Jingo - Terry Pratchett [89]
The troll was standing with his knuckles on the ground. The motor of his cooling helmet sounded harsh for a moment in the dry air, and then stopped as the sand got into the mechanism.
“Feelin’ fick,” he muttered. “My brain hurts.”
“Quick, hold your shield over his head,” said Vimes. “Give him some shade!”
“He’s never going to make it, sir,” said Carrot. “Let’s send him back down to the boat.”
“We need him! Quick, Cheery, fan him with your ax!”
At which point, the sand stood up and drew a hundred swords.
“Bingeley-bingeley beep!” said a cheerful if somewhat muffled voice. “Eleven eh em, Get Haircut…er…that’s right…isn’t it?”
It wasn’t large, but slabs of collapsing building had smashed together in such a way that they made a cistern that the rain had filled half full.
Solid Jackson slapped his son on the back.
“Fresh water! At last!” he said. “Well done, lad.”
“You see, I was looking at these sort of painting things, Dad, and then—”
“Yeah, yeah, pictures of octopuses, very nice,” said Jackson. “Hah! The ball is on the other foot now and no mistake! It’s our water on our side of the island, and I’d just like to see them greasy buggers claim otherwise. Let ’em keep their damn driftwood and suck water out of fishes!”
“Yeah, Dad,” said Les. “And we can trade them some of the water for wood and flour, right?”
His father waved a hand cautiously. “Maybe,” he said. “No need to rush into that, though. We’re pretty close to finding a seaweed that’ll burn. I mean, what’re our long-term objectives here?”
“Cooking meals and keeping warm?” said Les hopefully.
“Well, initially,” said Jackson. “That’s obvious. But you know what they say, lad. ‘Give a man a fire and he’s warm for a day, but set fire to him and he’s warm for the rest of his life.’ See my point?”
“I don’t think that’s actually what the saying is—”
“I mean, we can stop here living on water and raw fish for…well, practically forever. But that lot can’t go without proper fresh water for much longer. See? So they’ll have to come begging to us, right? And then we deal on our terms, eh?”
He put his arm around his son’s reluctant shoulders and waved a hand at the landscape.
“I mean, I started out with nothing, son, except that old boat that your grandad left me, but—”
“—you worked and scraped—” said Les wearily.
“—I worked and scraped—”
“—and you’ve always kept your head above water—”
“—right, I’ve always kept my head above water—”
“And you’ve always wanted to leave me something that—Ow!”
“Stop making fun of your dad!” said Jackson. “Otherwise I’ll wallop the other ear. Look, you see this land? You see it?”
“I see it, Dad.”
“It’s a land of opportunity.”
“But there’s no fresh water and all the ground’s full of salt, Dad, and it smells bad!”
“That’s the smell of freedom, that is.”
“Smells like someone did a really big fart, Dad—Ow!”
“Sometimes the two are very similar! And it’s your future I’m thinking of, lad!”
Les looked at the acres of decomposing seaweed in front of him.
He was learning to be a fisherman like his father before him because that’s how the family had always done it and he was too good-natured to argue, although he actually wanted to be a painter like no one in the family had ever been before. He was noticing things, and they worried him even though he couldn’t quite say why.
But the buildings didn’t look right. Here and there were definite bits of, well, architecture, like Morporkian pillars and the remains of Klatchian arches, but they’d been added to buildings that looked as though some ham-fisted people had just piled rocks on top of one another. And then in other places the slabs had been stacked on top of ancient brick walls and tiled floors. He couldn’t imagine who’d done the tiling, but they did like pictures of octopussies.
The feeling was stealing over him that Morporkians and Klatchians arguing over who owned this piece of old sea bottom was extremely pointless.
“Er…I’m thinking about my future too, Dad,” he said. “I really am.”
Far below Solid Jackson’s feet, the Boat surfaced. Sergeant Colon reached