The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [103]
At last a shaft gave way, and a giant mushroom, free of its earthly bond, glided gracefully away, and landed in the dark waters.
"Stop!" someone shouted, and there was a volley of fire. Ducking, panting, Orphan ran low and sprang himself onto the floating fungi. He almost laughed, the sensation was so odd; it was like he was once again a child, and this was a giant toy, wobbling this way and that with no control. He spread his legs outwards and began to paddle slowly, as quietly as he could, away from the shore and into the open sea. Water soaked into his clothes but the makeshift raft held him – just.
Behind him the shouts grew and more shots followed, but they were aimless, and came nowhere near. He continued to paddle, into the dark dark sea, away from the island, and imagined himself growing into a small point, unseen in the unchanging vastness of water. He felt exulted, buoyant – buoyant, he thought, and almost giggled. Like the mushrooms, staying afloat.
Soon the sounds of the shore grew faint, then faded away. He turned his head but could no longer see the island, could no longer see anything but the dark unchanging water of the sea. I'm lost, he thought, but the thought brought him no pain, only a fierce, unmitigated joy.
At last, he stopped, and turned and lay on his back, and gazed at the stars. Did he do the right thing? he wondered. He felt free of all decisions, of all consequences. The stars gazed back at him and offered no answers.
A light.
Something blinked. A light, growing larger. An eerie glow was cast on the sea before him, and he could see the surface of the water, and in the distance, the outline of the island growing bright. It was not as far as he had thought.
The cannon!
He watched as a great ball of fire gathered and grew and flew high in the air, and he tensed lest it failed, lest it died and fell into the sea.
It flew straight.
He watched the narrow needle of the cannon, the fire emerging from its rear, grow distant, grow smaller. The shadows around him diminished.
He was sent on this mission, on this impossible mission, to sabotage that cannon, prevent its cargo from reaching beyond the world. The Bookman, Wyvern: they had wanted him to do it, each for his own reasons and, perhaps, unknown to him, thousands of others had wished he'd done the same. But when he'd had the chance, when he was placed in the position to damage it, to make it fail – he couldn't.
He did not sabotage the cannon.
Was he right to make the decision? Now the signal would be sent, and the lizards, the other lizards, would come. Would they come as friends, or enemies? Would there be anyone left to even see the sign? But he thought of the lizard young, and he thought of the lizards crashing into the earth and into the heart of the island, and he thought they were like sailors, stranded on a tropical and alien shore after a terrible storm. Could he deny them their flare, their distress signal? If they had done bad things, if they had deposed kings and made this place their home and their kingdom, they acted no more nor less than humans would. There were arguments, so many arguments, for and against, and he thought of Lucy now and knew that, though she may never now come back to him, she would have understood. When at last it came, he could not do it.
Waves came, and rocked his raft, but gently, and in the distance he could see an enormous figure rise from the water, and then another, and another. He watched them, unafraid.
They were whales.
For a moment, he imagined he could see a woman, rising from the sea between the giant figures. Looking at him.
Lucy, he thought, and felt happy.
He closed his eyes. Around him, the singing of the whales rose in an unearthly symphony.
He drifted on the sea throughout the night and half through the day, growing thirsty beyond belief, but not losing that strange composure, that new peace he had found. He lay flat and tried not to move, and the sun beat on him