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  The valley walls began to close in. Two long mounds, curiously even, grown over with small trees and weeds, thrust out from the foot of a cliff. Susan climbed one, and Nick, keeping close, saw they were tailings from a mine. Half hidden in ferns was the mouth of a shaft. It was black as night. Susan stumbled down the side of the mound and went towards it.

  ‘No, Susan. You can’t go in there.’

  He grabbed her, held her still. She screamed again. ‘It hurts. It’s pulling off my head.’

  ‘No. I’m not letting you.’ Whatever Halfies were, they would be in the mine. He tried to pull her back. ‘Oh,’ she cried. ‘O-oh.’ Her eyes seemed to be straining out of her face. From somewhere she found strength to push him off. He went staggering back and lost his balance. By the time he had picked himself up she was passing through the barrier of ferns into the mine.

  He did not want to go in there. But he knew he had to. He ran, and pushed the ferns aside and went into a wet darkness that smelled of mould and mud and dead water and carbide. Susan’s hair and clothes made a pale blur. He stumbled after them. Light died. ‘Susan.’ The sound was swallowed up. But a faint luminosity came from Susan’s skin. He tried to gain on her and in a moment reached her side and grabbed her hand. His feet splashed in water, his shoulders brushed on rotten stone and rotten timber. The only light came from Susan’s face and eyes. She was ghostly. She glowed with a red unnatural light. But her hand in his was warm. That was all he recognized of her.

  Presently she stopped. She tried to free herself. He would not let her go. He saw they had come to the end of the shaft. Relief overwhelmed him. No Halfies, whatever they were. And nowhere for Susan to go. She would have to come home. He tried to pull her back. But she braced herself and stood firmly. In a voice he did not recognize she said, ‘Let go my hand.’

  ‘Come home, Susan. We’ll get a doctor. We’ll get the police.’

  Her eyes stared redly at him. No trace of blue in them now. ‘I’m going through.’ As he watched, the light of her skin began to fade. Her eyes grew dim. The weight of her hand in his grew less, and looking down he saw it was transparent, it was like glass. He saw his own hand through it. Then a force like a great wind hurled him back against the tunnel wall. He felt as if he had been struck with hammers. He could not move, but lay tumbled on the wet floor of the shaft and watched Susan fade, grow colourless, shimmer with white light. She was printed on the blackness like a figure in the negative of a photograph. Then she was gone. There was a wet sound, a greedy sucking, like something being dragged through a muddy hole. He thought he heard a faint cry, like the lost cry of a gull in the night. Nothing then. Only the steady sound of dripping water.

  He pulled himself to his feet. He ran, half falling, half on hands and knees, knocking lumps of rotting wood from the tunnel walls. The light of the opening grew. He burst out through the ferns and fell on the ground. Then he scrambled away from the dark entrance, away from the horror that lived in there. ‘Susan,’ he cried. It was a cry of grief and incomprehension. What had just happened was impossible – yet it had happened. And Susan was gone, turned into something impossible, sucked away through some hole into … where? where?

  He lay on the shingle by the creek, sobbing with disbelief. The water chattered by. A fantail dived about him, chirping in a friendly way. The drumming of cicadas filled the air. He lay there listening. Slowly he came to understand that the world was as it should be. Only Jimmy Jaspers, only whatever it was that lived in the mineshaft, did not belong. What had been done to Susan could not happen in the real world. That meant … it meant that it was magic of some kind. Of an evil kind. But how was he to tell anyone? How could he explain it to his father, his mother, to Susan’s parents, to the police? No one was going to believe him. But Susan had to be saved. Wherever she was, someone had to find her and bring her back. He began to understand what he must do.

  Slowly he got to his feet. The fantail fluttered away upstream. Nick looked at the mineshaft. It was black as night. ‘Right Susan, don’t be scared.’ There was a way, and he was going to take it. He started off downstream, running steadily. He came to the gorge and started in, walking first, then swimming as the bottom fell away.

  He was half-way through, deep in shadows, swimming silently, when he heard a noise: a shrill ugly whistling, like a fault in a radio set. It echoed in the gorge. A small stone plopped in the water close to his face. He swam in close to the wall of the gorge, until the sky was hidden. He was sharp, alert; he knew at once the sound was Jimmy Jaspers whistling. The old man was heading for the mineshaft, making his way along the top of the gorge. More stones splashed in the water. Jimmy Jaspers cursed. The sound was magnified by the gorge. The old man sounded as if he was at Nick’s elbow. Nick held his breath. He lay still as a trout in the water. Slowly the sounds died away. When they were gone, when all that was left was his own breathing, Nick started back the way he had come. He swam without letting his arms or legs break the surface. He came out of the gorge in time to see Jimmy Jaspers, wearing his pack, vanish into the hollow between the tailing mounds. He pulled himself out of the water, ran bent almost double to the nearer mound, climbed it carefully, and peered down.

  Jaspers had stopped at the entrance to the shaft. He was struggling out of his pack. It fell with a clank on the ground. Nick winced. The bottle, that blue bottle – it must not break. But Jaspers was crouching, unbuckling the straps. His ragged breathing came to Nick on top of the mound. He pushed his hand in the pack, felt around, and pulled out the bottle. It gleamed dully, and Nick watched fascinated as the old man leered at it, bounced it on his palm.

  ‘Now,’ Jimmy Jaspers crowed, ‘now yer bloddy Halfies, I’m comin’ fer me pay. I sent that girlie through and now I want the gold yer promised me.’

  He pulled the cork out of the bottle. At once the solid-seeming oily smoke swayed up like a snake. Jimmy Jaspers stared at it cross-eyed. ‘Pretty stuff. Reckon it’s pretty stuff. C’mon. Gimme a sniff.’ The smoke seemed to respond, turned sinuously at him, and seemed to writhe into his mouth and nose. ‘Ah,’ said Jimmy Jaspers, ‘better’n whisky.’ He corked the bottle and put it in his pack. Nick could see no change in him. He must be used to it. As for himself, he caught that same carbide smell and tried to keep his breathing shallow.

  Jimmy Jaspers straightened up. He was grinning eagerly. ‘Stop yer pullin’,’ he said, ‘I don’t need no pullin’.’ He left his pack lying on the ground and went to the shaft. He pushed the ferns aside, and with a last furtive glare at the valley, passed inside. For a moment the sound of his boots came out but soon it died to a shuffle, then was gone.

  Nick crept over the mound. He went cautiously to the pack and saw the bottle gleaming in its depths. He looked at the mine nervously, then took the bottle out. It was very cold. He put his thumb on the cork, making sure it was tight. He did not want that smoke coming out until he was ready.

  He went to the mouth of the mine. No sound in there. He listened carefully. Once he thought he heard laughter. The carbide smell was strong. He waited. At last he heard the sound he’d been waiting for: that hideous, greedy sucking-sound, as Jimmy Jaspers passed like dirty water through to wherever it was he was travelling. And wherever that was, Susan was there too. And the Halfies. He shivered. For a moment he had the hideous vision of men split down the middle, from the top right through to the bottom, falling in halves like two planks of timber. Then he shook himself. Susan was there. That was all he really had to worry about. He was the only one who could bring her back.

  The ferns tickled his face. He touched them with his fingertips. It was like saying goodbye. He was almost crying with fear, but another part of him was cold and brave. He held up the blue bottle. Something moved in it, coiling lazily. ‘Here goes,’ Nick said. He pulled out the cork.

  The yellow smoke reared out and turned towards him.

  3

  Odo Cling

  It was like being sucked into a dream of red lights streaming in water; then of
going deeper, until the light was water, all colour gone, until water was mud, jet black, and mud had turned to earth and earth to stone, and stone was everything, stone was the world and life, stone was air, stone was past and future, stone was the screaming sound she tried to make. And then – before that last tiny consciousness faded away (and she held on to it desperately, for it was all she had) – the whole process went into reverse, there was a painful climbing back, through stone, through earth, through mud, through light and water. It was like being born. It was terrible, and glorious, coming back to life. Red lights streamed again, spinning like whirlpools. The sucking was reversed. She was being thrust up, she was spinning up the walls of a giant funnel into the world after being sucked hungrily into the stomach of death. She screamed with relief.

  A bumping of knees, a painful scraping of palms: and she was Susan Ferris, kneeling in cold water in the dark of the mineshaft. Her hair was tangled in a skein round her throat, as though it had been beaten in a storm. She stood up and peeled it away. She drew in a shuddering breath. Nick was gone. There was all about a feeling of such emptiness that she knew no other living thing was close. She was not afraid. A blackness thick as wool was crammed in her eyes. But she had come through something worse than that.

  She put out her hands and felt the walls of the tunnel. They were hard and slimy. She felt all about, trying to find which way led to the open. Soon she found it, and set off down the tunnel, feeling her way. It seemed to go on and on. It went round curves she could not remember. But that, she thought, must have been because she had been drugged. She had been sick with the terrible smoke Jimmy Jaspers had thrust under her nose. Her head was clear now and her fingers tingled with life as she felt her way down the midnight walls.

  Soon a faint lessening of the darkness showed ahead. She went eagerly towards it. A greyness in it made her pause a moment. It looked as if night were falling out there. She wondered how long she had been in the shaft. Perhaps that hideous dream had lasted the whole of the day. But in that case, where was Nick? Why hadn’t he come with help for her?

  She hurried on. The grey light grew. It was the colour of lead. She wondered if some dreadful accident had taken place outside. Perhaps the bush had caught fire and smoke had blotted out the sun.

  The mouth of the shaft seemed wider than it had been. It was reinforced with logs like railway sleepers. There were no ferns. Susan walked out on a tongue of stone. She looked about, gave a cry, and fell down on her knees.

  The creek was gone, the bush was gone, the tailing mounds were gone. And everything was grey: a huge grey cloudless sky, grey land, grey hills rolling endlessly down until they were lost in a haze, ashy stunted trees, twisted unnaturally, grass the colour of tin. But worst of all, most hideous of all, burning without colour overhead, a huge black sun, set up there like an iron hot-plate in the sky.

  Susan screamed. She looked at herself. Her skin was grey, her nails gleamed like chips of polished stone. She grabbed a handful of hair and pulled it round. It was grey and dead as an old woman’s hair. She cried out with horror and disbelief. She pushed her hands away from her, throwing them away. They were not part of her. Her hair was no part. She refused them. And this grey world in front of her was an evil dream.

  But it would not go away. She closed her eyes, opened them. Trees, hills, sky, sun – still there. Hands still there, grey as leprosy. She wept grey tears on them.

  After a while she climbed to her feet. She turned about. She did not know where to go or what to do. The mouth of the shaft was a black half-circle. She was not going in there, even though going back – trying to find a way through that spinning dream – was the only escape that occurred to her. On either side of the shaft stone walls curved away. Beyond were hills, stretching along the horizon, and mountains with grey snow on them, standing steep and tall, like a file of monks in shapeless habits. Where was she? Where was she? This was not her world. This must be hell.

  She put her face in her hands. She heard with a kind of wonder the choking sounds that came from her throat. She felt the warmth of tears flowing on her palms. They were the only things that still seemed right.

  A voice spoke close to her with a scratchy softness. ‘Good! Good! Hee! Your pain is most amusing.’

  Susan screamed. The man in front of her had come like a ghost. She stared at him without any understanding. He was no taller than her, and a good deal thinner. He was dressed all in leather and black iron, like a Roman soldier. An iron cap was close about his skull. He was grey, like her; except his eyes. They were red. She was almost glad to see this sign of colour, even though his eyes were bright and cruel.

  ‘Who,’ she managed to say, ‘who are you?’

  ‘I am Odo Cling.’ His voice had the sound of a nail scratching tin. ‘I am a Great One. I am Executive Officer. I am Doer of Deeds for the One Who Rules, Otis Claw, Darksoul, Ruler of O, where pain is truth. I am Second. One day I shall rule.’ His eyes grew a deeper red. ‘I shall bring you to the Pit. I shall be the one. Otis Claw shall make room for me.’ He drew himself up taller. He showed his teeth.

  Susan stared at him. She was afraid; yet the only thought she could find was, what a stupid little man! At last she laughed. She could not think of anything else to do.

  Odo Cling gave a screech. He struck at her with a short leather whip he held in his hand. She stepped back and it whistled by her face. She turned to run. But it was Odo Cling’s turn to laugh. He rattled with mirth.

  ‘Where are you running to, Mixie? Have you not seen?’

  By that time Susan had. She came to a halt. All about the tongue of stone silent men were standing. They had come without a sound. They were dressed in black robes, like monks, and had black hoods on their heads. Only their grey hands and leathery feet showed any human resemblance. Deep in their hoods, pinkish eyes watched without expression.

  ‘These are my guards, the Deathguard,’ Odo Cling said. ‘They move like night and death. You cannot escape. Do not try.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Bring her close to me.’

  The hooded circle closed on Susan. It drew in like a tightening noose. She turned, looking for a gap, but there was none. Two guards darted out. They had her by her arms before she knew it. She felt their fingers bite upon her elbows. They brought her close to Odo Cling. She saw his burning eyes, and smelt from him the bitter chemical stink of the yellow smoke. He raised his whip and grinned at her. Then he lowered it. ‘No. No. I shall deliver her unscarred. Later we shall kill her. The Mark. Let me see it.’

  One of the guards seized her arm in both his hands. He thrust it forward for Odo Cling to see. The mark on her wrist showed plainly, one half black, the other a pale grey, only a little darker than the skin surrounding it. Odo Cling bent close. He smiled with a twist of his mouth, and poked his skinny finger at it, but stopped short. Susan saw he was frightened. He beckoned with his whip and a guard stepped from the circle and came to his side.

  ‘Touch it.’

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘Touch. Do you disobey me?’

  ‘No, Lord.’ The man glided up to Susan. She looked into the dark of his hood and saw his pink eyes swimming with terror. He put his hand out and brought a trembling finger down towards her wrist. But he could not make himself touch. ‘Lord?’

  Odo Cling flicked his whip across the man’s face. ‘I shall give you to the dogs.’

  ‘No Lord, I shall touch.’ He pushed his finger down. It came to rest on the black half of the mark. Susan felt only the scratch of his fingernail. But he began to tremble. Tears of satisfaction stood in his eyes. ‘Lord, there is the glory of all darkness here.’

  ‘Enough,’ Odo Cling said. ‘The other one.’

  ‘I wish for more.’

  Odo Cling slashed his whip down on the man’s forearm. ‘Enough, I say.’ The man cried out. He nursed his arm. ‘Forgive me, Lord. The pleasure was too great.’

  ‘The other one.’

  ‘I obey.’ He brought his finger down on the pale side of th
e mark. At once he began to writhe. He raised his face and howled. He tried to pull his hand away but his finger seemed stuck to Susan’s skin. ‘Lord, the good is here. Save me.’

  Odo Cling nodded. Another guard sprang forward and knocked the man away. He lay on the ground sobbing. Odo Cling watched him thoughtfully. He turned to Susan. ‘It seems you bear the true Mark. Now, the final test. You.’ He jerked his whip at the guard who had sprung forward. ‘See what happens when you touch them both.’

  This man was better trained. ‘Yes, Lord.’ He came up to Susan. His pink eyes shone with fear, but he put his hand out steadily and brought his finger down on the black half of the mark. His body shook. He bared his teeth, and brought his thumb down on the other half.

  Susan felt nothing. Her arm seemed to be numb. But the instant the man’s thumb came to rest a crack like the sound of a stock-whip split the air and the man was lifted and hurled backwards. He turned like a great grey bird, and came down on his back in a tangle of robes. No one moved to help him. He groaned, shook his head and hauled himself into a sitting position. One of his hands dangled useless. With the other he pulled out a pad of cloth on a string at his throat and held it to his nose. In a moment he staggered to his feet. Groaning, he said, ‘Lord, it struck like a hammer.’

  Another man came forward and looked at him. ‘His hand is shattered, Lord.’

  Odo Cling turned to Susan. ‘Bind her.’

  The men holding her drew her arms behind her back and tied them tightly. Odo Cling inspected the knot. ‘You are dangerous, Mixie. You are the last enemy.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Susan said. ‘I just want to go home.’

  ‘Home?’ Odo Cling laughed. ‘Soon you will be saying mother and father. These words have no meaning. You are in O, the world of Halfmen. We shall take you to Darksoul, to the Pit. Then you will die.’