Across The Wall Part 10

'What are you talking about, you old fool!' spat Roger. 'Three million! And I will will sell it, even if I have to have you declared senile and incompetent!' sell it, even if I have to have you declared senile and incompetent!'

'It still won't be yours to sell,' said Bert. He lifted a cane and gently tapped Roger's s.h.i.+n. 'Now get off my land.'

'I'll be back!' shouted Roger, the heat in his face now spread like a rash to his neck and ears. 'I'll be back with a court order to make me your guardian and stick you back in that Home for as long as it takes for you to finally b.l.o.o.d.y croak. I should have done it years ago!'

He seemed almost about to push Bert again, then he suddenly whipped around and made a beeline for Rowan, who scrambled behind the nearest tree.

'As for you, you'll get a hiding when we get home!' he roared, lunging around the trunk. But Rowan was already fleeing farther into the bush, pus.h.i.+ng blindly through the scrub, cras.h.i.+ng through spiderwebs, small tree branches, and spiky shrubs. When he felt he was far enough away, he turned back to look, the pain of dozens of tiny scratches building into the greater pain he felt deep inside.

'I'm not going back!' he screamed. 'I'm never going back.'

The only answer was the sudden well-modulated sound of the Mercedes engine, followed by the noise of its wheels on the gravel near the gate. Then there was silence, the silence of the bush. Wearily, Rowan found a clearer path back to the shack.

The taxi driver was helping Bert to an old chair he'd pulled out of the shack, and was unloading all the gear. When Rowan started to help him, he offered his hand to shake.

'Name's Jake,' he said. 'Your dad's a rotten b.a.s.t.a.r.d, isn't he? You'll have to watch out for him.'

'I'm Rowan,' said Rowan. 'Yeah. It's lucky you were here, or he might have gone for Bert as well.'

'How long you planning to stay out here?' asked Jake as they took the last blanket out and he slammed the trunk shut.

'I don't know,' said Rowan, shrugging to hide his anxiety. 'I guess it depends on Bert.'

He looked over to where the old man seemed to have fallen asleep in his chair, facing the trees, his canes propped out widely, almost like oars.

'He looks a bit old to be camping out,' said Jake dubiously. 'Do you reckon your dad'll be able to have him declared senile or whatever?'

'He's one hundred and eight,' said Rowan proudly. 'And he's always been much tougher than anyone thinks. He's got a lot of friends in town, too, people who've known him all their lives. I reckon Dad'll find it hard work to get Bert out of the way.' 'Legally, maybe,' said Jake, looking over to the old man. 'He might try something else, though. Listen, how about I come back up later to see if you're okay?'

'I don't know . . .' said Rowan, eyeing the snake tattoo. Jake seemed like a nice bloke, and he certainly had prevented his dad from running amok. But he'd seen all Bert's money- 'I'd just like a chance to talk to Bert,' added Jake. 'I mean, it's not every day you get to talk to someone who was around last century. h.e.l.l, tomorrow he'll have lived in three different centuries! Maybe I could bring my wife as well?'

'Okay,' agreed Rowan after a further slight hesitation. He guessed it would be safer than being here alone with Bert. 'See you later then.'

'We'll come up after I get off work. About eight.'

'Sure,' agreed Rowan. He thought of his father and added, 'Come earlier, if you like.'

When Jake left, Rowan checked on Bert, who seemed to be okay. He was just sitting, starting at the bush, blinking occasionally and humming to himself. Rowan left him alone and went in to sweep the shack clean and get the spiders and ants out of the old hammocks.

He was sweeping away vigorously when he heard a car again. Keeping the broom, he went out, his heart already beating faster. As Rowan had feared, it was his father, in the old red utility truck. The vehicle screeched to a stop at the gate, and Roger jumped out to open it.

'What'll we do?' whispered Rowan, edging over to stand next to Bert.

'Whatever has to be done,' said the old man, sighing. 'You know, when I was a boy, Rowan, the bush went all the way to town. There were no cars, no aeroplanes, no radio, no television, no computers. At your age I hadn't even seen a telephone. When the twentieth century began, I didn't think things would change much. I was wrong, of course. We'll be in the twenty-first century tomorrow, and now everybody expects change. Change, change, change, without thinking what it'll cost in things that can't be replaced. I saw your face when that man said he'd build a s.p.a.ceport here. You wanted it, didn't you?'

'Not if it takes the Hill,' said Rowan anxiously, still looking down the track. 'They can build it somewhere else. But what'll we do about Dad? He'll kill me!'

'No, he won't,' said Bert. 'Help me up.'

As soon as he was upright, the old man started shuffling off into the bush. Rowan walked along next to him, trying to antic.i.p.ate a fall. Behind them, Roger Salway jumped back into the truck, and it accelerated up the path.

'Where are we going?' asked Rowan. 'He'll catch us for sure!'

'I want him to catch up with us,' said Bert. 'At the right place.'

He hesitated then, looking around at the rocks and the huge gums, as if he'd forgotten where he wanted to go. Then the glint came back into his eyes and he shuffled off to the right, Rowan following him, most of his attention focused behind them. His father was already out of the truck and running, cras.h.i.+ng through the bush without even looking for a path.

As far as Rowan could see, Bert was just making it easier for Roger to beat him up in secret. They were out of sight of the shack now, on the forward slope of the hill. Worse, there was nowhere to run to from here. The slope fell off rapidly into a series of rocky cliffs, and Rowan didn't want to even try to climb down with his father up above throwing rocks or something. Bert wouldn't be able to climb at all, anyway.

'This is it,' said Bert as Rowan was desperately trying to think of something to do. He could just lie on the ground, he supposed, and hope his father didn't kick him too much.

'What?' asked Rowan. He'd missed whatever Bert said.

'This is it,' said Bert, pointing to a creva.s.se in the rock ahead, so narrow it was hard to see in the fading light. 'We'll just zip across this log. I bet your dad doesn't remember the Narrow.'

Rowan looked at the creva.s.se they'd always called the Narrow. It looked dark and nasty, a thin mouth stretching all the way across the hill. It wasn't that deep. He'd climbed up and down it many times. When Rowan was a small child, his father had helped him up and down, standing in the cool, fern-lined shadows below. 'Course he'll remember!'

'No he won't,' said Bert. 'If he remembered, he wouldn't be trying to sell up.'

Hesitantly, the old man put his foot out on the ancient fallen log that bridged the Narrow.

'Bert . . .' Rowan started to say, but the words slipped away from him as Roger came puffing through the bush, his face red and twisted with rage. Fearfully, Rowan scuttled across the log.

Roger barreled on, sticks snapping under his feet, branches whipped back by his pa.s.sage. He was bellowing, waving his fists, fists that Rowan knew would happily connect with him. He might even be so crazy mad with anger that he would hit Bert.

'Don't!' Rowan shouted. 'Don't!'

He wasn't sure if his shout was a warning about the Narrow or a feeble attempt to turn away all that concentrated fury and those terrible fists.

It didn't matter, because Roger was too far gone in his rage to listen. One second he was right in front of them, his face as red as the setting sun, his mouth pouring out words that were so twisted up they sounded like an animal's howl.

Then he was gone, and there was sudden silence.

Bert shuffled to the edge of the creva.s.se and looked down. After a second Rowan looked too, shutting one eye because that might somehow make whatever he saw easier to cope with.

'He's alive, anyway,' said Bert, as a whimper came up out of the Narrow. 'You all right down there, Roger?'

Rowan held his breath while he waited for an answer. Finally it came. A small voice, the rage all drained away.

'I think . . . I think I've busted my wrist.'

'Forgot about the Narrow, didn't you?' said Bert conversationally. 'You used to climb up and down it enough as kid. Was it you or your dad who broke his arm down there?'

'Dad,' said Roger. He seemed a bit dazed, thought Rowan. He hadn't heard his father speaking so quietly for ages.

'And now you've done your wrist,' said Bert. 'Losing any blood? Anything else broken?'

'No,' said Roger shortly. 'Just my wrist.'

'Must run in the family,' Bert said to Rowan, peeling back his sleeve to show a faded scar along his forearm. 'Not a break. Cut it open mucking around down there.'

'I can't climb out by myself,' said Roger. They couldn't even see him now, the way the night had poured into the Narrow. The stars were getting brighter overhead, a great swathe of them that you couldn't see in the city, where they were swamped by artificial light.

'I guess you can't,' said Bert. 'So you might as well sit down and listen while I tell you a few things.'

'I'm listening,' said Roger. Rowan could hear him moving about, settling down on one of the ledges.

'First, no one's selling the Hill,' said Bert. 'Not while I'm alive, and not after it, either. I had a team of fancy lawyers work out how to make sure of that more than ten years ago. The family will be trustees, no more. If you'd bothered to ask, I would have told you.

'Second, I reckon your temper is getting out of hand. I've got a bit of money put by. Not three million, but a tidy sum. I'm going to leave it all to Rowan. If he feels like it, he might give you some. So if it's money you're after, you'd better learn to talk to your son instead of throwing your weight around. You'll live longer too. Bad for the heart, getting angry.'

There was a really long silence after Bert stopped talking.

Rowan looked at the stars, unable to believe what he was hearing. The Hill not to be sold. His father having to talk to him instead of hitting him.

After a few more minutes when Roger still didn't say anything, Bert went back across the log bridge, his old arms outstretched for balance. Rowan walked behind him, quite close, so he could steady him if necessary.

'Where are you going?' asked Roger. There was a hint of panic in his voice.

'Thought we'd leave you to think about things for a while,' said Bert. 'We've got a visitor coming up. It's New Year's Eve, remember?'

'What about me?'

'We'll be back next century,' said Bert. 'Course, you still have to agree to behave yourself.'

He chuckled a bit then, and started up the hill. 'Wait!' called Roger. 'I agree! I agree!'

Bert kept walking. Rowan looked at him, then back at the Narrow. His father was calling him now, desperation in his voice. In the distance, he could hear a car approaching. It had to be Jake in the taxi, back a bit early.

'Come on,' said Bert. 'We'll go meet Jake. We can come back for Roger later.'

'But,' said Rowan, 'what about Dad?'

'We won't leave him too long,' said Bert. 'Just long enough for him to work out what he can do.' 'Like what?' asked Rowan nervously.

'Like nothing,' said Bert. 'That's what I want him to work out.'

'So everything's going to be all right?' asked Rowan.

Bert shrugged. Then he shakily held out his arms, as wide as they would go, taking in Rowan, the Hill, the night, and the stars.

'You can never guess what a new year will bring, even when you've seen more than a hundred of them,' he said. 'Sometimes you see what's coming and can't do a thing about it. Sometimes you can.'

He paused and took a deep breath of the eucalyptus-scented air, closed his arms around his great-great-grandson, and added, 'Out here, right now, I reckon maybe everything will be as close to all right as it can possibly get.'

LIGHTNING BRINGER.

INTRODUCTION TO LIGHTNING BRINGER.

I ALWAYS ENJOY WATCHING ELECTRICAL storms, though I prefer to do so from inside a house, behind a nice gla.s.s window. The undesirability of becoming more closely acquainted with lightning was brought home to me once, when lightning struck a drainpipe a few yards away from me. I'm not exactly sure what happened, because I found myself sitting on the very wet mat outside the back door, with spots dancing before my eyes and my ears ringing. My friend inside told me that the whole house had shaken and the thunderclap had made everything rattle; she thought I must have been killed when she ran through the kitchen and saw me slumped against the door.

Despite this near miss, I remained fascinated by lightning, as anyone who has read even one or two of my books can probably tell. A few weeks before I wrote this story, I was held spellbound by a television doc.u.mentary on lightning. In this doc.u.mentary, they had amazing film that showed the 'streamers' that flow up from anything vertical. These streamers actually make the connection with the lightning leaders coming down from the thunderclouds. I saw ghostly streamers rising up from trees and buildings, from weatherc.o.c.ks, and, most importantly, from people.

The taller and stronger the streamer, the more likely that it will connect with the storm. When it does, there is an electrical discharge down from storm to ground, through the conductor. If the conductor is a metal lightning rod, that's okay. But people are not so well equipped to deal with bolts of energy that at their core are as hot as the surface of the sun.

I vaguely knew how lightning worked, but it wasn't until I saw these strange, luminous streamers rising up out of vertical structures that it really made sense. At the same time, I was struck with the way the streamers varied, even between people of the same height. Some people just had stronger streamers.

I also knew that there were people who tended to get struck by lightning quite a lot, but who still survived. I had a dim memory of a man who was struck by lightning seven times over quite a few years. He was apparently going to the post office to mail the proof of his many lightning strikes to the Guinness Book of World Records Guinness Book of World Records when he was. .h.i.t by an eighth lightning bolt. He survived that as well, though his clothes were burned off and some of his papers singed. when he was. .h.i.t by an eighth lightning bolt. He survived that as well, though his clothes were burned off and some of his papers singed.

Put together, all this gave me an idea about people who could see the streamers and who could manipulate electrical energy in various ways. Small, secret ways, like changing the electrical energies in people's minds, or big, flashy ways, like calling down lightning. That was the central idea. Then I had to find a story to use that idea.

At the time my most pressing need was for something to submit to the anthology Love & s.e.x Love & s.e.x, edited by Michael Cart, so I was also trying to work out a story that would concern s.e.x. Mixing up my ideas about controlling minds and lightning with s.e.x and love seemed like it might produce an interesting story. 'Lightning Bringer' is the result.

LIGHTNING BRINGER.

IT WAS SIX YEARS AGO WHEN I I FIRST FIRST met the Lightning Bringer, on a cloudy day just a few weeks past my tenth birthday. met the Lightning Bringer, on a cloudy day just a few weeks past my tenth birthday.

That's when I invented the name, though I never spoke it, and no one else ever used it. Most of the townsfolk called him 'Mister' Jackson. They didn't know why they called him mister, even though he looked pretty much like any other hard-faced drifter. Not normally the sort they'd talk to at all, except maybe to order off their property-once they were sure the police had arrived.

I knew he was different the first second I saw him. It's like a photograph stuck in my personal alb.u.m, that memory. I walked out the school gate, and there he was, leaning against his motorcycle. His jet-black motorcycle that looked like a Harley-Davidson but wasn't. It didn't have any brand name or anything on it. He was leaning against it, because he was tall, two feet taller than me, easily six foot three or four. Muscles tight under the black T-s.h.i.+rt, the twin blue lightning tattoos down his forearms. Long hair somewhere between blond and red, tied back under a red-and-white-spotted bandanna.

But what I really noticed was his aura. Most people have dim, fuzzy sorts of colours that flicker around them in a pathetic kind of way. His aura was all blue sparks, jumping around like they were just waiting to electrocute anyone who went near.

The guy looked like trouble. Then he smiled, and if you couldn't see the aura, that smile would somehow make you think that he was all right, the biker with the heart of gold, the drifter who went around helping out old folk or whatever.

But I saw part of the energy go out of his aura and into the smile, flickering out like a hundred snakes' tongues to touch and spark against the dull colors of the people around him.

He charmed them, that's what. I saw it happening, saw the tongues coming out and lighting up the older kids' grey days. And then I saw all the electric currents come together to caress one student in particular: Carol, the best-looking girl in the whole school.

Of course I was only ten back then, so I didn't really appreciate everything Carol had going for her. I mean, I knew that she had movie-star looks, with the jet-black hair and the big brown eyes, and b.r.e.a.s.t.s that went out exactly the right amount and a waist that went in exactly as it should and legs that could have been borrowed from a Barbie doll. But it was sort of secondhand appreciation at that stage. I knew everyone thought she looked good, but I didn't really know why myself. Now I can get really excited thinking about the way she looked when she was playing basketball, with that tight top and the pleated skirt . . . at least till I remember what happened to her . . .

She was looking especially good that day. With hindsight, I reckon she'd found out that she was really attractive to men, picking up a certain confidence. That air of the cat that's worked out it's the kind of cat that's always going to get the cream.

When the Lightning Bringer's smile reached out for her, her eyes went all cloudy and she kind of sleepwalked over to him, as if nothing else even existed. They talked for a while; then she walked on. But she looked back-twice-and that electricity kept flowing out of the drifter, crackling around her like fingers just aching to undo the big white b.u.t.tons on the front of her school dress.

Then she was around the corner, and I realised everyone else had gone. There was just me and the man, leaning against his bike. Watching me, not smiling, the blue-white tendrils pulling back into the glowing sh.e.l.l around him. Then he laughed, his head pulled back, the laughter sending a stream of blue-white energy up into the sky.

That laugh scared the h.e.l.l out of me, and I suddenly felt just like a rabbit that realises it's been staring into the headlights of an oncoming truck.

Like a lot of rabbits, I realised this too late. I'd hardly got one foot up, ready to run, when he was suddenly looming over me, fingers digging into my shoulders like old tree roots boring into the ground. Like maybe he'd never let go till his fingers plunged through the flesh, squis.h.i.+ng me like a rotten apple.

I started to scream, but he shook me so hard, I just stopped.