The Last of the Gullivers (6 page)

CHAPTER TEN

THE
GREAT DUNCH DUMP CONSPIRACY

H
oggish Butz leaned close to hear every wonderful word as she laid out her scheme in that quiet room on that cold night. In time, the Lilliputian histories would remember it as the Dunch Dump Conspiracy. For now, it was only Dr. Ethickless Knitbone's nasty plot to remove the Golden Helmet from Burton Topgallant's head.

The scheme was simple, the scheme was this: Hoggish would begin chipping away at the others' confidence in Topgallant, cautiously, carefully,
cunningly
—a biting comment here, some cutting criticism there, a few droll rolls of the eyes. He would undermine everyone's faith in the man, stealthily and steadily, and he'd be so subtle about it, no one would know what he was doing.

Then, with the coming of Spring, Hoggish would make his move. He would call for a new election—
anyone
could do that—and with some creative vote-counting, if needed, he would claim his rightful role as the Grand Panjandrum of Lesser Lilliput.

The next morning, Christmas Eve, the Market was busy, noisy and alive with late shoppers buying up sauces and spices and all the overlooked things that make a holiday dinner. Fenn and Michael, even Myron, worked hard to keep up with the crowd. When the noon bell rang at St. Edwards, Fenn closed the doors and called Michael to the storeroom.

Myron followed and Fenn turned on the lights and there was the red 21-speed from Gadbury's. “Yours,” he told Michael.

“
Whatdoyoumeanhis?!
” wailed Myron. “What about—me?!”

“What do you need with a bike? He's only, what, ten?” Fenn coughed and told them both to go home and have a good Christmas.

And Michael said, “Thank you.” And, “I'm twelve.”

He took the new bike on a long wandering course through the village. He flew through the Market Square, past Gadbury's, past the Bookshop. He rode by the Youth Court and up the hill, where the big houses were. He saw the girl named Jane getting in her father's car. He waved to her and nearly drove the bike into a tree.

When she waved back, her father asked, “Who's that?”

“His name's Michael,” she told him.

“Who ran under the car,” Mr. Mallery remembered.

“Yes, that's him.”

“I've known kids like him,” her father went on. “They never go anywhere, never change, never grow. One day, he'll wake up and be forty and right where he is now.”

After he'd checked in with the Court, Michael rode to Lemuel's cottage. The streets of Lesser Lilliput, empty under the light snow, had been decorated for the holiday. Everything was strung with garland and light, tiny wreaths on tiny doors, and a three foot tree in the town center, heavy with ornament.

He found some of them in the parlor of a house, bundling into costumes, Upshard Tiddlin adjusting each one, adding touches to their made-up faces. From the Topgallant house, not far away, came the sounds of a lively party: cider scent and music,
that
music
,
filled the cold air.

Michael knelt in the snowy street and watched a dozen Little Ones, all in costume, slip through back alleys and gardens, laughing like schoolchildren. They ran the short blocks to the Topgallants' and pounded the door.

“Come, come,” they called, “let the mummers in!”

The door was opened to them and they were greeted with food and drink and they began a noisy little play. One of them, dressed as Santa Claus, cried out: “Here I am, good Father Christmas, am I welcome or not? Don't tell me that Christmas has been forgot!” All the children of Lesser Lilliput swarmed as he tossed hard candy among them.

There was music, magic, juggling. Frigary Tiddlin tried reciting a holiday poem, but had a fit of giggling and left the room, red-faced. Everyone clapped anyway and Hoggish raised a glass and said:

“A toast to our Host! To the Grand Panjandrum!
Mm, fine cider, Ms. Topgallant. And you made it nice and watery so it wouldn't run out like last year. Join me, friends. In this time of Peace, Love, and Joy, let's toast the man who has kept us safe! Well—never mind the awful fire that nearly
KILLED
us all. And, of course, the little incident with those monstrous
CREATURES
from beyond the Wall. We can't expect too much of him, can we? He is only a man, no better or worse than any of you.”

There were some coughs, some shuffling and foot-scuffing in the uneasy silence that followed. Then, someone thankfully clattered a bell and called them to dinner and brought the whole awkward thing to an end. But Hoggish didn't care. It was a first step. He was sowing the seeds of doubt. And in time, those seeds would bear fruit.

A new fire was stoked and the Lesser Lilliputians feasted on tiny servings of boiled beef and veal, buns, grilled Barnsley lamb, cheeses, dumplings, cake; and they sang a Christmas carol set to their one eternal tune.

As Michael was leaving that night, he turned to look at the fat moon rising by the chimney, by the old empty nest. “It's a stork nest,” Lemuel told him. “Maybe the only pair left in the country. They spend their winters in Africa, a thousand miles from here, but they always come home.” And, he added, “A stork on the roof is good luck, you know.”

“You never told me the rest of the story,” Michael said, “about what happened to the girl in the palace.”

“No,” said Lemuel, “I didn't.” And now he did.

“I sent many letters to the Maharaja's floating island, but none were answered. There was no way to know if she'd got them. After half a year, I decided to go back and talk to her myself.

“The Maharaja welcomed me and gave me a suite of rooms overlooking the lake. The next morning, I asked Maya to come back with me, to marry me.

“It was then she told me she would be married at the end of that month, to a man she'd never met. It was a different time and place, and these marriages were arranged almost at birth. Maya had no say in it. She begged her father, but it had all been settled, long ago. She'd meet her husband on the wedding day.

“I asked the Maharaja to stop the marriage and asked for his daughter's hand. He told me that I should leave and not come back or I'd be killed on sight. Three of his guards took me to the port city that night.

“But I did go back. At the edge of the compound, there lived a very old man—a Mahar, blinded and crippled in a battle long ago. He was the gatekeeper and kept track of all who came and went. He knew the Maharaja's order and knew he'd be the one to kill me. He asked why I'd come, knowing I'd die. I told him the simple truth, that I had no choice but to return.

“The old Mahar took pity on me and sent a message by Maya's maid, his wife. She's the one who helped spirit me past the guards and into the palace.

“On a small balcony above the lake, I once again asked Maya to come with me. She wanted to go, but was scared. She was sure that her father, the great tiger hunter, would track us down no matter where we went and have us both killed.

“And so, finally, I left and brought nothing with me but her music.”

“Her music?” Only then did Michael realize that the little band was still playing in the back garden.

“That I'd heard in the stone temple, the music you hear now. I remembered it and taught it to the People here. As long as they keep playing, her song won't end.”

It was after six when the boy reached the crossroads, where he waited for a car to pass. But the car didn't pass. Its headlamps shone hard in his eyes and he heard doors open behind the glare.

“Been lookin' for you.” It was Robby. Nick and the other Boys stepped up as Michael got off the bike.

“Hey, Nick,” Michael said quietly. “Hey, guys.”

“We're not all here, are we?” said Phil.

“Gordy's gone, squire,” said Peter.

“'Cause of you,” Robby put in.

“Me? What'd I do?” said Michael. “I didn't do anything.”

“That's right,” from Nick. “You didn't do anything but let us down again. If you'd been there like you promised, he wouldn't have got caught.”

“No, I told you, Nick,” Michael started, “I can't hang with—”

“Got a present for you,” said Nick and he gave the Boys a nod and they gave Michael a bloody beating. They went at him with feet and fists, all four of them. Robby caught him square in the face and blood blasted from his nose and he felt an eye swelling shut. Phil hit him in the ribs, again and again, and he could hardly breathe. Someone got him in the back of the head and he fell into muddy snow.

“That's enough, eh, Nick?” one of them said.

“Is he still conscious?” said Nick.

“Yeah.”

“Then it's not enough.” Nick kept punching and kicking and might not have stopped, except another car was coming.

Michael wasn't conscious by the time the dark car drove up, and Nick and the Boys scattered in the night.

“Is he all right?” the girl asked.

“Get back in the car, Jane. I'll call for an ambulance.”

But she brought a blanket for Michael and waited with her father.

When the hospital doctor had him cleaned and stitched, Stanley Ford stepped into the pale room. “Want to tell me what happened, son?”

“Wrecked,” the boy answered. “My bike.”

And the nurse said, “Mm-hm.”

“Want to tell me what really happened?”

But he didn't tell. He lay two days in the hospital bed, both eyes blackened, ribs bruised but not broken. The Little Ones needed him and he wasn't there for them. He'd finally found something to care about, beyond his own small needs, and here he was stuck in a smelly bed in a smelly room with butter-colored walls.

Maxine Bellknap stood outside Folk-in-the-Clover, watching her breath hang in the cold air. Inside, Bertram, the wiry cook, brought the Chief Magistrate's dinner of pig's nose with parsley-and-onion sauce.

As the town bell struck seven, Horace Ackerby II began to eat by the chattering fire, looking out on the churchyard, listening to the wind in the yews. Maxine found her nerve and went to his table and said, “Mr. Ackerby. I'm sorry to bother you. And of course, I never would. But.”

The Magistrate set down his fork. “What is it, Ms. Bellknap?”

“Well. Then. The boy. Michael Pine.” The Magistrate was listening now. “Officer Ford says he was taken. The boy was taken. To the hospital, in a bad way, a slight concussion. He told Stanley it was a bicycle accident. But of course.”

“Of course it wasn't.”

Maxine wished she'd never come, wished she were home in a warm robe, with a pot of tea and gardening magazines, choosing spring seeds to order.

“He wouldn't say what happened. Still I thought. You should know.”

For a very long moment, Ackerby said nothing.

“Thank you, Ms. Bellknap.”

“Well, then,” Maxine said and they said their good-byes.

The Chief Magistrate chewed at his food, slowly, and fell into a silent solitary rage. A street fight, a gang brawl. And after he, Horace Ackerby II, had taken such a chance on the boy. After all the time and effort he'd invested.

Should he end the experiment now? Should he swallow his sizable pride and send Michael to the YOI where he belonged?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE
DAY
OF
THE
UPENDED EGG

C
harlie Ford, the policeman's son, told Jimmy Bennet, and Penelope Rees overheard and told her mother, who called Frances Froth and that's how Mr. Tiswas found out and let Gadbury know and once Esther and Stella got the news,
everybody
knew what happened at the crossroads. Gang warfare, in their own city, and one boy in the hospital with a concussion!

The people of Moss-on-Stone knew they had a problem and they knew it was Nick and his Boys. “The most pernicious race of odious little vermin that nature ever suffered to crawl upon the surface of the earth,” Stella called them.

Stella and Esther decided to start a Merchants Watch Committee. The business owners would keep an eye on each other's shops, taking turns patrolling the streets. It was a shame it had to happen in a village like theirs, but what choice was left?

On Wednesday, Michael was well enough for school, but still bandaged and bruised and sore. His teacher, once more, did not call attention to him but went on with their studies of the explorer Captain Cook:

“As his ship
Endeavour
rounded the tip of South America, it reached that point where two great currents converge, where Atlantic and Pacific Oceans meet. The seas are unpredictable here and violent storms explode with no warning. Cook's sails were filling with a deadly wind . . .”

Charlie leaned to Michael and sniffled, “I have a fifty pound note in my shoe. My nan gave it to me for not failing school. You want t'see it?”

Michael shook his head, no. Charlie was always coming up with stories like that.

“You want, I'll show you,” Charlie whispered. “Anytime.”

And Michael said, “C'mon, Charlie. Please be quiet.” He wanted to know if Captain James Cook survived the stormy sea.

As the bruises faded and the cuts healed, the boy didn't notice the sunlight stretching longer and the air growing warmer around him. He didn't notice the new weasels being born, and their weasel-parents needing extra food for them.

The monsters came to the Garden City more and more, on their murderous hunts. They seemed to grow bolder, sensing, somehow, that change was coming. Again and again, the tower bell rang and the Little Ones raced to their secret shelters.

When the all-clear sounded, their little lives went on. Construction crews returned to work on the Great Hall. They had built the walls and the impossible dome was taking form: wood scaffolds held the masons who lay the herringbone brick that vaulted to its peak.

Outside Flestrin's Wall, in a meadow by the cottage, where the clover was ready to bloom, Lem taught Michael to use the old rifle and they practiced on weasel-sized bottles. He showed the boy how to cut back the weeds where the vermin might breed. He passed on every possible trick to keep the Little Ones safe from the dangers of a wide and heartless world.

On a warm morning in March, a coat of waterproofing beeswax was spread on the roof tiles and the Great Hall was finished. Burra Dryth's dream was now real and stood twice as tall as any building in the city. Its fresh-cut stone shimmered in the sun as its flowing walls and windows rose to the startling dome. The main chamber was decorated with mural and mosaics and held the locked vault of the Inevitable MaGuffin. There was a celebration that afternoon, with speeches made and essays read by schoolchildren. There was dancing and singing to the ever-same, never-same tune.

Philament Phlopp had been working for weeks on a new fireworks display. As the night fell, the show began and rockets painted delicate pictures—brief sparkling scenes from the history of their Nation—on the dark still sky.

Michael leaned close when Burton Topgallant said: “Look at this little monster.” He was holding something, pinched between thumb and forefinger, but Michael couldn't see anything.

“What is it?” the boy asked.

Topgallant put the thing in a small jar and gave it to Michael. And still the boy could see nothing. “It's what our scientists call a
flflfl
,” the G.P. explained. “It's not often you see one.”

Michael peered into the tiny glass. “I still don't see one.”

“A
flflfl,
” Topgallant went on, “is a flea that lives on the back of a flea of a flea. They're really very small.”

“Yes,” the boy nodded. “Really.”

“And yet, it doesn't hesitate to bite me. Imagine! It has no sense of its smallness,” Topgallant said as he took back the jar and let the unseen creature go. “Just as it has no sense of my BIGNESS.”

From across the Garden City, the tower bell began a sudden pealing. A weasel had slipped over the Wall.

Lemuel came from the cottage and handed Michael the old rifle and said, “You better take care of that.”

And the boy said, “Why me?”

This was the day of Vernal Equinox, when the world reaches its own crossroads and seasons change. On this day, light and dark are equal. On this day and no other, it is said, you can balance an egg on its pointy end.

“Why not you? It's your time.” The old man started away. “Besides, I have to go now. I can't say when, or if, I'll be back.”

The bell was clanging, louder and faster. More weasels were coming.

“Go where?” the boy asked. “What're you talking about?”

“I'm going to find her,” Lemuel answered.

“Who, find who?”

“Maya,” said Lem as he headed out of the garden.

“Whoa-whoa, hold on,” called the boy. “You're kidding me, right? This is a joke. You're not leaving me here all alone, are you?”