Authors: Chris James
Other worries played on his mind and these he tried to deal with rationally one by one. Kerry Jackson was in no danger from the French, he reasoned, because he was too much in the public eye now – a media hero. The fact that Jackson’s father was the Prime Minister of New Zealand was also helpful, even though his son was no longer a New Zealander.
Four hundred and fifty miles east of the beached convoy, Kerry Jackson was released penniless onto the streets of Paris. Almost immediately, and out of the jaws of the newsmen about to devour him, he was bundled into a black Citroen and taken to a hotel near Paris Beauvais Airport. There, he was introduced to Rebecca Schein, who had been there for a week.
“Glad to see you, Rebecca” Jackson said. “Watched you being winched up. We saw the next rescue, too, but then lost sight of the chopper. I’m really sorry about your mates. What happened out there?”
Schein winced. “Hard to describe, Kerry. Fear, helplessness and hopelessness as we were being whipped and tossed around by the waves. Then, relief when they attached the winch to my waist. Then, elation as they pulled me aboard. Then, joy when they got Mary in. Then, despair when their CPR on her failed. Then, when I knew that was i
t−
that all the others were dead, too… I’ve never felt an emotion like it.” Schein forced a smile. “Life goes on, Kerry. We’re both flying to the island in the morning in the same helicopter that rescued me.”
When Pilot emerged from his cabin, it was raining harder than ever and all work outside had stopped. He sat down with Serman to try to clear the fog in his brain and organize some indoor work, but it was obvious that he didn’t want to work and neither did anyone else.
The remainder of that wet Thursday Pilot spent trying to get to know the advisers. Of particular interest was stonemason and jack-of-all-trades, Mirko Soldo. Soldo had worked all over the world in a variety of occupations, from car assembly worker to masseur. For Pilot, his attraction was a seemingly inexhaustible knowledge of all subjects from dowsing to smoking ham. He struck Pilot as being the vocational version of Forrest Vaalon. Normal lifespan and normal brain capacity ruled out the ideal – to know everything about everythin
g−
but Pilot’s white-maned mentor and the bearded Soldo came pretty close in their different ways. “Do you know the history of cement, Lonnie?” Soldo said, launching a monologue that captivated Pilot for over an hour.
Dr. Leidar Dahl, coming from the highest latitudes of Norway, hated to waste sunlight, so it was only natural that he was always the first one up in the morning. But when he entered the mess room to fix himself breakfast, three people were already there. Billy, Bradingbrooke and Nirpal Banda, the crew’s only Indian, had been so close to the convoy the previous evening that it seemed crazy to spend another night on the rock. So, under a bright moon, they’d walked back through the night and were exhausted. What they had found, they wanted to deliver in person, rather than by radio. While the three finished their coffee, Dr. Dahl left to wake up Pilot.
A few minutes later, Pilot entered the mess room and sat down at their table. “Make my day,” Pilot said, digging the sleep from his eyes.
Billy slapped his notebook on the table and flipped a few pages. “We set off in a southwesterly direction, which we thought would be the shortest route to the coast,” he said. “After two hours we reckoned we’d covered ten miles, but even from that distance we could still see the convoy. Not a lot of woodland out there to get in the way. Nothing but slick, grey-black rock as far as the eye can see.”
“It smells like salt and dried snake skin,” Banda said.
“All we could hear was the wind in our ears and we might as well have been the last people on the planet,” Billy continued. “We carried on walking for another three miles, expecting to fall off the edge at any minute. Over to you, Henry.” Billy went to refill his cup, leaving Bradingbrooke to continue the story.
“Because the view in front was always uphill, we never saw a horizon, and when we finally did come to the edge, it caught us by surprise. Below us was a fog bank. It was impossible to gauge how far down it was. We followed the cliff edge northwest and after a while saw a gap in the white-out below. Waves were crashing against the base of the cliff about two hundred metres down. The elevation began lowering from there, and after four hours of walking, we’d dropped to about two hundred feet above the sea. It was nearly five o’clock by then and we were tired, so we stuck our tents to the rock and went to bed. In the morning we carried on northwest and came to the mouth of a kind of loch or fjord.”
Or a turbidity canyon, Pilot thought.
“It was only a few hundred yards across at the entrance. We followed the inlet eastward for a mile, descending all the time, then the loch turned south and started narrowing. We followed it for another half a mile before it ended with gentle waves lapping against the rock. It was too steep to get down from our bit of the cliff so we carried on south. Where the water stopped, a basin continued, surrounded on three sides by escarpments.”
“How big was the basin?” Pilot asked.
“At a guess, half a square mile. At the head of the basin, ravines drop down from the high ground – not steeply, but too narrow to get our wagons down. Further around, though, there’s a wider and much gentler slope that we could easily handle.” Bradingbrooke passed the floor back to Billy.
“We climbed down into the basin and as soon as we dropped below the rim, the wind, which had been blowing a gale, stopped. Five minutes later we were sweating like suet puddings. Let’s show ‘im what we found, Nirpal.”
Banda reached into his rucksack, pulled out a plastic bag containing a browny-grey substance and handed it to Pilot. “The entire floor of the basin is pockmarked with large pits, and inside the pits are tons of that shit,” Billy said. “It smells like peat and feels good and mulchy. We ought to get it analysed. I might be wrong, but I reckon we’ve found our farm. And there’s a built-in harbour with it.
And
it’s only five hours from here.” The arrival of a hot breakfast of porridge, scrambled eggs and the last of the black pudding formally brought the debriefing to an end.
Up on deck afterwards, with the early morning sun at last beginning to make its warmth felt, Pilot, Billy, Bradingbrooke and Banda stared out southwestwards where, only thirteen miles away, the crooked loch and pitted basin were beginning their fifth day out of water.
“What should we call it?” Billy asked.
“That’s the job of the discoverers,” Pilot said.
Bradingbrooke pulled out his phone and opened ‘Notes’. “We’ve written a few names down.”
Pilot took the phone and began to read. “
Avalon
.
Ys
?”
“The Welsh and Cornish Celts called it Avalon,” Bradingbrooke said, “and the Bretons called it Ys – the Valhalla of the Celtic Heroes. It sank into the Western Sea.”
“What does this one mean?”
“Ah,” said Billy. “
Gurigay
is from the Bundjalung indigenous language and means
the
meeting
of
the
waters
. Coraki, a corruption of Gurigay, is where my grandfather was born.”
Pilot pondered the name. “
Gurigay’s
not doing it for me, Josiah. Sorry. What’s the thinking behind this one?”
“When you told us about coming up with a name for the island, one of the possibles was
Nilstaat
,” Bradingbrooke said. “You said it sounded too German. though. So, what about dropping the ‘staat’ and just calling it
Nil
. Latin root. Pretty universal. Nil describes what we are – nothing. Neither one thing nor the other. Write it in reverse and join the two and, in line with your idea of living the second half of our lives backwards, you get
Nillin
.”
“I’ve always wanted to live in a palindrome,” Billy said.
“Then you will.” Pilot liked the name. “
Nillin
. Full circle back to zero, where we can start over. I’m just going to check something.”
In the communication room, Pilot looked up nihilism in the online dictionary. Nihilism; from the Latin
nihil
, nothing. The two definitions he felt did NOT miss the mark were: 1) rejection of all distinctions in moral or religious value and a willingness to repudiate all previous theories of morality or religious belief; and 2) the belief that destruction of existing political or social institutions is necessary for future improvement…
In the world of normal men and women, reaction to the events in the Bay of Biscay was slow to crystallise into hard opinion. The emergence of the island was as yet of no more significance than a solar eclipse would have been. The political wrangling over its sovereignty was lost on the majority, who were more interested in cricket, the price of petrol or how to make the most of what remained of their summer holidays.
The fringe world of the astrological, the three-dimensional, the quasi-religious and the just slightly off-centre, however, was humming like the national grid over the apparent supernatural aspects of the settlers’ landing on Eydos – their foreknowledge of events; their seeming second sight. The IGP’s role was conveniently ignored. Already, an obscure religious sect based in Idaho calling themselves the Disciples of the Seraphic Prodigy was arranging means of transportation to the island – money no obstacle. Lonnie Pilot was The First Cause, The Second Coming, The Third Side of the Coin, The Fourth Wise Man or The Fifth Rider of the Apocalypse, depending on which cult you subscribed to. It didn’t end there. Every organised minority in the world saw Eydos as a potential new homeland on which to cultivate and strengthen its hatred of belonging. There were individuals, too, who saw in Lonnie Pilot the mirror image of themselves, although they had never seen him and knew not the first thing about him. These lost souls were sitting down in their hundreds, composing letters to Pilot on
why
they should join him,
how
they should join him and
when
they should join him. The only communion these misfits would share with each other was inside the mail sacks which began to arrive on Eydos from the end of September (word having gotten out that personal mail to the settlers was routed through the aerodrome at Saint Helier), and on the forty fake Eydos accounts that had sprung up on Facebook and Twitter.
On a diplomatic level, Britain’s attempt to turn the island into a United Nations Protectorate had been defeated. Standing against it had been the increasing number of allies Geirsson was helping to win over, particularly Canada, Russia and the Scandinavian countries. More importantly, America had been throwing her weight behind Eydos, seeing the island’s strategic location as being worth every manner of cajolery. Indeed, it was the USA that took the islanders’ claim and showed it to be unassailable in law as a bona fide statement of ownership and possession – a possession, what’s more, that had been verified by the remarkable videos taken of the landing from the flotilla itself. These had been given to Austin Palmer by Pilot on the newsman’s second visit and Palmer had ensured their widest possible exposure, including 1.2 billion YouTube hits. The initial stages of the French invasion, filmed by the settlers themselves, had also been shown in an attempt to shame that nation into leaving the island. But it had the effect of making France only dig in deeper.
Although wreckage from
Shenandoah
had been found by one of the east coast exploration parties, there was no evidence, so far, of the
Largesse
to scupper Pilot’s claim.
When the Spanish Cardinal’s representative arrived on Eydos carrying the word of God, Pilot had told him politely that Christianity was founded on events that had taken place, or been composed, over two millennia earlier. As Catholicism had not sought to move with the times since then, there was no meeting point between the Church and Eydos. “We’re sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing,” Pilot had said. “We could have told you this in a letter.” The chastened priest had been quick to leave the island. Pilot’s ambassador in Madrid, meanwhile, had asked the Spanish government to make a formal representation to France to relinquish its illegal foothold on the island. This, Spain had done, but only after it had become clear to them that the wind was in favour of an independent Eydos.
The British tabloids had been having a field day with headlines like:
Sir Henry Bradingbrooke, the Knight who stole an Island
and
L. Pilot – el Capitan of the good ship Eydos
and
The Pirate of Penzance gets stuck in
More serious investigations were being made into the settlers themselves and the people behind them. The fact that the ocean going barges were part of a fleet owned by the American billionaire Forrest Vaalon, who also happened to be the Director of the IGP, was a coincidence too far. Also, Alistair Jeckyll and three of the other settlers had been products of Scholasticorps, the charity founded by Ruth Vaalon. Very little information was available on the mysterious tutor from Cornwall, Lonnie Pilot, who was already being called ‘Vaalon’s Puppet’. The Puppetmaster himself had gone to ground in New Mexico.
On the Wikipedia entry for Eydos, there was a link to the 86 settlers, which included the five deceased, and biographical information was being added all the time. The point was made that half of the islanders came from well respected families; at least ten of them had criminal pasts; the group spanned eight nationalities; and their ages ranged from 23 to 34.
As for the island’s enigmatic leader, those people who read the more respected titles with any understanding saw ‘a subject of interest’ through the contradiction, obscurity and riddles. Others were beginning to get nervous. The policy-makers of the world found Pilot’s manner provocative, simply through its lack of definition. His declaration on the day of landing had sounded ludicrous and fanciful at first, but as time had passed, and Eydos’ credibility increased, it had become a source of worry to many. Like the sniper in the trees who can’t be seen, Lonnie Pilot, each feared, would start taking pot shots at them the moment they strayed within his sights.
More worrying to the islanders, if they had known, was that a group of lawyers in the Hague had already begun drawing up papers to bring Henry Bradingbrooke before the International Court to face charges of ‘negligent genocide’.
Progress on the Island had been good. Three weeks after landfall, the thirteen mile route from the beached barges to Nillin, marked out initially by bits of wreckage, but now delineated by wheel marks and the extra shininess of the rock, was constantly busy as the haulage of materials and goods went into full swing.
None of the wagons they were using was motorised, but rather drawn husky-style by ten or more crew depending on the weight of the load. From the barges, although the uphill gradient was very slight, it was enough of a pull to make a difference to calf muscles, with loads often in excess of one ton. Nobody was asked to make more than one trip a day, so on average eight tons only was shipped every 24 hours. It was a slow process and the bags of cement alone required twenty trips.
Mirko Soldo’s first responsibility was to build the cisterns. He and two crew were testing the depth of the sediment pits by pushing long metal rods into the forgiving earth until they hit rock. “This one is deep enough,” he said to his companions after they’d measured the fifth pit. “Why waste time and dynamite to make the holes when we have shovels and spoons?” The pit he chose was located at the base of the western cliff wall and offered a capacity far in excess of their needs. By redirecting the rivulets in the cliff face into the cistern, a more than sufficient supply of rainwater from the adjacent high ground would find its way into the reservoir. Gathering a digging crew of twenty, Soldo set to work clearing the pit.
The theory proved to be far easier than the practice, and just removing the sediment from the pit and scouring its walls clean took two weeks. Cement and stone pillars were then raised to support a roof of reinforced concrete six inches thick into which two access hatches and two manual pumps were incorporated. A separate compartment housing the filter bed was made at the point the water was to enter, and the entire construction was covered over by the sediment as part insulation, part camouflage. The rain channels would take longer to fashion, but in the meantime, there was all the water from
Fort
Lowell
,
Chiswick
Eyot
, and
Bimbo’s
Kraal
to transfer. The water wagon, with a capacity of four thousand gallons, was used half-empty for each trip, as the manpower required to pull a full load couldn’t be spared.
In these early days, everyone was camping in the sediment beds which had dried quite hard, but not so hard as to make tent pegs unusable. The only problem with the rubber suckers was that they tended to come unstuck from the rock in high winds, so the pegs-in-sediment option had won through in the end. The weather was mild and the wind only felt when it came from the north or south. Harvey Giles hoped to cure this over a period of years by planting rows of poplars, which could grow six to eight feet a year. Cottonwoods could guarantee windbreaks and firewood in four years, pulp timber in eight years and lumber in less than 20.
When another prolonged rainstorm came on September 15th, Soldo’s rainwater collection system was ready for it. At the deluge’s end three days later, the cistern, previously only three or four percent full, was at 45% capacity. Despite this success, a second, smaller cistern was begun as a back-up, in case the main one was accidentally or deliberately contaminated.
To help keep morale high, Pilot allowed everyone two nights a week back at the convoy to use Ptolemy’s hot showers and to rest in comparative luxury. Everyone was aware, however, that this style of living was limited to how long the fuel for the barge’s generators lasted. Energy would then have to be provided by solar panels and wind turbines, but these were not scheduled to be installed at Nillin until December. Not wanting to be away from the action, Pilot stayed at the embryonic settlement and made do with cold washes.
The results of the sediment analysis had been cause for genuine celebration, for it was found to be rich in nitrates and minerals. In the agronomist’s opinion, mixed with the topsoil they had brought, it would make a most fertile ground for planting. One practical test of the soil quality was to see what happened to Giles’ poplar and cottonwood cuttings. He had marked a line forty to fifty yards in from the shore, traversing as much of the sediment as possible, and dug in topsoil, compost and manure. Then he put down his cuttings and, like an expectant father, paced around day after day waiting to see if his saplings would take or not.
All the time there was the disturbing presence of the French observation post, newly established on the cliff-top above them. At night, the campfires were a glowing reminder of their house arrest, and the soldiers made themselves as conspicuous and intimidating as possible.
One day, on an impulse, Pilot and Bartoli climbed up to the outpost, where they were coldly received by the officer in charge and shown little hospitality. “Why don’t you move your camp down to the basin out of the wind?” Pilot invited, sensing that the exposed position couldn’t be making their lives all that comfortable. The French Lieutenant said he would put it to his commander and let them know in due course. “If you
do
move down,” Pilot explained before departing, “You’ll be expected, as temporary residents of Nillin, to do your full share of work.”
Nothing more was heard from the French outpost.
France had banned flights to Eydos from her territories, so once a week a helicopter would arrive from Jersey with personal mail and any items that had been requested by the work parties. Most of the letters Pilot received were requests from people to come out and join him and his crew. Some had been heartening messages of support, including a 14-page letter from his mother, who was now living back in Penzance, having divorced the snake. Sally and Hilda had written to say how proud they were of him and how they had always known he would do well, etcetera, etcetera. A postcard from Jenny had also found its way to Eydos. It was a photograph of Ayres Rock, on top of which she had doodled a barge with half a jumbo jet on its deck.
Hope
you’re
enjoying
‘
Australia’
, she had written.
Exhibition
a
success
and
there’s
proper
food
on
my
table
.
Good
luck
with
whatever
it
is
you’re
doing
there
and
whomever
you’re
doing
it
with
.
Missing
you
,
Jen
. In the caption she had crossed out Ayres Rock and replaced it with its Aboriginal name, Uluru. Pilot had felt a momentary stab of guilt at never having contacted his former lover, but the demands of his own rocky outcrop had soon buried it, along with the postcard.
Already, the physical demands of life on the island and Pilot’s growing feeling of responsibility were taking their toll. As far as knowing what to do next, his resolve and initiative had evaporated – like the actor who forgets his lines, or the author who writes himself into a corner in the plot and doesn’t know how to get out. To the question of how to keep his island healthy in a decomposing world, Pilot had no answer as yet. What troubled him most was the possibility that his acedia might never leave him.
After six days in the spiritual wilderness, Pilot decided that a taste of the physical wilderness might act as a mental elixir. He climbed to the cliff-top, taking with him no food or water and little in the way of warm clothing, hoping that the deprivation might shock some sense into him. He followed the coast for six miles before hunger turned him around and brought him back to the bluff overlooking Nillin. Peering down at the prefabs in various stages of assembly below, he thought how ugly they all looked and how gruesome a scar the settlers had already made on the land. Then he raised his gaze towards the French encampment on the far rim of the basin. The sight reminded him of the tinker’s yard near Long Rock with its axles, pallets and endless metal drums and plastic sacks fighting for the eyes’ attention. In comparison to France’s scar, Nillin’s didn’t seem so bad. This gross defilement of a young virgin signalled the end of Pilot’s inertia. It was time to send their unwelcome guests home. With a sense of renewed purpose, he inflated himself to his full height and stomped back to Nillin. But it wasn’t just his ire that was growing, and he needed to share his reawakening libido in secret with his new paramour.
He headed straight for the western rim where she and four other crew were planting cottonwoods. He infiltrated the group, picked up a spare shovel and began digging in topsoil and sediment with an energy he hadn’t had for weeks. Every so often he would stop and look across at her. This time, she was on her hands and knees, patting the earth down around a newly planted sapling. Her pert, rounded buttocks, thinly veiled by pale blue shorts, swished invitingly to and fro and he could feel the life force pumping into his loins. At the end of the planting session, he walked up to her, looked around to see if anyone was watching, kissed her hot neck and whispered, “Are you up for some play?”
She smiled and pressed her palm against his zipper. “I see
you
are.”
“Usual place?”
“You go there now. I will wait ten minutes.”
No sooner had she closed the door to the tool store than Pilot was on her, and she on him. Lips and tongues locked in carnal combat as the pair urgently removed eachother’s clothes, desperate to get to grips with their desire. When only her panties remained, he teasingly slowed the pace. Gripping the waistband with each hand, he gradually pulled down, lowering his head as he did so until he was facing her tangled triangle. He savoured the view for a moment, then buried his face in her lush black growth, still damp from hours of hard labour, while above him, her sighs of pleasure were like songbirds in the forest canopy…
In
the
ground
floor
flat
of
the
ten
-
storey
apartment
block
at
the
corner
of
Andrey
Bartenev
street
,
a
strange
thing
had
happened
.
All
seven
occupants
of
the
apartment
–
an
elderly
woman
,
her
son
,
his
wife
and
their
four
children
–
had
died
in
unison
during
the
night
,
erased
forever
from
the
Siberian
smokepit
they
called
home
.
Norilsk
,
a
centre
for
nickel
smelting
and
the
northernmost
city
in
the
world
,
is
also
one
of
the
most
polluted
.
But
it
wasn’t
the
strontium
-
90
,
caesium
-
137
,
carbon
oxides
,
sulfur
dioxide
,
phenols
,
or
hydrogen
sulfide
that
had
killed
the
Yatchiks
.
Nor
was
it
the
nickel
,
copper
,
cobalt
,
lead
and
selenium
particulates
in
the
air
.
A
far
more
lethal
killer
had
risen
from
its
lair
far
beneath
the
earth
to
pull
the
family
to
its
invisible
bosom
...