The Fall of Tartarus (13 page)

Hulse
passed the cooked fish around. The others sat with the plates on their laps,
reluctant to feast while I drowned. Hulse had stolen a bottle of wine from his
father’s cellar. He poured himself a generous measure, enthroned himself among
the roots, and gestured with his glass.

‘Your
turn, kid,’ he said, gesturing towards the lake.

I
began unbuttoning my shirt.

Leah
opened her pretty mouth, goggling at me like a roast spearback. Gabby scowled
at Bobby, who just shrugged. It was Rona who spoke up, ‘You don’t have to do
it, Joe.’ She turned on Hulse. ‘This is silly and unfair anyway!’

But
already I’d removed my shirt, kicked off my shoes and turned to face the lake.
The island seemed kilometres away. There was no sign, at this distance, of its
alien occupant. I took a hesitant step forward, feeling the mud squelch between
my toes, then waded out through the shallow water. It was warm after the heat
of the day, but it was still a shock when the water reached my crotch. I gasped
and, too buoyant to walk any further, launched myself forward. The lake
enveloped me and I began a hurried breast-stroke, aware that my feeble
technique must have looked comical from the shore. It was then, when I had
committed myself and knew that there was no turning back, that my bravado
collapsed and I knew fear. I tried to channel my nervous energy into physical
action, at the same time conscious that I must pace myself. I slipped into an
easy rhythm, controlled my breathing and set my sights on the irregularity of
the island ahead. I gained confidence the further I went, and even wondered at
the thoughts of my spectators on the shore. I considered turning and waving
back at them, to show that I was okay, then thought better of such hubris.

Halfway
to the island I paused and trod water, giving my tired arms a rest. So far,
though strenuous, the swim had been easier than I had imagined. The water
seemed to buoy me along. I realised that a good part of my fear had been that
of the swim itself. Now that I had gained confidence in my ability to reach the
island alive, the thought of encountering the alien no longer seemed so
terrible. Before I set off again, I turned and scanned the shore. My friends
were no longer seated beneath the tree; they were standing now and watching me
intently. I rolled over and pushed off again, breathing easily and focussing on
the knoll of greenery that rose from the flat, shimmering gold expanse.

Perhaps
five minutes later I reached the island. My spirits during the approach were
lifted by the fact that I could not see the alien. The sandy crescent of the
beach was deserted. It occurred to me that even if I reached the island and did
not encounter the Zillion, at least I had achieved something that Hulse had
been too cowardly to attempt.

My
hand struck the lake bottom as it inclined to create the island. I stumbled
upright, realising only then how exhausted I was, and forced my legs step by
weighted step through the shallows. The lake gave up its grip on me and,
abruptly lightened, I stepped ashore and sat down on the sand. Breathing hard,
I looked around. It came to me where I was, the amazing fact of my geographical
relocation. I stared back towards the shore and made out, tiny beneath the
towering tree, the stick figures of my friends. I raised my hand in a lazy
wave, and after a delay they signalled in return.

As
the seconds elapsed I gained confidence, or perhaps it was nothing more than
false bravery as I knew I was being watched by my friends. I climbed to my feet
and walked around the island. It was small, and the circumnavigation took less
than two minutes; other than the beach and a few rocks, it consisted of tough
grass and gorse. When I passed from sight of my friends, I admit that a strange
panic took me, an overwhelming need to be on the beach again. I hurried around
the far side of the island, scrambling over a tumble of rocks, and breathed
more easily when the familiar hollow-trees came into sight. I stood on the sand
and waved across the water. I judged that I had given the Zillion sufficient
time to emerge and attack me, and that I would not be shamed if I made the
return crossing now.

Then
some sixth sense - that
frisson
of awareness that comes when we know we
are not alone - made me turn. The Zillion had climbed from his lair and stood
watching me, perhaps five metres away. I could not move: a cold paralysis gripped
me. We were a tableau that might have symbolised the very first meeting between
alien and human, the representatives of different races stunned by fear and
suspicion.

I
had seen the alien through a telescope, of course. I was aware before the encounter
of his general appearance, but at close quarters I was struck by his - its -
reality, its animalness. It was bipedal, and squat, and brought to mind nothing
so much as a toad, with its moss-green, reptilian skin and bulbous head. That
much I had known. What was new to me was the sound of its breathing - long and
laboured - and its peculiar stench, like fish that had been left out in the sun
to dry.

I
would have turned and dived into the lake, but for the thought that the Zillion
would be an expert swimmer and would apprehend me with ease. So, instead of
fleeing, I did the very opposite. I took a hesitant step forward and held forth
my hand.

I
was motivated by fear, not bravery - propelled more by the need to ingratiate
myself, to abase myself before this monster, than to assume any kind of
superiority. Bobby told me later that from the shore I appeared confident and
composed, but the truth was that I was shaking and sick with fear.

The
alien regarded me unblinkingly for what seemed like minutes, and then made its
move. I had expected either that it would turn and flee, as would most animals,
or attack me: it did neither, but stepped forward, its gait infirm with what I
took to be age, and matched my gesture with its own long, stringy right arm.

I
touched its ice-cold fingertips, and the next I recall I was sitting
cross-legged before the Zillion who had dropped into an easy, splay-kneed
squat.

He
regarded me with bulging golden eyes, and then spoke.

His
English was limited, and almost incomprehensible. ‘Your name?’

‘Joe,
Joe Sanders,’ I replied before I could register amazement at his question.

He
touched his chest, where his oiled green skin was marked with three wide golden
chevrons. ‘Zur-zellian,’ he said. ‘Welcome.’

‘I
... I swam across. I wanted to see the island. I won’t stay long. My friends
are waiting. They’ll be wondering what happened to me. I didn’t mean to disturb
you. I’m sorry if I’m trespassing . . .’ I babbled on, a monologue born of
equal parts relief and crazed disbelief.

I
spluttered to a stop. Zur-zellian blinked his great eyes, once. His voice was a
low throaty rumble, and in retrospect each pronouncement reminded me of a
release of air, a surge of bubbles though water. ‘How old are you?’

‘I
. . . I’m fourteen.’

I
was sure that, had I been able to read his reptilian expression, I would have
seen that nostalgic wonderment common the galaxy over when oldsters regard the
fact of youth.

‘Fourteen.
I . . .’ Again, his long, double-jointed fingers touched his chest. ‘I am four
hundred of your years.’

I
wondered if he was aware of my expression: it must have been exaggerated
enough. ‘Four hundred years old!
Four hundred?’

‘For
two hundred, I have lived here . . .’ He gestured with both hands. ‘In . . .’
He closed his eyes, opened them again. ‘In retreat, meditating.’

Something
about his great age, the enormity of his two-century seclusion, scared me.
Perhaps I felt again that I was intruding. At any rate, I made my excuses to
leave. ‘It’s . . . it’s been good to talk with you,’ I said, jumping up quickly.
‘I must go now. My friends . . . they’re waiting for me.’

He
stood, slowly, and regarded me. I thought he said, ‘Come again,’ but I might
have been mistaken. I backed off, sketching a hurried wave, and stumbled into
the lake. I swam away from the island with irrational panic, as if, contrary to
all logic, the alien might decide now to attack. As the minutes passed and I
controlled my hurried strokes, I began to regret my hasty departure. I
considered all the questions I should have asked him. Had he really invited me
back to his island, and would I have the courage to accept his invitation?

Halfway
to the shore I paused and, treading water, looked back at the island. The beach
was deserted; the meeting might have been a figment of my imagination. I continued
towards the stand of hollow-trees, and my friends awaiting my return.

Bobby,
Rona and Gabby waded into the shallows and hauled me out, with Leah and Satch
not far behind. ‘What happened?’ Gabby squealed. ‘We saw it come from its hole.
It was right behind you!’

‘What
did it say?’ Bobby asked, awe in his expression.

Leah
gripped my arm, her small hands hot on my wet skin. ‘Thought you’d had it,
didn’t we? Thought the alien’d got you, Joe.’

I
laughed and spluttered explanations, a hurried description of my meeting with
the being. I told them that he was called Zur-zellian, from which the name by
which we knew him must have derived, and that he had been in retreat on the
island for two hundred years.

I
fielded other questions, unaccustomed to being the centre of attention, and
then looked past my friends to where Hulse stood beneath the tree, glaring at
me with homicide in his eyes.

The
others saw the direction of my gaze and fell silent, then moved aside as I made
my way across to Hulse. I stopped before him, aware of his clenched fists, his
glare. At any other time I might have been fazed, but my encounter with the
alien had bestowed me with strength, not to mention a righteous anger.

‘You
liar!’ I spat at him. ‘You filthy, cowardly liar!’ And, though I had not
intended to hit him, I lashed out with my fist and surprised myself when I
connected with his cheek. He lost his balance, then his footing, and went
slithering down the root system and fetched up in the lake.

A
part of me felt like running, to save myself from the beating I knew I was
about to receive. But I held my ground. Perhaps I realised that, even if he did
beat me to a pulp now, the victory would still be mine.

But
instead of attacking me he launched himself from the lake and, pressing his fingers
to his cheek, ran past me up the bank and disappeared along the lane. The
others watched him, slack-jawed to a person. I was so confused I could not meet
their eyes, beset with the emotions of residual rage, elation, and maybe even
shame at my outburst of violence and its consequences.

I
hurried around the tree, slipped into the crevice, and climbed and climbed,
corkscrewing up past our platform, past the first dream-sac that Satch had made
his own, until I came to the narrow opening that gave access to the second sac.

So
much had happened in the past hour that I needed to be alone for a while. I had
taken refuge in the sac at traumatic times in the past - at least, what I
considered traumatic times: when Hulse’s bullying had become too much, when I interpreted
Leah’s silences as personal snubs - and I’d always emerged calm and renewed.

I
crawled along the branch until I came to the great pendant polyp of the
dream-sac, its entrance curling from beneath the branch like the horn of some
great musical instrument, inviting animals to enter. I stripped off my sodden
shorts, left them outside to dry, and squirmed naked down the narrow tunnel and
into the sac. Sunlight struck through the diaphanous envelope, turning the air
within a golden apricot hue. Immediately upon my entry, the sac began secreting
its hallucinogenic gastric juices. The containing membranes ran with a sticky,
sebaceous fluid, anointing my nakedness and filling the air with its heady,
dream-inducing perfume. Smaller animals than myself would have been digested,
but the only effect on humans was a sensuous, vision-filled slumber. I
stretched out along the length of the sac, luxuriating in the sensation of the
fluid washing over me, and closed my eyes.

A
matter of seconds seemed to pass before the hallucinogen began its work; I
heard a sharp rapping sound on the branch outside the sac, followed by a small
voice. ‘Joe . . .’ I heard, as if from a million miles away. ‘Joe, can I come
in?’

Sleepily
aware that the sound had an external source, I opened my eyes. Leah’s head
poked through the entrance, staring at me. ‘Joe,’ she smiled. ‘Coming in,
okay?’

A
part of me thought that my greatest wish was coming true, while another
ascribed the vision to the effect of the drug. I stared up through the entrance
as Leah removed her leggings, and then her blouse, folded them neatly and piled
them beside my shorts. She wore only briefs and a halter top now, blindingly
white against her brown skin. With a quick glance down at me, she choreographed
two swift moves - a quick twist and a bend - and was suddenly and startlingly
naked. Feet first she dropped into the sac and lay beside me, looking at me
with a neutral expression on her perfect face.

Were
it not for the sedative effect of the hallucinogen, I’m sure I would have had a
heart attack. The confines of the sac ensured that we were pressed together,
our bodies lubricated by the fluid. Leah moved on top of me, ran a hand through
my hair and kissed my face perhaps a dozen times, as if experimenting. I held
her to me, the feel of her small hot body enough to make me faint. I had never
before been with a girl; in my fantasies, our liaisons had been swift and
mechanical, bereft of tactile sensations, heft or pressure. What struck me then
- or rather later, when I had time to dwell on what had happened - was how
gloriously physical and lubricious our lovemaking was. I was ignorant of the
moves to make, and could only lie in ecstasy while Leah moved, moaning, to an
age-old rhythm.