Hothouse - Brian Aldiss [66]
Even as she moaned, something moved on the tower of rock. The bleak eyes – now there was no mistaking them for anything else – rolled; countless numbers of them rolled in unison, and turned in a new direction as if to stare at something out to sea.
Compelled by the intensity of that stone gaze, Gren and Yattmur also turned. From where they crouched, only a section of the sea was visible, framed among the nearby broken rock lying on the beach. It was view enough for them to observe, far out on the grey waters, a commotion marking where a large swimming thing laboured towards the island.
‘O shades! That creature’s heading towards us! Do we run back to the boat?’ Yattmur asked.
‘Let’s lie still. It cannot have seen us between these rocks.’
‘The magic tower with eyes is calling it to come and devour us!’
‘Nonsense,’ said Gren, speaking also to his secret fears.
Hypnotized, they watched the sea thing. Spray made it difficult to distinguish its shape. Only two great flippers that flailed the water like crazy paddlewheels could be seen clearly at intervals. Occasionally they thought they could see a head poised as though straining towards the shore; but visibility was still failing.
The broad sheet of sea puckered. A rain curtain blew in from the heavy skies, cutting off sight of the sea creature and sousing everything with cold stinging droplets.
Obeying a common impulse, Gren and Yattmur dived for the trees, to stand dripping against one of the trunks. The rain redoubled its strength. For a moment they could see no farther than the tattered frill of whiteness that marked the margin of the sea.
From out of the wetness came a forlorn chord, a warning note as if the world were falling away. The sea creature was signalling for guidance. Almost at once it received answer. The island or the rock tower itself gave voice in return.
One hollow jarring note was wrenched from its very foundations. Not that it was a loud note; but it filled all things, spilling down to land and sea like the rain itself, as though every decibel was a drop that had to make itself individually felt. Shaken by the sound, Yattmur clung to Gren and cried.
Above her weeping, above the noise of the rain and sea, above the reverberations of the voice of the tower, another voice rose in a ragged intensity of fright and then died. It was a composite voice containing elements of supplication and reproach, and Gren recognized it.
‘The missing tummy-belly men!’ he exclaimed. ‘They must be near at hand.’
He looked hopelessly about, dashing rain from his eyes as he did so. The great leathery leaves sagged and sprang up again under varying loads of water pouring off the cliff. Nothing but forest could be seen, forest bowing in submission to the downpour. Gren did not move; the tummy-bellies would have to wait till the rain abated. He stood where he was with an arm round Yattmur.
As they peered out towards the sea, the greyness before them was broken in a flurry of waves.
‘O living shades, that creature has come to get us,’ Yattmur breathed.
The vast marine creature had entered shallow water and was heaving itself from the sea. They saw the rain sizzling in cataracts off a great flat head. A mouth as narrow and heavy as a grave creaked open – and Yattmur broke from Gren’s arms and ran off along the beach in the direction from which they had come, shrieking with fright.
‘Yattmur!’ His muscles strained to follow her, but the full dead weight of the morel’s will fought unexpectedly against him. Gren stayed locked, momentarily immobile in a sprinter’s stance. Caught off balance, he fell sideways into the streaming sand.
‘Stay where you are,’ twanged the morel. ‘Since the creature is obviously not after us, we must stay to see what it is doing. It will do us no harm if you keep quiet.’
‘But Yattmur – ’
‘Let the silly