New Found Land Read online

  “I was thinking that it might have been more useful to throw me a line. And it wasn’t the fish that sent me over.”

  “What did, then?”

  Brad nodded in the direction of Stone Blade. “Our little friend caught me off balance.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. So was he.”

  Simon wondered if Night Eagle had seen that; he didn’t miss much. He wondered, too, how close they had come to being abandoned. The Indians had received them with the usual hospitality that was offered to strangers in need, but strangers were expected to move on in due course. Acceptance as members of the tribe was something else; and presumably the final decision there was up to the chief.

  Like his son, Night Eagle might have been resenting Little Green Bird’s attentions to Brad. He’d shown nothing, but he never did. The time during which they were swimming desperately after the boat could have been one in which Night Eagle weighed the satisfaction of being rid of the palefaces against his wife’s wrath when he returned without them.

  Simon said: “This is something we ought to think a bit seriously about.”

  Brad nodded. “I’m doing that.”

  • • •

  Course was set for home: the Indians plainly were satisfied with their catch. Justifiably so—there were a couple of hundred pounds of good meat on the carcass at least. There would be a feast that night.

  The weather had stayed calm, and the coastal mist was still present, though increasingly patchy. It swirled about them, varying between thick grey fog and a tendriled whiteness touched with the sun’s gold. They were heading south of east—their voyage had taken them a long way north of the village.

  The mist continued to thin, and finally they could see the coastline. Brad gripped Simon’s arm. The shore was a couple of hundred yards off, flat and featureless but for one thing: the crumbling outline of an unmistakably Chinese pagoda.

  It was an edifice they had seen once before, when they reached the Pacific coast after trekking across the continent from the Gulf of Florida. They had even explored the ruin, finding nothing of interest, only dust and decay, before resuming the journey which took them to Night Eagle’s village.

  Simon said: “I suppose we could ask Night Eagle about it.”

  Brad, who as usual had been quicker at picking up the language, put a question to the chief. Simon didn’t grasp the guttural response, but Night Eagle’s normally expressionless face showed distaste, and maybe more.

  He asked: “What did he say?”

  “Bad spirits, bad people, bad something else. Definitely bad.”

  “Not much help, then. Not that it matters.”

  “No. I’m not sure. I’d very much like to know just how a thing like that ties in with the fireball.”

  • • •

  The fireball had been the beginning of an adventure that had lasted two and a half years and taken them six thousand miles from their starting point. From Simon’s, at least, because it happened while he was playing reluctant host to Brad, a hitherto unknown American cousin, on summer vacation in England. While out walking, they had encountered a shimmering white sphere of light, which Brad thought could be a fireball, a form of ball lightning. Going forward to take a closer look had resulted in the shattering and incredible experience of finding themselves sucked into it—and emerging into a world geographically identical with their own, yet frighteningly different.

  They had gradually worked out a theory that explained what had happened. The fireball had been a crossing point between their world and one lying on a different probability track—an If world. It was a dizzying thought that there might be an infinite number of such worlds, invisibly side by side.

  This particular world was one in which the Roman empire, instead of declining and falling, had retained its power and its control of Europe through to the twentieth century. Their arrival in it had proved, in fact, to be the means of breaking that power. Much had happened since, and here they were—still trying to adjust to this different pattern but now in an equally transformed southern California.

  • • •

  Although they did not mention their escape from drowning to Little Green Bird, one of the Indians must have: she scolded Brad for his carelessness while enfolding him in her ample bosom. The caresses continued until household duties connected with the impending feast took her attention elsewhere.

  They went to the swimming hole below the village. While Brad was strenuously scrubbing himself, Simon said: “She obviously doesn’t give a monkey’s whether I get drowned. How do you do it, Brad?”

  Brad contented himself with a filthy look. “I’ve had enough of this. Did you see Stone Blade’s face while his mom was doing her hugging bit? Today was probably a spur-of-the-moment effort. Next time he’ll plan things properly.” Brad climbed out of the hole and rubbed himself with the coarse towel. “You stay if you like. I’m going.”

  “Right now?”

  “If past form is anything to go by, the feast tonight will wind up with them all getting high on thorn apple. It’ll be late tomorrow afternoon before they start taking notice again.”

  Simon nodded. “And that would give us time to get well clear. I don’t suppose Night Eagle would be keen on sending out a search party, but Little Green Bird might make him. So, dawn tomorrow?”

  “Yes. We can grab a few days’ rations from the leftovers.”

  • • •

  The feast began with speeches and long declamatory poems, continuing with songs to an accompaniment of an orchestra of rattles, whistles, and drums. If you had a taste for it, it probably sounded great. To Simon, it felt like having his eardrums sandblasted.

  Things improved when the women started bringing food round—by now he was ravenously hungry. Little Green Bird attended to Brad personally, giving him the tastiest morsels together with pats and squeezes. The eating and drinking were punctuated by more songs and by dances. The shamans, their leader magnificently attired in a white deerskin and feather-and-pebble headdress, performed a special dance which ended with the passing round of the first of the pipes of glowing thorn apple. The pipe passed from the shamans to the chief, and then to the braves.

  Simon wondered about their future. Even apart from Brad’s special problems, he realized it would have been difficult, perhaps impossible, for them to become regular members of the tribe. To live the Indian life, you needed to have been Indian reared. Their backgrounds of twentieth-century English (or American, in Brad’s case) just didn’t fit.

  But he thought too, and with a touch of resentment, about the fact that once again it was Brad making the big decision, himself simply acquiescing in it. When they first met, back in prefireball England, his cousin’s cocksureness had incensed him. It had been satisfying when he had goaded Brad into fighting, and even more satisfying that his own greater physical strength was going to put the result beyond doubt. Brad, though, had refused to give in, and it had been he, in the end, who had offered the apology and stuck a hand out.

  Since then, it seemed, although he had won a few minor conflicts, Brad’s view had prevailed on all the major issues. Did this prove him the weaker character? He supposed it must. On the other hand, since Brad was not going to be swayed once he had made his mind up, it always seemed more rational to go along with him. One thing certain about this perilous world was that they were safer together than apart. If they ever got back to their own world, Brad could do whatever crazy thing he liked, and he would wave him a more than cheerful good-bye. But that was a bigger pipe dream than the one the braves were working up to. There was no way back.

  Brad nudged him.

  “What?”

  “I think it’s getting to them. Four pipes in circulation, and they’re reaching the noisy stage. In half an hour, they should start passing out.”

  There was a hush as the chief shaman began to sing again, a wailing chant accompanied by peculiar jerkings of his arms and feet. Outlined against the light of the fire, his antic
s were bizarre—a comic turn, though definitely not one to be laughed at, especially with the braves high on thorn apple.

  At that point, something even odder happened. Simon heard a resonant bell-like sound, which only slowly and tremblingly died away. And it did not come from the firelit area, but from somewhere out in the shadows. The shaman froze into an immobility as weird as his dancing, and a strange sigh gusted along the ranks of the squatting Indians.

  This was something entirely new, and he wondered what it signified. He whispered to Brad: “What do you think?”

  “Shh . . .”

  From beyond the circle of firelight, figures approached. They wore cloaks over brightly coloured pantaloons, and one had what looked like a bronze helmet. They stooped over the motionless Indians and spoke to them. They were speaking in the Indians’ tongue, but with strange accents.

  “Obey!” Simon heard. “Be still—obey. . . .”

  When they reached Brad and Simon, Simon realized something else: they were not Indians but Orientals.

  A pair of hands grasped his head, and a voice addressed him: “Be still. Obey!”

  After completing the circle of the braves, the newcomers moved away, towards the hut with the women and children. The Indians stayed as they had left them, unmoving.

  Brad said quietly: “I don’t know what this is, but I’m not crazy about it. Ready to go, while they’re offstage?”

  Simon nodded. There was a tight knot of fear in his belly. A few yards away, he saw Night Eagle, blindly staring into space. None of the Indians moved as they cautiously got up and made their way towards the trees. There was plenty of food lying about, but he was no longer concerned about rations for the journey. Getting away would be enough.

  They came to the edge of the trees. He glanced towards Brad, and saw Brad turning to him with a look of warning.

  Save it for later, he thought, and then thought nothing at all as something hit him, very heavily, behind the right ear.

  JOHN CHRISTOPHER is a pseudonym of Samuel Youd, who was born in Lancashire, England, in 1922. He is the author of more than fifty novels and novellas, as well as numerous short stories. His most famous books include The Death of Grass, the Tripods series, The Lotus Caves, and The Guardians.

  ALADDIN

  SIMON & SCHUSTER, NEWYORK

  Visit us at

  simonandschuster.com/kids

  authors.simonandschuster.com/John-Christopher

  Also by John Christopher

  From Aladdin

  THE TRIPODS SERIES

  The White Mountains

  The City of Gold and Lead

  The Pool of Fire

  When the Tripods Came

  THE SWORD OF THE SPIRITS TRILOGY

  The Prince in Waiting

  Beyond the Burning Lands

  The Sword of the Spirits

  THE FIREBALL TRILOGY

  Fireball

  Dragon Dance

  The Guardians

  The Lotus Caves

  A Dusk of Demons

  In the Beginning

  Empty World

  Wild Jack

  WE HOPE YOU LOVED READING THIS EBOOK!

  We have SO many more books for kids in the in-beTWEEN age that we’d love to share with you! Sign up for our IN THE MIDDLE books newsletter and you’ll receive news about other great books, exclusive excerpts, games, author interviews, and more!

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com/middle

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This Aladdin hardcover edition October 2015

  Text copyright © 1983 by John Christopher

  Previously published in 1983 by E.P. Dutton.

  Jacket illustration copyright © 2015 by Anton Petrov

  Also available in an Aladdin paperback edition.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  ALADDIN is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc., and related logo is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Jacket designed by Karin Paprocki

  Interior designed by Hilary Zarycky

  The text of this book was set in Venetian 301.

  Library of Congress Control Number 2014948958

  ISBN 978-1-4814-2013-6 (hc)

  ISBN 978-1-4814-2012-9 (pbk)

  ISBN 978-1-4814-2014-3 (eBook)