The City of Gold and Lead (The Tripods) Read online

  On the way, Beanpole had told me his side of events. He had not found Ulf, but when he returned to the barge Ulf was there. He had been drinking, and it had not improved his temper. He was furious with Beanpole and me for having gone into the town, and with Moritz for having allowed us. We two, he had decided, would spend the remainder of the trip downriver below decks. Fritz, obviously, was the only one who could be relied on, the only one with any sense.

  As time passed without my return, his anger increased. After dark, one of the men he knew, calling in to see him, spoke of the young Tiroler who had started a fracas in a tavern, and who in consequence had been condemned to the Pit. When this man had gone, Ulf spoke in an even more angry and implacable fashion. My folly had jeopardized everything. I was clearly a liability to the enterprise rather than an asset. There was to be no more waiting, and certainly no attempt to set me free. In the morning the Erlkönig would resume its voyage. It would take two participants to the Games instead of three. As far as I was concerned, I had got myself into the Pit and I could stay there and rot.

  Although he did not talk about it, I knew that Beanpole found himself cruelly in a quandary over this. We were under Ulf’s authority, and ought to obey him in all things. Moreover, what he said was entirely reasonable. Above all, it was the project itself that mattered, not individuals. His job was to do his best to win at the Games, to gain entry into the City of the Tripods, and to bring out of it information that might help to destroy them. That was what was really important.

  But he had talked to Moritz, asking him questions particularly about the Pit—what it was like, where it was situated. I do not know whether Moritz was too stupid to see where the questions might be tending, or whether he saw and approved—he was, I thought, really too amiable a man for work, which, of its nature, required a streak of ruthlessness. Anyway, Beanpole found out what he wanted to know and, at first light, took a length of rope and left the Erlkönig in search of me. Presumably Ulf heard or saw something of his departure and either in rage or out of cold logic decided there was nothing for it but to salvage the one reliable member of the trio and get the Erlkönig under way before there could be any question of suspicion falling on the boat or its crew.

  So here we were, stranded, hundreds of miles short of our objective.

  • • •

  The rain stopped as abruptly as it had started, and gave way to hot sunlight in which our wet clothes steamed as we walked. We were drenched again less than an hour later—this time there was no shelter at all and the torrential downpour soaked us to our skins—and the day proved to be one of sunburst and cloudburst. Most of the time we were sodden and miserable; all the time we were conscious of the mess we—I in particular—had made of things.

  We were also hungry. I had eaten nothing since the previous midday and as soon as the immediate excitement of escape and flight had died down, I was aware of ravenous hunger. We had what was left of the money we had got from Moritz, but there was nowhere, of course, to spend it out in the open country, and we had not fancied waiting in the town until the shops opened. The land through which we were traveling was either waste or pasture, with groups of black-and-white cows chewing their cuds. I proposed milking one, and with Beanpole’s assistance cornered her in an angle of a field. But it was a fiasco. I got out no more than a few drops, and she objected strongly to my rough and inexperienced handling and forced her way clear. It did not seem worthwhile trying again.

  Several hours after we started, we came on a turnip field. There was a cottage within sight of it, but we risked taking some of the vegetables. They were unappetizing, but provided something to chew on. The rain came down again as we continued and this time lasted without ceasing for an hour or more.

  We found a patch of ruins in which to spend the night. We had discovered no other source of food, and chewed grass and the green shoots of the hedgerow in an attempt to stay our hunger. It was ineffective, and gave us stomach pains. Also, of course, our clothes were wet. We tried to sleep but with poor success. We were awake as night grayed into morning, and set off, tired and wretched, on our way.

  It did not actually rain, but the day was cloudy and chilling. The river rolled beside us, broad here and turbulent, and we watched a barge go downstream and thought we detected, in its wake, the fragrance of bacon frying on the galley stove. Not far on, we found a cluster of houses, a farming hamlet, and Beanpole had the idea of presenting himself as a Vagrant, and hoping to be given food. I offered to do it instead, but he said it was his idea, and I must keep out of sight. Vagrants never traveled in company. So I hid in a hedge, and watched.

  In my village at home there had been the Vagrant House, provided for the use of these poor wandering madmen: there they were given food and drink, and there were servants to clean and cook. Beanpole had told me that in his country nothing of this sort was provided. Vagrants slept rough and where they could—in barns if they were lucky, or in ruins. They begged their food from door to door, and it was given them with widely varying generosity.

  We had assumed that something of the sort might apply here. There were half a dozen houses, and I saw Beanpole go up to the first of them and knock at the door. It did not open; later he told me that a voice from inside had shouted at him to go away, adding curses. At the second door there was no response at all. At the third, a window opened and a bucket of dirty water was thrown over him, to the accompaniment of laughter. As he went away, wetter than before, the door opened. He half turned, prepared to put up with insults if there was a chance of food—and then fled. They had loosed a savage-looking brindle dog on him. It chased him halfway to where I was lying and then stood barking its hostility after him.

  Half a mile farther on we found and raided a potato field. They were small, and would have been more palatable cooked. But we had no prospect of making a fire in this cold gray sullen land. We slogged on and, as darkness fell, saw, ahead of us downriver, a barge moored by the bank. I think the same thought struck us both—that it might be the Erlkönig, that for some reason Ulf might have been held up and that we might rejoin them. It was an absurd hope, but it was bitter, all the same, to have it dashed. The barge was bigger than the Erlkönig and was pointing upstream not down. We moved away from the river to get past it.

  Later we came back to the river bank, to sit shivering in a broken-down hut. An unhappy silence had fallen. I wondered if Beanpole were thinking that he might, but for me, have been safe and warm and well fed on the barge. I thought about that myself, though it did no good. Then he said, “Will.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where the barge was moored, there was a wharf, and a couple of houses. That would be one of the stages.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “The first we have passed since the town.”

  I thought about that. “Yes, it is.”

  “Ulf was reckoning to cover two stages a day, taking things easily. So in two days . . .”

  In two days we had covered a distance the barge would have sailed in a morning, though we had walked from first light till it was too dark to see where we were going. It was reasonable enough, but discouraging. I made no comment. Beanpole went on, “It was planned that we should get there three days before the opening of the Games. It was to take five days. At this rate, we shall take twenty. The Games will be over before we arrive.”

  “Yes.” I tried to rouse myself from torpor. “Do you think we ought to go back instead?”

  “To the Tunnel? I don’t like to think what we should say to Julius in that case.”

  Nor did I, but I did not see what else we could do.

  Beanpole said, “We must get on faster. There is the river.”

  “We dare not approach one of the other barges. You know what was said about that. They’re suspicious of strangers and never allow them on board.”

  “If we had a boat of our own . . .”

  “It would be a fine thing,” I said, with a touch, I fear, of sarcasm. “Or if we found a Shmand
-Fair traveling along the river bank and could climb aboard it.”

  Beanpole said patiently: “A boat—or a raft? The side of this hut, maybe? It is falling apart, as it is. If we could detach it, and get it into the water . . . the current would carry us at least twice as fast as we could walk, and much more directly.”

  I took his point, and felt a lift of hope which for a moment allowed me to forget my cold shivering limbs and groaning empty stomach. It just might be possible. Long ago as a boy I had helped to make a raft under the supervision of my cousin Jack, and we had floated it on a nearby duck pond. It had collapsed and precipitated us into pea-soup water and stinking mud. But we had been children then. Yes, it might work.

  I said, “Do you think we can . . . ?”

  “In the morning,” Beanpole said. “We will try in the morning.”

  • • •

  The day, as though to encourage us, started bright. We tackled the job at first light. It was encouragingly easy, and then discouragingly difficult. The wall Beanpole had spoken of was about six feet square, and already largely split away from the roof. We completed the separation, and freed the sides. After that it was simple enough to push it outward and down. It collapsed with a satisfying clatter—and in a heap of individual planks.

  The thing to do, Beanpole said, was to secure them with cross-pieces. Planks taken from the other walls would do. As for the means of securing them, we would have to take nails out and drive them in again where needed. He spoke with a fine, practical-sounding confidence.

  The trouble was that most of the existing nails were both twisted and rusted, in some cases to the point where they broke under simple finger pressure. We had to hunt for reasonably sound ones, to lever them out carefully, avoiding any further distortion, and then to straighten them and drive them through the crossed planks. We had nothing like a hammer, of course. We had to use chunks of stone with fairly flat surfaces. Beanpole found quite a good one and surrendered it to me because, as he said, I could use it better. This was true. I have always been fairly skilled with my hands—more, I am afraid, than with my head.

  It was hard work, and took time. We were sweating when we finished, and the sun stood clear above the hills. That left us with the task of getting our raft into the water, and this was not easy, either. The hut was some fifty feet from the river bank, and the ground between was uneven and marshy. The raft was much too heavy to lift; we had to drag and pull and maneuver it, a little at a time, and resting between efforts. Once, when it got entangled in some viciously prickly thorn bushes, I almost felt like giving up, and kicked the planks in angry despair. It was Beanpole who tugged it free. Not long after that, we got it to the bank, and only had to force it down a short slope to the dark rushing waters of the great river. And it was here that, again through Beanpole, we had a stroke of luck: he found the rough nest of a water bird, with four large speckled eggs in it. We ate them raw, licking the inside of the shell with our tongues, and threw ourselves into the final struggle. Beanpole plunged into the river and dragged; I thrust from the other side. The raft creaked ominously, and I saw a nail spring, but she went in and floated. We clambered aboard, and pushed off from the bank.

  It was not exactly a triumphant voyage. A current took us out and propelled us, spinning round in sluggish circles, downstream. She floated, but only just. Under our combined weights, all but one corner was under water. Through some freak of balance this rode some inches above the level of the river: we took it in turns, for one of us to crouch there while the other sat or sprawled in the slopping wet. The water was cold, too, as well it might be at this time of the year, in a river whose early course was fed by the melting snows of the southern mountains.

  But at least we were getting on faster than we had done by land. The bank flowed past us at a steady rate. And the weather was holding fine. The sun blazed hot in a sky whose blue was reflected, more deeply, in the smooth thoroughfare along which we traveled. Beanpole called to me, and pointed. To the west there was a Tripod, giant-striding through the fields. I felt a kind of satisfaction at the sight. Ridiculously puny by comparison though we were, it was something that we were still in the fight.

  The next time I saw a Tripod I was a good deal less happy about it.

  • • •

  An hour after we set out, we passed a barge. It was heading upstream, and the encounter was therefore a brief one. A man on deck stared at us curiously, and threw out some comment or question which we did not grasp. We must have presented an odd sight, floating along on this waterlogged contraption.

  Hunger had been scarcely abated by the four raw eggs, and became more and more insistent. We saw fields which looked as though they held crops which might be worth raiding, but here a particular deficiency of our ramshackle craft was brought home to us—our inability to steer it. We had a couple of plank splinters, but they were only of value in pushing the raft away from obstacles, and not much then. I realized that we must go where the river took us, and that, apart from the chance of running aground, we could only make a landfall by abandoning the raft and swimming for it. We were well out now, and the current was strong; it would have taken quite a swim to make the shore. Meanwhile, the fields slid by and gave way, after a time, to terraces planted with the regular ranks of vines. But even if we could get at them, the grapes would be tiny at this season.

  A large fish, possibly a salmon, leaped tantalizingly near us. We had no means of cooking it, but if we had been able to catch it we would have had a shot at eating it raw. Visions of food passed before me, as I clung to the sodden wood. Beef roasting on a spit . . . tender leg of lamb, with the sauce my mother made from garden mint . . . or just bread and cheese—bread crusty outside and soft within, cheese yellow and crumbling to the touch. I tasted my own spit, salt and unsatisfying.

  The hours passed. The sun arched high behind us and then curved down to the west. I was both hot and cold. I tried drinking great quantities of water, scooping it up in my hands, to fill the aching void in my belly, but it only made me feel bloated without being any less hungry. In the end, I told Beanpole that we must get food somehow. We had passed two villages, one on either bank of the river. There would be food there, something edible at least—in the gardens if we could not manage anything better. If we worked hard to paddle ourselves in toward shore with the bits of wood we had . . . and then did our best to beach the raft at the next sign of human habitation . . .

  He said, “It would be better if we could hold out till evening. There will be more opportunity to forage.”

  “We may not see a village then.”

  We argued, and at last, reluctantly, he agreed. We had moved, by degrees, nearer the west bank, and we tried paddling toward that. The result was ludicrous. The raft spun around but our position relative to the shore did not alter. We abandoned the attempt, realizing we were getting nowhere.

  Beanpole said, “It’s no good.”

  I said, “Then we’ll have to swim for it.”

  “That means abandoning the raft.”

  Of course it did. I was angry. “We can’t go on without food! It was a mad idea to try this, anyway, without any means of controlling it.”

  Beanpole was silent. Still irritated, I said, “And what about tonight? We can’t sleep here. If we tried to we would roll off and drown. We shall have to abandon it before dark, anyway.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I agree. But let us wait longer. There are no houses now.”

  That was true. The river rolled between green banks devoid of any signs of life. I said sullenly, “I suppose so. Isn’t it time we changed over again?”

  Later there was a deserted jumble of ruins, and north of that we met another barge. There was a temptation to shout to them to pick us up. I resisted it, with difficulty. We had passed a staging post soon after noon—it had been empty, the small wharf white and silent in the harsh sunlight. The second post had two barges tied up and a mile farther on a third barge was nosing its way south. I had not said anythin
g else about leaving the raft and swimming for shore: Beanpole knew as well as I that this was what we would have to do. I took a perverse satisfaction in leaving it to him now to initiate things.

  And as the day waned we saw ruins again, but still no sign of habitation. The river was wider, and we had drifted out into the center. The swim would not be easy under any circumstances, still less to two people who were hungry and exhausted, cold and wet. The resentment I had felt against Beanpole faded in the prospect of what lay ahead.

  Quite suddenly, though, everything changed. It came from the north, striding along the west bank. It was going to pass no more than a hundred yards from us, closer than any Tripod had been on this trip. There was no satisfaction now; only a great relief when it had gone past.

  Until I saw it swing around and turn toward us, and heard the ululation which I had twice heard before and had good cause to dread. Water fountained up as the great metal feet splashed into the river. We had become a target; there could be no doubt of that. I stared at Beanpole, and he stared back. I said, “Better dive for it.”

  It was already too late. At that instant the metal tentacle snaked down from the hemisphere. It crashed between us, splintering the frail planks. The next moment we were struggling in the water.

  Four

  The Hermit of the Island

  I had been expecting to be snatched up by a tentacle. The Tripod’s action, of smashing the raft instead, astonished as well as frightened me. I went deep under and took a mouthful of river water before I fully realized what was happening. When I surfaced, I looked up and saw that the Tripod, silent again, was rocking away on its previous course to the south. It seemed that what it had done had been aimless, on a par with the waltzing around the Orion when we were crossing the Channel from England. Like a vicious boy it had noticed something strange, swatted it out of pointless malice, and gone its way.