The Last of the Gullivers (7 page)

 

PART TWO

ADRIFT

CHAPTER TWELVE

WHERE
ALL
ARE
KNAVES

B
ut he was. He was going. He was gone.

And the weasels were coming. They were swarming Lesser Lilliput and filling the streets with panic.

The boy took aim and fired and the first shots went wild, one taking out a corner of the church spire. It took half an hour to chase all the vermin from the Garden City.

Michael ran to the stone cottage, but Lemuel and the dog were gone. The boy checked every room, ran to the gravel drive, rode his bike to the crossroad. But they had vanished. In every way, and forever, they had vanished into thin air. It was as simple as that.

Had the old man been planning this all along? Was he just waiting till Michael was ready?

And how would the boy tell the Little Ones?

He knew they were a resilient People.
They can deal with it.
Michael told them the truth. He told them, “Quinbus Flestrin is gone.”

And the town exploded in riot. The Little Ones wailed and screamed and some darted around in their underwear. Wagons were toppled, set afire, store windows smashed, and there was a brief run on the bank.

Well
, Michael thought to himself,
that could've gone better.

It took him hours to get them calmed down. He promised he'd watch over them, would check on them every day, would keep them safe, as Lemuel had.

But by the second day, he knew this wouldn't be easy.

He was clearing the drains when he raked open a writhing new nest of weasels, right there in the back garden. Hissing and screeching, the things scattered up and over the Wall, and Michael found the bottom of the nest littered with the tiny remnants of roast rib and leg of lamb and an empty tin of Uncle Joe's Mint Balls, leftovers from Hoggish Butz' many picnics.

When Topgallant asked the People to take better care with their refuse, so not to tempt Monsters from Beyond, Hoggish exploded in a red-faced rage: “What did I hear? Did I hear what I heard?! Is he blaming us?! Is he actually blaming
US?
!” His big belly trembled, his whole body quivering with anger. “It's
YOUR
job to keep us safe!”

Brother Evet could take no more. “Leave him be. You're the one who's always lookin' to blame somebody.”

Hoggish spun on his smaller twin and his great gut tremored. “You! Ha! Like you have any right to talk! The way you
ANTAGONIZE
the poor creatures, shooting your gun at them, you beast! Is it any wonder they're upset!?”

“Ahhhhh, rattletraps,” Evet grunted. “I'm the farmer who grows the food to fill your bottomless gullet. I have every right to protect myself. You're the one who brings 'em here.”

“Great Ghost of Bolgolam!” Hoggish hollered, hysterical. “Why do I even listen to this slander!? I'm a gentle, peace-loving soul who takes lovely picnics by the lake and ponders the meaning of meaning. I am as
BLAMELESS
as a newborn babe!”

“Now, boys,” said the Grand Panjandrum. “We can't change the nature of these monsters. They are only interested in food and we must keep ourselves off the menu.”

“And if that means shootin' 'em, we shoot!” added Evet.

Hoggish sputtered and spewed and waved a thick finger at the crowd: “Do you hear that?! They're trying to scare you! Both of them! This is how they plan to control you! With
FEAR
!” And he stormed away, wailing, “Oh, remove me from this land of slaves, where all are fools and all are
KNAVES
!”

There were mumbles, there were grumbles. Some of the People saw Hoggish's point and some saw Evet's side and neither had much use for the other.

Michael had never known them to act this way, so angry with each other, and he had no idea what to do about it. But he knew he had to keep them safe from the peril that filled their small world.

He set his alarm for four thirty each day and left the flat while Freddie still slept. He rode his bike through the wind-whipped mist and reached the stone cottage before dawn. He made his rounds of the little Nation and saw that the People were safe. At seven thirty, he was back on his bike and at school as the last bell rang. Each afternoon, he finished at Fenn's Market and bicycled to the Garden City. After that and check-in with the Court, he was home and in bed.

It wasn't an easy schedule.

On Tuesday as on Monday, he left Fenn's Market and set out for the cottage. But as he reached the crossroads, he sensed that something was different, something was wrong. He pulled to a stop and he saw.

A quarter mile behind him.

A pale yellow car.

Following him.

He stopped.

The car stopped.

It was too far back and Michael couldn't see who was driving. But he
would not
lead them to the cottage,
would not
give away the ancient secrets of Lesser Lilliput. He turned right at the crossroads, away from Lemuel's house, and the car went with him.

He stayed on the farm road and the yellow car followed and they left Moss-on-Stone together.

At about this same time, Father Drapier walked into the village for dinner. Robby and Peter and Phil pried a small gravestone from the ground and smashed the refectory door with it. They crawled into the old church and stole whatever was worth stealing. The rest, they left in shattered pieces.

The sun was fading when Michael reached the next town, Ambridge. He stopped near an Indian restaurant and a coin dealer's shop. Edgy, antsy, and dripping with sweat, he pretended to look in the long window of coins as he slipped glances up the street. The car was parked a half-block away, engine off, lights out. Michael still couldn't see who was in it, but it had to be someone from Youth Court, keeping track of him.

From inside the coin shop, a wary and balding young man squinted at the boy beyond his window.

As soon as a moonless dark took the town and the streets grew shadowed, Michael jumped on his bike and sped off. The car tried to follow on the narrow knotted lanes. But a block ahead, the street was closed for a festival and the boy got away.

He pedaled through the windy night, as fast as he could, the full fifteen miles to the crossroads. Every part of him ached, inside and out, as he stopped to look for the car. He saw no lights, heard no motor. He was alone and safe and he started for the stone cottage.

Michael made a careful check of the Garden City. The Little Ones were well and not a weasel to be found. Dead tired and muscles cramped, he lay in the still-warm clover to rest. There was a concert in the town square that night and the orchestra played Maya's music, loud and soft and soothing. The boy closed his eyes and sleep was quickly on him.

In a little house near the pastry shop, Hoggish Butz was eating a third éclair and listening to Ethickless Knitbone: “Everything is moving as we planned. The others are beginning to question Topgallant, I've heard them. They're starting to wonder if he's all they thought he was, starting to question whether he knows what he's doing. It's time for the next step.”

“Ooooo, yessss, the next step, of course!” Hoggish giggled, gurgled. “And what . . . is the next step?”

“We shall call for an election.”

“Oooooo, and I, Hoggish Butz, shall run for Grand Panjandrum!”

“Yes, Hoggish,” said Knitbone. “And no, Hoggish.”

“No, Dr. Knitbone? And yes?”

“You will not run
for
office. You will run
against
Burton Topgallant,” she went on.

“Ah, yes, of course. And is there a . . . difference?” he asked softly, unnerved by his own ignorance.

“Immense! You should know this, Hoggish.”

“Of course! I'm a clever freethinker, you'll remember. I only thought you might state it the way you see it, to be certain
YOU
have it just right.”

She nodded. “To win an election, you destroy your rival. You rob him of all credibility, integrity, dignity.”

“Yes,” Hoggish nodded thoughtfully. “I'd say you have it about right.”

Knitbone took him by the hand and led him to her office, where she had set up a strange machine, old and dark and oily. Hoggish shivered at the sight of it. “Great Ghost of Bolgolam, what's that awful thing?”

“It is the key,” she told him, “which will unlock the Hearts and Minds of your Countrymen.”

“I never saw such a key as that,” he said, taking a few steps back from the foul-smelling heap.

“It's a printing press, you—! A press, Hoggish, for printing.”

“Ahhh,” said Hoggish, taking a bite of another éclair he'd stuffed in his coat pocket. “I see,” he said, though he didn't at all.

“Put down the éclair, Hoggish, and listen to me. Information is Knowledge and Knowledge is Power and Power is Truth and Truth is what the Teller says it is. Do you understand?”

“Except the part after ‘Put down the éclair, Hoggish.' Could you repeat that last bit?”

But Knitbone knew it was faster to show him. She began writing scandalous tracts about Burton Topgallant, terrible lies about his hygiene, diet, hairstyle, pets, and grandparents. Hoggish's jaw hung loose at the words he read. “Is—is—is this true?”

“That's beside the point!” she snapped and his eyes grew red and wet with tears. “Listen to me, Hoggish,” she went on, kinder, gentler. “What matters is this. He will have to deny these things and the People will ask themselves, ‘What sort of a man is it who must defend himself from such rumors?' You see how this works, Hoggish?”

And Hoggish did see, more or less. “Yes—but—it's immoral, dishonest and unscrupulous. May I please try it now?”

When Michael finally woke, he saw a ruddy glow at land's edge and a mist drifting by. He'd been here the whole night!

He jumped on his bike and started home. When he rounded the last corner, onto the street where he lived, he saw a police car at the block of flats. “Where've you been?!” Freddie screamed.

Michael had missed his check-in. The big policeman had come for him.

“Crud! I asked you
where you been?!
”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IN THE
HORSE LATITUDES

T
he church had been robbed that night and Stella and Esther were on the phone at dawn, calling an emergency meeting of the Merchants Watch Committee. “A tragedy,” said Stella. “What happened to St. Edwards. A senseless tragedy. That beautiful church, destroyed, for no reason.”

“Have they found out who did it, have they, have they?” Frances Froth wanted to know. “Well, have they?”

Tiswas stood at the door, dark and distant.

“The authorities know who's responsible,” said Stella solemnly.

“Who who who?”

“Those pernicious little vermin, of course,” Stella told her.

“They've already arrested one of them,” added Esther somberly.

“Who, who, who did they get?” chirped Frances.

“
That boy
, of course,” added Stella.

“I knew it, knew it!”

“What boy?” asked Tiswas.

“The boy who robbed your store, Mr. Tiswas,” said Stella.

“That horrid delinquent—Michael Pine,” added Esther.

Tiswas grunted, still darker and more distant.

“Seems you'd be happy, Tiswas,” said Gadbury. “They caught him. Now they can put him where he belongs.”

But Tiswas only grunted again.

Michael had been taken to the police station the morning before and kept in protective custody overnight. At mid-day, he was brought to the Youth Court. Stanley Ford and Father Drapier sat near the wall, both silent, both solemn. Maxine Bellknap and Horace Ackerby were there, quiet and miserable. Mr. Fenworth, the Duty Solicitor, came running in late.

“All right. Tell us what happened.” The Magistrate never looked at the boy.

Michael knew by now that the church had been robbed, vandalized, the pipe organ destroyed, half the stained glass windows shattered. But he couldn't tell them where he'd been, couldn't give away the secret of the Little Ones.

“Mr. Fenworth?” Ackerby's temper was rising. “Would he like to tell me or go straight to jail?”

Fenworth glared hard and Michael said, “I was in Ambridge.”

“With who?” Ackerby asked.

“I was alone,” the boy answered.

“Of course you were,” the Magistrate muttered. “And why were you in Ambridge? Conveniently alone, of course.”

There was no good answer to give. “I was just . . . there, I guess.”

“Someone must've seen you. Someone who can vouch for you.”

Michael had no answer. The courtroom door opened and a clerk stepped to the Magistrates and handed a note, which they passed among themselves.

“Let him in,” said Ackerby and the clerk brought Mr. Tiswas to the front. “You have something to share with us?”

“This boy didn't break into the church,” said Tiswas.

“How do you know that?”

“I was driving home when I saw him on his bike. Thought he might be up to something, so I followed. I stayed with him a good three hours, 'bout five to eight o'clock, all the way to Ambridge.”

“That's over ten miles,” said the Magistrate.

“Fifteen,” Tiswas told him.

“You're certain? Certain it was him?”

Tiswas said he was and Ackerby said, “Still, the boy missed a check-in and he was warned. I propose a Curfew Order.” He turned to Michael: “That means you'll stay indoors at your flat, between seven o'clock each night and seven each morning. If you break this curfew, I'll send you to YOI, y'unnerstand?”

“Yes. Yes, sir.”

The Chief Magistrate got to his feet. “We make the Curfew Order.”

It was going to be tough, keeping that curfew. But Michael didn't want to end up in the Young Offenders Institution. When he finished his work at Fenn's, he hurried to check on the Little Ones.

He found them clustered in the streets, reading the latest pamphlet.

“What's going on?” the boy asked Mr. Topgallant.

“If only I knew,” the Grand Panjandrum sighed, looking old and weary. “Our society has drifted off its course. The Trade Winds have forsaken us and we are stuck in a doldrums of our own making, caught in Horse Latitudes.” Topgallant had read about this in one of Lemuel's books. It was a place feared by sailors, where ships lay trapped by a windless sea. In these latitudes, the water is flat as glass and a ship can be caught for weeks, not moving forward or back. It was Spanish sailors who gave it the name: when their ships lay in the stillness, supplies ran low and drinking water went first. There was nothing left for the horses, and these men cared deeply for their animals. They threw the doomed creatures overboard, weighed down, to save them from more miserable deaths. The superstitious ones know that ghost-horses still haunt these waters.

“When you find yourself in the Horse Latitudes,” said the G.P., “there's nothing to do but wait and hope you make it out alive.”

That evening, with Michael gone, one of them was on tower watch when a weasel and another, another, another slipped over the eastern wall. The Little One leapt to the rope and sent the alarm belling over the Garden City. The People moved quickly to shelters and the Farmer was ready with his rifle. Evet's aim was steady and the first weasel was dead before it hit the ground. The others scurried, barking to one another, up and over the wall.

But Topgallant knew they'd be back. The hawks he could deal with: there were only a few of those and they hunted when hungry. These monsters were worse; they were ruthless, toothy things and they killed for the joy of killing, madly murdering anything that wasn't weasel.

I can see myself,
Topgallant thought to himself
, fading away peacefully at a very old age. I can see myself bravely going down with a ship at sea. But I will
not
end up as weasel food!

The next morning, a Sunday, Michael went to Jane's house and waited under a beech tree across the street. The Mallery home was long and many-gabled, built of the sun-yellow stone, with a half-dozen chimneys scattered along the tile roof. Mountains of marigold bloomed everywhere and ivy grew up the front of the house, spreading as it went like angel wings. Jane came out in a bright Spring dress and waited by the car.

“Oh, no, no, noooo, Michael,” she said when he came over. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

“You better go.” She took a fast look at the house. “Dad'll be coming any minute. Don't let him see you here, please.”

“It's important.”

“It's Easter, Michael. We're going to church.”

“I'll see you after.”

When the house door opened, she said, “Here he comes,” but Michael had already gone.

He took a seat in a back pew, in the farthest dim corner. Father Drapier had repaired the church as best he could, but the Boys had worked it over. They'd broken most of the stained glass, and sheets of plywood covered the holes. The great Willis organ had been wrecked beyond fixing, the pipework hammered bent and useless.

Michael watched Jane and her father take seats near the front. The old priest began his Mass and its ancient rhythm made the boy think of the Little Ones' music.

“‘
Quem Quaeritas?'
the angels asked. ‘Whom seek ye?'”