Year's Best Science Fiction 01 # 1984 Read online

  Tarnover looked furiously put out; though young Daniel also seemed distressed in a different way.

  “And when you’re thirsty, it’s time for a drink!” Spying an opening, and his opportunity, Tarnover sidled quickly around Mrs. Babbidge and strode off. She chuckled as she watched him go.

  “That’s put a kink in his sail!”

  Forty-one other contestants, besides Jason and Tarnover, gathered between the starting flags. Though not the girl who had fallen; despite all best efforts she was out of the race, and sat morosely watching.

  Then the Tuckerton umpire blew his whistle, and they were off.

  The course was in the shape of a long bloomer loaf. First, it curved gently along the edge of the glass for three-quarters of a mile, then bent sharply around in a half circle on to the straight, returning toward Tuckerton. At the end of the straight, another sharp half circle brought it back to the starting—and finishing—line. Three circuits in all were to be skate-sailed before the victory whistle blew. Much more than this, and the lag between leaders and stragglers could lead to confusion.

  By the first turn Jason was ahead of the rest of the field, and all his practice since last year was paying off. His skates raced over the glass. The breeze thrust him convincingly. As he rounded the end of the loaf, swinging his sail to a new pitch, he noted Max Tarnover hanging back in fourth place. Determined to increase his lead, Jason leaned so close to the flag on the entry to the straight that he almost tipped it. Compensating, he came poorly on to the straight, losing a few yards. By the time Jason swept over the finishing line for the first time, to cheers from Atherton villagers, Tarnover was in third position; though he was making no very strenuous effort to overhaul. Jason realized that Tarnover was simply letting him act as pacemaker.

  But a skate-sailing race wasn’t the same as a foot race, where a pacemaker was generally bound to drop back eventually. Jason pressed on. Yet by the second crossing of the line Tarnover was ten yards behind, moving without apparent effort as if he and his sail and the wind and the glass were one. Noting Jason’s glance, Tarnover grinned and put on a small burst of speed to push the frontrunner to even greater efforts. And as he entered on the final circuit Jason also noted the progress of the slow bird, off to his left, now midway between the long curve and the straight, heading in the general direction of Edgewood. Even the laggards ought to clear the final straight before the thing got in their way, he calculated.

  This brief distraction was a mistake: Tarnover was even closer behind him now, his sail pitched at an angle that must have made his wrists ache. Already he was drifting aside to overhaul Jason. And at this moment Jason grasped how he could win: by letting Tarnover think that he was pushing Jason beyond his capacity—so that Tarnover would be fooled into overexerting himself too soon.

  “Can’t catch me!” Jason called into the wind, guessing that Tarnover would misread this as braggadocio and assume that Jason wasn’t really thinking ahead. At the same time Jason slackened his own pace slightly, hoping that his rival would fail to notice, since this was at odds with his own boast. Pretending to look panicked, he let Tarnover overtake—and saw how Tarnover continued to grip his sail strenuously even though he was actually moving a little slower than before. Without realizing it, Tarnover had his angle wrong; he was using unnecessary wrist action.

  Tarnover was in the lead now. Immediately all psychological pressure lifted from Jason. With ease and grace he stayed a few yards behind, just where he could benefit from the “eye” of air in Tarnover’s wake. And thus he remained until halfway down the final straight, feeling like a kestrel hanging in the sky with a mere twitch of its wings before swooping.

  He held back; held back. Then suddenly changing the cant of his sail he did swoop—into the lead again.

  It was a mistake. It had been a mistake all along. For as Jason sailed past, Tarnover actually laughed. Jerking his brown and orange silk to an easier, more efficient pitch, Tarnover began to pump his legs, skating like a demon. Already he was ahead again. By five yards. By ten. And entering the final curve.

  As Jason tried to catch up in the brief time remaining, he knew how he had been fooled; though the knowledge came too late. So cleverly had Tarnover fixed Jason’s mind on the stance of the sails, by holding his own in such a way—a way, too, which deliberately created that convenient eye of air—that Jason had quite neglected the contribution of his legs and skates, taking this for granted, failing to monitor it from moment to moment. It only took moments to recover and begin pumping his own legs too, but those few moments were fatal. Jason crossed the finish line one yard behind last year’s victor; who was this year’s victor too.

  As he slid to a halt, bitter with chagrin, Jason was well aware that it was up to him to be gracious in defeat rather than let Tarnover seize that advantage, too.

  He called out, loud enough for everyone to hear: “Magnificent, Max! Splendid skating! You really caught me on the hop there.”

  Tarnover smiled for the benefit of all onlookers.

  “What a noisy family you Babbidges are,” he said softly; and skated off to be presented with the silver punchbowl again.

  Much later that afternoon, replete with roast pork and awash with Old Codger Ale, Jason was waving an empty beer mug about as he talked to Bob Marchant in the midst of a noisy crowd. Bob, who had fallen so spectacularly the year before. Maybe that was why he had skated diffidently today and been one of the laggards.

  The sky was heavily overcast, and daylight too was failing. Soon the homeward trek would have to start.

  One of Jason’s drinking and skating partners from Atherton, Sam Partridge, thrust his way through.

  “Jay! That brother of yours: he’s out on the glass. He’s scrambled up on the back of the bird. He’s riding it.”

  “What?”

  Jason sobered rapidly, and followed Partridge with Bob Marchant tagging along behind.

  Sure enough, a couple of hundred yards away in the gloaming Daniel was perched astride the slow bird. His red hair was unmistakable. By now a lot of other people were beginning to take notice and point him out. There were some ragged cheers, and a few angry protests.

  Jason clutched Partridge’s arm. “Somebody must have helped him up. Who was it?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest. That boy needs a good walloping.”

  “Daniel Babbidge!” Mrs. Babbidge was calling nearby. She too had seen. Cautiously she advanced on to the glass, wary of losing her balance.

  Jason and company were soon at her side. “It’s all right, Mum,” he assured her. “I’ll fetch the little … perisher.”

  Courteously Bob Marchant offered his arm and escorted Mrs. Babbidge back on the rough ground again. Jason and Partridge stepped flat-foot out across the vitrified surface accompanied by at least a dozen curious spectators.

  “Did anyone spot who helped him up?” Jason demanded of them. No one admitted it.

  When the group was a good twenty yards from the bird, everyone but Jason halted. Pressing on alone, Jason pitched his voice so that only the boy would hear.

  “Slide off,” he ordered grimly. “I’ll catch you. Right monkey you’ve made of your mother and me.”

  “No,” whispered Daniel. He clung tight, hands splayed like suckers, knees pressed to the flanks of the bird as if he were a jockey. “I’m going to see where it goes.”

  “Goes? Hell, I’m not going to waste time arguing. Get down!” Jason gripped an ankle and tugged, but this action only served to pull him up against the bird. Beside Dan’s foot a heart with the entwined initials ZB and EF was carved. Turning away, Jason shouted, “Give me a hand, you lot! Come on someone, bunk me up!”

  Nobody volunteered, not even Partridge.

  “It won’t bite you! There’s no harm in touching it. Any kid knows that.” Angrily he flat-footed back toward them. “Damn it all, Sam.”

  So now Partridge did shuffle forward, and a couple of other men too. But then they halted, gaping. Their expression puzzled Ja
son momentarily—until Sam Partridge gestured; till Jason swung around.

  The air behind was empty.

  The slow bird had departed suddenly. Taking its rider with it.

  Half an hour later only the visitors from Atherton and their hosts remained on Tuckerton green. The Buckby, Edgewood and Hopperton contingents had set off for home. Uncle John was still consoling a sniveling Mrs. Babbidge. Most faces in the surrounding crowd looked sympathetic, though there was a certain air of resentment, too, among some Tuckerton folk that a boy’s prank had cast this black shadow over their Mayday festival.

  Jason glared wildly around the onlookers. “Did nobody see who helped my brother up?” he cried. “Couldn’t very well have got up himself, could he? Where’s Max Tarnover? Where is he?”

  “You aren’t accusing Master Tarnover, by any chance?” growled a beefy farmer with a large wart on his cheek. “Sour grapes, Master Babbidge! Sour grapes is what that sounds like, and we don’t like the taste of those here.”

  “Where is he, dammit?”

  Uncle John laid a hand on his nephew’s arm. “Jason, lad. Hush. This isn’t helping your Mum.”

  But then the crowd parted, and Tarnover sauntered through, still holding the silver punchbowl he had won.

  “Well, Master Babbidge?” he inquired. “I hear you want a word with me.”

  “Did you see who helped my brother onto that bird? Well, did you?”

  “I didn’t see,” replied Tarnover coolly.

  It had been the wrong question, as Jason at once realized. For if Tarnover had done the deed himself, how could he possibly have watched himself do it?

  “Then did you—”

  “Hey up,” objected the same farmer. “You’ve asked him, and you’ve had his answer.”

  “And I imagine your brother has had his answer too,” said Tarnover.

  “I hope he’s well satisfied with it. Naturally I offer my heartfelt sympathies to Mrs. Babbidge. If indeed the boy has come to any harm. Can’t be sure of that, though, can we?”

  “Course we can’t!”

  Jason tensed, and Uncle John tightened his grip on him. “No, lad. There’s no use.”

  It was a sad and quiet long walk homeward that evening for the three remaining Babbidges, though a fair few Atherton folk behind sang blithely and tipsily, nonetheless. Occasionally Jason looked around for Sam Partridge, but Sam Partridge seemed to be successfully avoiding them.

  The next day, May the second, Mrs. Babbidge rallied and declared it to be a “sorting out” day; that meant a day for handling all Daniel’s clothes and storybooks and old toys lovingly before setting them to one side out of sight. Jason himself she packed off to his job at the sawmill, with a flea in his ear for hanging around her like a whipped hound.

  And as Jason worked at trimming planks that day the same shamed, angry frustrated thoughts skated round and round a single circuit in his head:

  “In my book he’s a murderer … . You don’t give a baby a knife to play with. He was cool as a cucumber afterwards. Not shocked, no. Smug … .”

  Yet what could be done about it? The bird might have hung around for hours more. Except that it hadn’t … .

  Set out on a quest to find Daniel? But how? And where? Birds dodged around. Here, there and everywhere. No rhyme or reason to it. So what a useless quest that would be!

  A quest to prove that Dan was alive. And if he were alive, then Tarnover hadn’t killed him.

  “In my book he’s a murderer … .” Jason’s thoughts churned on impotently. It was like skating with both feet tied together.

  Three days later a slow bird was sighted out Edgewood way. Jim Mitchum, the Edgewood thatcher, actually sought Jason out at the sawmill to bring him the news. He’d been coming over to do a job, anyway.

  No doubt his visit was an act of kindness, but it filled Jason with guilt quite as much as it boosted his morale. For now he was compelled to go and see for himself, when obviously there was nothing whatever to discover. Downing tools, he hurried home to collect his skates and sail, and sped over the glass to Edgewood.

  The bird was still there; but it was a different bird. There was no carved heart with the love-tangled initials ZB and EF.

  And four days after that, mention came from Buckby of a bird spotted a few miles west of the village on the main road to Harborough. This time Jason borrowed a horse and rode. But the mention had come late; the bird had flown on a day earlier. Still, he felt obliged to search the area of the sighting for a fallen body or some other sign.

  And the week after that a bird appeared only a mile from Atherton itself; this one vanished even as Jason arrived on the scene … .

  Then one night Jason went down to the Wheatsheaf. It was several weeks, in fact, since he had last been in the alehouse; now he meant to get drunk, at the long bar under the horse brasses.

  Sam Partridge, Ned Darrow and Frank Yardley were there boozing; and an hour or so later Ned Darrow was offering beery advice.

  “Look, Jay, where’s the use in you dashing off every time someone spots a ruddy bird? Keep that up and you’ll make a ruddy fool of yourself And what if a bird pops up in Tuckerton? Bound to happen sooner or later. Going to rush off there too, are you, with your tongue hanging out?”

  “All this time you’re taking off work,” said Frank Yardley. “You’ll end up losing the job. Get on living is my advice.”

  “Don’t know about that,” said Sam Partridge unexpectedly. “Does seem to me as man ought to get his own back. Supposing Tarnover did do the dirty on the Babbidges—”

  “What’s there to suppose about it?” Jason broke in angrily.

  “Easy on, Jay. I was going to say as Babbidges are Atherton people. So he did the dirty on us all, right?”

  “Thanks to some people being a bit slow in their help.”

  Sam flushed. “Now don’t you start attacking everyone right and left. No one’s perfect. Just remember who your real friends are, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I’ll remember, never fear.”

  Frank inclined an empty glass from side to side. “Right. Whose round is it?”

  One thing led to another, and Jason had a thick head the next morning.

  In the evening Ned banged on the Babbidge door.

  “Bird on the glass, Sam says to tell you,” he announced. “How about going for a spin to see it?”

  “I seem to recall last night you said I was wasting my time.”

  “Ay, running around all over the country. But this is just for a spin. Nice evening, like. Mind, if you don’t want to bother … . Then we can all have a few jars in the Wheatsheaf afterwards.”

  The lads must really have missed him over the past few weeks. Quickly Jason collected his skates and sail.

  “But what about your supper?” asked his mother. “Sheep’s head broth.”

  “Oh, it’ll keep, won’t it? I might as well have a pasty or two in the Wheatsheaf.”

  “Happen it’s better you get out and enjoy yourself,” she said. “I’m quite content. I’ve got things to mend.”

  Twenty minutes later Jason, Sam, and Ned were skimming over the glass two miles out. The sky was crimson with banks of stratus, and a river of gold ran clear along the horizon: foul weather tomorrow, but a glory this evening. The glassy expanse flowed with red and gold reflections: a lake of blood, fire, and molten metal. They did not at first spot the other solitary sail-skater, nor he them, till they were quite close to the slow bird.

  Sam noticed first. “Who’s that, then?”

  The other sail was brown and orange. Jason recognized it easily. “It’s Tarnover!”

  “Now’s your chance to find out, then,” said Ned.

  “Do you mean that?”

  Ned grinned. “Why not? Could be fun. Let’s take him.”

  Pumping their legs, the three sail-skaters sped apart to outflank Tarnover—who spied them and began to turn. All too sharply, though. Or else he may have run into a slick of water on the glass. To Jason’s joy M
ax Tarnover, champion of the five villages, skidded.

  They caught him. This done, it didn’t take the strength of an ox to stop a skater from going anywhere else, however much he kicked and struggled. But Jason hit Tarnover on the jaw, knocking him senseless.

  “What the hell you do that for?” asked Sam, easing Tarnover’s fall on the glass.

  “How else do we get him up on the bird?”

  Sam stared at Jason, then nodded slowly.

  It hardly proved the easiest operation to hoist a limp and heavy body on to a slowly moving object whilst standing on a slippery surface; but after removing their skates they succeeded. Before too long Tarnover lay sprawled atop, legs dangling. Quickly with his pocketknife Jason cut the hemp cord from Tarnover’s sail and bound his ankles together, running the tether tightly underneath the bird.

  Presently Tarnover awoke, and struggled groggily erect. He groaned, rocked sideways, recovered his balance.

  “Babbidge … Partridge, Ned Darrow … ? What the hell are you up to?”

  Jason planted hands on hips. “Oh, we’re just playing a little prank, same as you did on my brother Dan. Who’s missing now; maybe forever, thanks to you.”

  “I never—”

  “Admit it, then we might cut you down.”

  “And happen we mightn’t,” said Ned. “Not until the Wheatsheaf closes. But look on the bright side: happen we might.”

  Tarnover’s legs twitched as he tested the bonds. He winced. “I honestly meant your brother no harm.”

  Sam smirked. “Nor do we mean you any. Ain’t our fault if a bird decides to fly off. Anyway, only been here an hour or so. Could easily be here all night. Right, lads?”