit. In his gold-heeled boots he was five foot one, and thanks to a nightly exercise with lead sinkers his earlobes were almost pendulous enough to be handsome.

When the Mercurial Gadfly Mercurial Gadfly finished tying up at the wharf that poked out of the island's Summer Field into the ice, the crew paraded on the foredeck, the ex-Senatorial Navy bosun plying his whistle in what Kilman believed to be a salute, but was actually the opening bars of the theme from the comic opera finished tying up at the wharf that poked out of the island's Summer Field into the ice, the crew paraded on the foredeck, the ex-Senatorial Navy bosun plying his whistle in what Kilman believed to be a salute, but was actually the opening bars of the theme from the comic opera The Great Kranu from the Deep. The Great Kranu from the Deep. As always, the crew smirked solemnly, laughter submerged in hacking coughs. Kilman frequently had his Bonesman check them for lung rot or throat curse. He was afraid of any kind of infection, physical or intellectual. The Bonesman never found either sort aboard Kilman's s.h.i.+p. As always, the crew smirked solemnly, laughter submerged in hacking coughs. Kilman frequently had his Bonesman check them for lung rot or throat curse. He was afraid of any kind of infection, physical or intellectual. The Bonesman never found either sort aboard Kilman's s.h.i.+p.

Kilman descended from the p.o.o.p, reappearing at the gangway. The waiting crowd of islanders, silent out of politeness rather than awe, pleased him immensely. Respect! At last he had found somewhere untainted by egalitarian ideals. He would be king, and they would be his peasantry.

'People of Lisden!' he declaimed, his voice breaking pitch like a badly blown trumpet. 'I am Marcus Kilman, and I have purchased this island. I am your new owner.'

The islanders greeted this disclosure with equanimity. Kilman had allocated ten seconds for rapturous applause but resumed speaking after only six seconds of embarra.s.sing silence.

'People of Lisden! I will bring you a new era of peace and prosperity, lower taxes, and good government.'

This provoked a reaction of sorts. A murmur ran through the audience like a water spider skidding from lily to lily or, in this case, from each mainland speaker in the crowd. Lisden already had peace; as much prosperity as they could handle without having greed; taxes were nonexistent, as the Kranu cooperative provided all services from its profits (if any); and the only government was the board of the cooperative, which included every adult islander. Theoretically, there was a mainland government department that looked after their affairs, and the Humble and Obedient Senate of the People beyond that, but both had lost the Lisden file years ago, and consequently denied the island's existence.

Kilman saw this reaction as suppressed joy at the good news, and was about to launch into further grandiose announcements when a woman stepped out of the crowd and onto the gangplank. She was much younger than Kilman-but the sort of woman who could be anywhere between sixteen and thirty and very striking in looks and stature. She was at least six foot two, and looked taller in her plain black dress, with a long silver scarf draped over one shoulder like an arrow, emphasizing her height.

'Sir,' she said, in Mainland so untainted by accent that it was clearly not her native tongue. 'May I ask from whom you purchased this island?'

'Why, little lady,' Kilman answered, looking down on her from the high end of the gangplank, hoping she wouldn't come up any farther, 'I purchased this island from the Lisden Fish Export Company, for the sum of one point seven five million gold bezants.'

'Ah,' said the woman, who knew that the Lisden Fish Export Company had been superseded by the Lisden Fish Enterprise Cooperative one hundred seventy-six years ago, and so couldn't sell anybody anything. She turned and spoke briefly to the crowd in their native tongue, explaining that the poor short man with the badly fitting toupee was a crazy millionaire who'd been the victim of a confidence trickster. They should humour him, provided it was not too difficult. Spare him embarra.s.sment, she asked. Be kind, and in due course we will tell him the truth about his purchase.

The crowd nodded, waved, or spoke their agreement and dispersed, laughing and talking among themselves. Kilman watched his audience disappear, disgruntlement showing in the folds of flesh about his mouth.

'Why are they going?' he snapped. 'I didn't say that they could go.'

'They're going to prepare a proper welcome for our new owner,' the woman invented, seeing that he was quite hurt, and a little angry.

She felt sorry for him, having to wrap an ego the size of the legendary Great Kranu Hunter of Remm in flesh not much bigger than the Kranu lures the hunters put down the hot holes. She took a few steps back down the gangplank and slumped a little.

'Who are you anyway?' the proud owner of Lisden asked as she retreated. He suddenly felt an interest in her now, even an incipient fondness. She wasn't as arrogant-looking as he'd first thought.

'My name is . . . in Mainland, you would say Malletta, or Maryen . . . even perhaps Margon.'

'Okay, Margalletta,' said Kilman, who only ever remembered numbers properly. 'Why don't you get hold of a wheeler and show me over my new property?'

'It would be my pleasure,' replied Margalletta (as she was now resigned to being named). She slumped a little more, and gripped the rail of the gangplank as if overcome by weakness.

2. SIGHTSEEING.

Wheelers-and their theoretically impossible system of motivation that relied on a refusal to rotate at the same speed as the planet-had not arrived in Lisden. There was a steam car instead, a two-hundred-year-old vehicle of doubtful provenance. It had been locally repaired several times, so the panel work, while distinctive, was no longer representative of any particular manufacturer. Similarly, any badges, ornamental exhausts, or hood ornaments it might once have had were long gone. A stuffed parrot hung from the khat-catcher at the front of the boiler, but this was clearly not a factory-issue embellishment.

Margalletta sat, or rather slumped, behind the wheel. Kilman sat in the back. Instead of leather upholstery he had a fringed carpet. Margalletta told him this was a local tradition-the island's ruler always had such a carpet: lining a chariot; as a saddle blanket for horse or camel; or under the howdah of an elephant. Kilman was pleased by this image, unable to discern that it was a complete fabrication. The only elephants or camels ever seen on Lisden appeared in several very old books.

For all its odd appearance, the steam car was mechanically sound. Once it had built up sufficient pressure for the safety valve to scream alarmingly, Margalletta engaged all six drive wheels and shot off up the road, taking the corners that switch-backed up the island's central mountain with considerable elan, choosing whichever side of the road took her fancy.

Kilman, enquiring about road safety in a voice of bl.u.s.tering, ill-concealed fear, was informed that this was the only vehicle, and everyone knew she was taking him up the mountain. So there was no danger from horse-drawn vehicles or the occasional camel. Oh yes, the ceremonial camels had bred in the wild . . .

Kilman kept his nose perpendicular to the window. Looking for camels, but also seeing the deep blue-grey-green of the sea suddenly meeting the blue sheen of ice; the picturesque fis.h.i.+ng village nestled at the apex of a triangular bay; the orange and lemon orchards rising up the terraced slopes. All of it safely maintained by the Summer Field that made this oasis possible amid the vast sea of ice that had sprung up millennia ago as the result of a misguided application of a Winter Field. The ancient savants who had invented both were very successful at starting the fields, and phenomenally unsuccessful at turning them off.

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