Watson, Ian - Black Current 01 (14 page)

 
          
A
single knotted rope led higher up—thirty or forty spans higher —to where a
lateral branch of considerable girth left the trunk. It was pointing in the
right direction, but so many spans above. Craning my neck, I could see more
rope lying on the branch, the coils bulging over like a nesting snake. One end
appeared to be fastened by snap-link to a wood-piton driven deep into the trunk
itself.

 
          
Quite
how I managed the rest of the ascent I'll never know. It wasn't like climbing
up a mast at all. For me there has always been a certain feeling of elasticity
about climbing a mast.
Because a mast is rooted in a floating
boat.
There's a sense that your activities up a mast produce a certain
slight reaction in the mast itself. No doubt this is perfectly illusory!
Otherwise boats would tip over as soon as a few women swarmed into the rigging.
But this tree felt like rock, rooted in rock.

 
          
At
last I reached the branch which I was aiming for, and scrambled on to it, legs
astride, beside the waiting rope. I was relieved to see other pitons set at
intervals along the branch; otherwise I don't know how I could have tied the
rope to it, given its girth. Unclipping the snap-link, I hoisted the coils
over my head on to my shoulders. All coiled up, that rope was quite some
weight.

 
          
Shuffling
my thighs forward as fast as I dared, I soon arrived at a piton positioned
above the midpoint of Marcialla's swing, and attached the snap-link again.

 
          
She
was only swaying to and fro quite gently by now. The wooden bar of her seat was
hardly a very substantial one; and I feared that she was in even more danger.
While she had still been swinging fairly vigorously, sheer force of momentum
may have adjusted her balance and even lessened her apparent weight. Soon
there would only be gravity pulling at her.
Pulling down.

 
          
Down.
Much too far below the hard ground waited. . . .

 
          
How
did
one abseil down through mid-air?
I'd watched enough junglejacks doing it that very afternoon! One of them had gripped
the rope with his feet and had slid down while standing upright. Another had
wound it around one thigh; and a third fellow around both thighs, with the free
end tossed over his shoulder. Those two had descended as if they were sitting
in a chair. The fastest junglejack of all, a woman, had simply slipped the
rope through her crotch, under one buttock and up over her neck.

 
          
I
settled on the double thigh rappel. It had looked reasonably safe, and within
my ability. Laying the coil across the branch before me, I let out spare rope
and looped this around my thighs and over my shoulder.

 
          
I
realized that I couldn't just toss the rest of the coil overboard. I might
knock Marcialla off her perch, and so undo everything. So I paid the rope down;
and it was just as well that I did. By the time I had let it all down I knew
that the weight of it, tumbling all at once, could easily have yanked me off my
branch.

 
          
The
end of the rope was fairly near the ground; though from as high up as this it
was hard to gauge "fairly near".
Ten spans short?
Fifteen, even?

 
          
Then
I went over the side.

 
          
Almost,
I tipped backwards out of the rope; but I recovered myself. And now the rope
squeezed me like a tourniquet. It gripped my breeches so tightly that far from
tending to slide down like greased lightning, to my surprise I could hardly
move at all. But then I recalled how the junglejack using this particular
rappel had seemed to hump himself up "in the saddle" when letting out
slack, so that he lowered himself jerk by jerk. I did so too. Down I went, bit
by bit: dropping, jerked to a halt, dropping again.

 
          
It
wasn't too far to the trapeze seat. I caught hold as gently as I could,
steadied it,
transferred
my hold to Marcialla.

 
          
I
was face to face with her, staring right into her eyes. She hardly blinked at
all. Her pupils were dilated. Her lips moved slightly but she said no words—she
only uttered a long moan. Perhaps this
was
a word, after all. But she was taking too much time over it.

 
          
I
said slowly, "I'm taking you down. Let go of the ropes.
Let go."

 
          
For
a while she seemed to be holding on as tightly as before.

 
          
"They
gave you the fungus drug," I said.
"The drug that
stops time.
I know they did. Let go. You'll be safe." No doubt this
was a wildly optimistic promise. But there was no alternative.

 
          
Not
at the time. It did occur to me later on that a better and less adventurous bet
might have been to persuade some of the jun- gleguild marshals that what was
going on up the tree was far from ordinary; and so have them send experienced
climbers aloft. But at the time I was remembering what Jambi had said about
marshals not interfering. Besides,
I
knew what had been said in the Jingle-Jangle; they didn't. And then again, this
seemed to me to be a riverguild matter.

 
          
Slowly
Marcialla's grip did slacken. Maybe she had been sending signals to tell her
fingers to unlock ever since I reached her. At last she came away—and
thank
the River that she wasn't any heavyweight! I hauled
her awkwardly across my lap. The rope kept her pressed to my chest and tummy.

 
          
Now
I had to heave our combined weight up while paying spare rope over my shoulder.
When I slid, my right hand had to act as brake and anchor overhead.

 
          
It
took a long time to descend. And it was a descent into worse and worse pain.

 
          
By
the time we reached the bottom of the rope I could have screamed. My right arm
was almost out of joint. My hand was rubbed raw and bloody; it hurt as if I'd
held it in a fire. If Capsi had felt one half of this pain throughout his body
... I put the thought away.

 
          
Even
at the bottom of the rope I was still too high. Not too high to stop me from
jumping and landing springily—if I'd been on my own. I wasn't. First I would
have had to drop Marcialla like a sack of potatoes.

 
          
Luckily
by now someone had realized that this wasn't just a spectacular display of
amateur treetop-rescue. Marshals appeared beneath, stretching out a web-vine
net.

 
          
"Let
go of her! We'll catch!"

 
          
I
did. And they did too; then they hurried the sagging net aside. I hung slumped
in the rappel, letting my agonized right hand relax at last. Quickly they
bundled Marcialla out of the net and stretched it again, for me.

 
          
"You, now!
Drop!"

 
          
So
I paid the last few spans over my shoulder, and fell. They caught me, lowered
me quickly.

 
          
They
had laid Marcialla on the ground. A marshal was kneeling by her, feeling her
pulse. He looked puzzled that she was so obviously wide awake, but didn't
move. A whole crowd had gathered round—foremost among whom I now spotted Lalo
and
Kish
.

 
          
"Your
friend over there," began one of the marshals, nodding in Lalo's
direction, "she—"

 
          
Lalo
ran forward.

 
          
"Thanks,
Lalo!" I cried. I would have embraced her, except that my palm was running
with blood.

 
          
"It's
one way of making contact in a crowd, I'll say that! Your poor hand, Yaleen.
What's it all about?"

 
          
"No
time to tell! I must take Marcialla back to her boat, right now."

 
          
"It's
the first aid tent for
you
,"
insisted the marshal.

 
          
"No!"
Then I really looked at my hand. "Yes. I suppose so. Will you two come
with me?" I asked Lalo. "Will you help me get her back to the
riverfront?"

 
          
Naturally
enough, there were questions from the officials. But I bluffed my way through
these as best I could while they were busy cleaning and anointing and bandaging
me. Someone mentioned drug trances, but I pointed out that Marcialla obviously
wasn't from Port Barbra. She was given to crippling attacks of vertigo, I
said—which explained nothing: neither how she could possibly be a riverwoman,
nor how she had got up the tree in the first place. However, they let me get
away with my blatant lies. I think they had plenty of other business to attend
to.

 
          
Briefly
Lalo,
Kish
and I debated the best way to shift
Marcialla: borrow a stretcher, carry her between us, or what? I couldn't help
much with my bandaged aching hand. Finally
Kish
hoisted Marcialla and slung her over his
shoulder in a fireman's lift.

 
          
So, though not as swiftly as I would have liked, we returned to the
old town.
On the way there I swore
Kish
and Lalo to secrecy, and satisfied as much
of their curiosity as I dared.

 
          
When
we did at last get back to the
Spry
Goose,
about an hour later, we found a strange situation indeed. Jambi had
had the wit to pull up the gangplank—something which I hadn't thought of in the
heat of the moment. She and two other crew members were guarding the gunwales
with belaying pins clutched in their fists; though it did look as though their
confidence was waning rapidly, as the prospect loomed of an ignominious
beaching for life. For boatswain Credence was berating them from the dockside,
as were three other crew- women who had turned up in the meantime. These were
innocent of what was really going on; to them it looked like a mutiny. And
meanwhile the two Port Barbra women slunk in the background shadows, scarved
and hooded. It was growing dark rapidly. Lamps had already been lit along the
waterfront.

 
          
The
situation clarified itself almost as soon as we hove in sight.
Kish
set Marcialla down, though he still had to
balance her. The Port Barbrans whispered to one another,
then
took to their heels. After some hesitation—teetering between the chance of
brazening it out
further,
and the prospect of what
would realistically happen once Marcialla had regained her faculties—Credence
shrugged and strode away; though with a show of dignity, I'll give her that.

 
          
The
gangplank rattled down again on to the stone quay. Jambi and her two stalwarts
looked mightily relieved.

 
 
          
We
helped Marcialla slowly back on board her command. Shortly after that, the first
rocket exploded high above the jungle, showering red and silver stars.

 
          
By
midnight
the distant pyrotechnics were all over, but
ours were just commencing. Marcialla had speeded up. She rushed around her
cabin, chattering, peering out of the porthole, pulling things out of drawers
and stuffing them back in again, unlocking and relocking cupboards, scribbling
illegibly on sheet after sheet of paper. We had to take the log-book off her to
stop her from defacing it.

 
          
She
sat down, she leapt up. She demanded hot snacks and more hot snacks, which a
groaning cook provided, bleary-eyed, and which Marcialla wolfed down.

 
          
At
one moment she wanted to run ashore to wake the quaymistress. At another she
insisted on setting sail for Port Barbra at once even though it was pitch dark.

 
          
We
used our initiative. Despite all her strident threats, appeals and protests we
kept her confined to her cabin. Finally, around dawn, she flaked out at last.
And Jambi and I could at last crawl to our own bunks.