John Christopher - A Journey South

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A Journey South - a novelette by John Christopher

A Journey South

a novelette by John Christopher

An introduction by Keith Brooke

I can trace my own writing career back to a time as a boy when I first

read the works of John Christopher. The details may have become fuzzy

over

the course of the years, but the feelings inspired in me when I read

the

Tripods trilogy are still vivid: to use the hackneyed phrase, it was

the

sheer sense of wonder of Christopher's dystopian future which made such

huge impression. The future was going to be different in ways both

foreseeable and surprising, and yet people very like me may be there to

tackle the challenges life presented. The books gripped me from the

outset, and have never really let go.

I went on from the Tripods to read the usual young adult fare --

Heinlein,

Asimov et al-- and eventually to start scribbling down my own ideas for

how things might be.

Christopher set the standard with his young adult fiction (a standard I

still aspire towards when I write for that age group), and naturally

enough his fine oeuvre of adult fiction has sometimes been

overshadowed.

I'm delighted to be able to include this novelette in infinity plus,

but

even more pleased that 2000/2001 sees something of a John Christopher

revival. The December issue of Spectrum SF included the first

instalment

of a brand new novel, Bad Dream. And in 2001 Wildside's Cosmos imprint

will reissue several earlier novels and a collection of short fiction,

which will include "A Journey South".

I hope the story included here will inspire you to go on and find more

Christopher's work.

A Journey South

a novelette by John Christopher

In the early evening she seemed better. She could not eat anything, but

she said she would have a drink with him. He brought the glasses to her

bedside and they talked. Not about anything important; there had been a

lot of things he had thought of saying while she lay in drugged sleep,

but

they did not matter now. All that mattered was the two of them,

together,

continuing a dialogue of more than twenty years. They talked of the

month

they had spent the previous summer in the Orkneys, tramping through

deserted bird-haunted islands. He escaped from the present into that

fragment of their past and almost said "We must do it again," before

remembering.

When pain once more whitened her face he gave her a shot, and went to

the

next room to call Grimond. Flickering lights within the sphere

coalesced

into a face. Grimond said:

"Mike... How is she?"

Starmer told him. Grimond nodded, and his figure receded and distorted

he crossed the room to his diagnostic console. Starmer watched him

check

the dials which, over a distance of nearly fifty miles, recorded the

data

of her failing body -- temperature, respiration, pulse rate, blood

count

and the rest -- summed up and analyzed them. Back in close-up, Grimond

said:

"I'll come over."

"How long?"

"Be with you in half an hour."

Impatiently Starmer said: "Katherine. How long does she have?"

"A few hours. It could be less."

"Don't come."

"But..."

"Is there anything you can do for her that I can't?"

"No. But you should have someone with you,."

"I don't think so. And she'd know why."

"I can think up a reason."

"Nothing that would fool her. Thank you, John. It's late. Get some

sleep."

From her bed, she asked: "Was that John?" Starmer nodded. "What does he

say?"

"The same as always. We must be patient."

"You have been."

Their hands joined. The wasting was least apparent there: her fingers

had

always been thin. But they had also been strong, deft, lively, and now

were barely capable of answering his gentle pressure. He saw her mouth

twitch, and said:

"I'll give you another shot."

"No. It's all right. But..."

"What?"

Her grey eyes, so big in the shrunken face, engaged his.

"I'd like you to send for Martin."

"What do you want him for?"

She said, with an effort: "I want him."

"Perhaps in the morning."

The shake of her head seemed a visible draining of strength.

"Now. Please, darling. Now."

Martin wore his Counsellor's dress of crimson tunic and black cloak.

Starmer resented that though realizing it made no difference: his

presence

proclaimed his office. After a single look at Katherine, he wasted no

time

but moved into the ritual. The words were spoken, the responses made,

and

then it was time for the telling. Starmer wondered if he should leave,

but

neither said anything and he could not bear to go. She spoke in a low

voice, counting beads of memory: names of people, places that had made

the warp and weft of her life. The ones he recognized were bad enough,

but

it was worse hearing those others in which he had had no part. So much

her life he had not shared, and now never could.

Then the reconciliation. Listening out of a fog of misery, Starmer

acknowledged Martin did it well.

"Before the beginning of years

There came to the making of man

Time with a gift of tears,

Grief with a glass that ran.

Pleasure with pain for leaven,

Summer with flowers that fell..."

She listened with closed eyes. Perhaps the words did work magic for

her,

some kind of hope or healing.

"To every thing there is a season,

and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die."

There was no magic for Starmer. He thought of another scrap of old

verse,

and wanted to shout it:

"Do not go gentle... rage, rage against the dying of the light..."

But that was not in the ritual. The last duty of a Counsellor was the

bringing of peace, acceptance, resignation. He forced himself to keep

silence. This had to be endured because she had required it. Soon it

would

be over, and they would be together again, and alone, if only for a

brief

time. And every second of that time was worth a day, a year, of the

stunted life that waited for him, so near and so unwanted.

Then in mid passage Martin checked. Starmer saw her gaze was fixed.

"Rest in peace, sister," Martin said.

"Don't be a fool!" Starmer said. "She's not dead."

Martin made the farewell gesture. He said gently:

"She's dead, Michael."

He saw it was true. He had always prided himself on a stoical

acceptance

of realities, and knew he must accept this too. The overwhelming

bitterness lay in being cheated of that little time together, those

minutes he had counted on. He said:

"At the end.. .she was looking at you, not me."

"Close her eyes," Martin said.

Her flesh was warm to his fingers. When he had done it he looked down

her in silence. Martin said:

"Go to bed. A pill -- two. Three maybe. Leave everything to me."

"No." With an effort, he looked at the Counsellor. "You can go now."

"It's finished," Martin said. "There's a body there, that's all. There

are

necessary things to do, and I'm accustomed to them."

"I'll see to it. Everything."

"It's not usual. Or wise."

"Leave us."

Martin shrugged. "If you wish. I'll return in the morning."

"No. I don't want you. Or anyone."

"Your neighbours will want to come."

"No-one. Tell them no-one."

"Her friends have a right to mourn her."

"I'm not stopping them."

"In company; with you. Grief needs expression, and is best shared. That

has always been understood. And there's a grave to be dug."

"I'll dig it."

"It is the custom..."

"Customs are not laws. Are they?"

"No. But you need help."

"I'll be judge of that."

Martin shrugged. "I'll arrange to have a digger sent."

"Not necessary."

"There must be a burial, you know. That is the law. Burial or

incineration."

"I'll bury her."

"Without a digger?"

"Yes."

"That, won't be easy. You're not a young man."

"I'll dig the grave," Starmer said. "And to the regulation depth. Leave

now.

"We must talk some time."

"Some time."

"Call me if you want help."

"Yes. If I want help, I'll call you."

At university, when those of his year had chosen to be administrators,

artists, scientists, doctors, counsellors, Starmer had elected to be a

gardener. It was a minority activity, and even in that small field the

course he followed was not orthodox. He did not join with others in the

communes that created and tended the great gardens which people

travelled

across seas and continents to admire; nor did he, as was usual with

those

who preferred to work on their own, move on from garden to garden,

seeking

the countless forms of perfection. He created a single garden, over

long

years.

The garden itself, neither formal nor studiedly informal, belonged to

recognized school and in various ways was defiant of all of them. The

house stood on a knoll with woods behind it, and its grounds descended,

erratic sweeps, to the meadowed river which fed the lower water garden.

From the air, generally regarded as a crucial test, the whole thing

looked

awkward and chaotic, not so much unplanned as badly planned. From

within

though it had a pattern which was known to him.

As it had been to Katherine. He did not have to spend long looking for

the

spot in which to bury her. There was a point, a hundred yards or so

below

the house, to which the eye was drawn -- from below and either side as

well as from above. He took a spade and dug there.

It was hard work. He had used power tools less than most, but this was

grinding monotonous labour. The sun stung the salt sweat on his skin,

and

then, since it was an English May, sunshine gave way to heavy clouds

and

driving rain. In the middle of the day he rested, drank beer and ate

bread

and cheese; then dug again. It was late afternoon when he finished. He

brought out her body, weighing so little in its silk winding sheet, and

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John Christopher - A Journey South

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