Dragon Dance (2 page)

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 antics 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.

S
IMON WAS LYING BACK ON
a reclining seat on the verandah of the tennis club. He felt tired, but pleasantly aware of having just won a hard set of mixed doubles, and with Lucy Gaines as his partner, too. The day was warm and bright, and he could hear the thump of ball on racket and distant voices. The only drawback to perfect happiness was thirst; and at his elbow stood a tall glass of iced lime juice and soda. He took a long swig from it.

Lucy Gaines was whispering in his ear, which would be very nice if he could make out what she was
saying. He listened harder. Her voice was deeper than he remembered. What
was
she saying?

“Si! Wake up. Si . . .”

He didn't remember her ever calling him Si. But Brad did. In fact, that was Brad's voice. He opened his eyes, and the sunlit afternoon went. It was dark, with a smell of people and must and spices, and a creaking sound, and a hard surface rocking slightly beneath him. He croaked: “Brad . . .”

“Okay, buddy?”

“Thirsty . . .”

“Hang in there.”

He tried to marshal his muzzy thoughts, but they slipped away from him. They were going to move on in the morning. . . . Little Green Bird wasn't going to like losing Brad. . . . The songs at the feast, the shaman's weird dance . . . He felt the swaying surface, heard the creaking. Suddenly he was alert. He was on a boat: it was unmistakable. But what about the feast?

He remembered the bell-like sound, the cloaked men moving among the Indians, he and Brad sneaking towards the trees. . . . Where was Brad? He swallowed with a dry throat. Although it was very dark, a
lighter rectangle showed above, with a small point of brilliance inside it. A star, seen through an open hatch? He became aware again of the surrounding smell of people. But there was no snoring—no sound of breathing, for that matter.

Simon's head started thumping as he heaved himself into a sitting position. He put out a hand and felt cloth, then flesh. It was cold and unresponsive, and he recoiled instinctively. Was it a corpse? Was he surrounded by dead bodies?

Something obscured the hatch light, and there was the sound of feet on a ladder. He whispered: “Brad?”

“Here.”

He felt a metal beaker being presented and drank water gratefully.

Brad said: “Sorry to be so long. I had to wait while one of the Chinese filled a bucket at the water tank.”

“Chinese?”

“Okay, it sounds crazy—but we did find that pagoda. Perhaps in this world they spread east, across the Bering Strait. Perhaps they have a colony up north. In Washington, maybe, or British Columbia.”

Simon's thoughts would not come together. “But what are they
doing
?”

“I'd think that's obvious. Slaving.”

“The Indians, you mean? I touched one of them. I think they're dead.”

“No, they're not dead. It's some kind of trance state. The gong probably started it off, followed by that business of holding heads and giving commands. They were already high on thorn apple. Maybe that's why it didn't work with us—we hadn't smoked any.”

Simon reached out again and touched flesh.

“This one's really cold.”

“And scarcely breathing. It's a deep trance. Blood pressure very low, too, I'd guess. If you pricked his arm, he'd ooze rather than bleed.”

“I don't understand.” Simon rubbed his aching head. “Did I get hit?”

“Yes, you got hit. I thought it made sense to pretend I was tranced, like the Indians. They had two of them carry you here.”

“We're on a ship?”

“Yes. There were boats tied up at the creek the Indians use. I doubt it's the first time they've been
here. Remember how Night Eagle reacted to the pagoda. We rowed out to this junk, and then the Indians were ordered into the hold and put back to sleep. I've been waiting for you to surface. I thought I might have to wait all night—or longer. I think it was a sandbag you got hit with.”

Simon moved his head and groaned. “Some sand. How far offshore are we?”

“Maybe half a mile.”

“We could swim that!”

“Yes. How do you feel about tackling the ladder?”

“Not happy, but it's better than the alternative. Where's the hatch? I can't see it now.”

“The sky was clouding when I was on deck. Hang on to me.”

Almost at once, Simon trod on someone. A leg rolled nauseously under his foot, but there was no outcry. He trod on others on the way to the ladder, two lines of rope with wooden rungs. He managed to follow Brad up it, despite a new wave of dizziness, and heaved himself on deck. It was scarcely less dark than below, with no stars or moonlight. A stiffish breeze was blowing. Onshore or off? He put it to Brad.