Fireball (2 page)

He supposed he ought to say something to Brad.

“There aren't any badgers here, as far as we know. It's sort of Granny's joke.”

“Sure. Dachshund. Means badger hound. They raised them for badger baiting, in Germany.”

Obviously, Simon thought, it was too much to ask that just once Brad could be told something, instead of knowing it in advance. Thunder rumbled
angrily, seeming much closer than the clouds would have led one to think. He felt hot and sticky, and as irrationally angry as the thunder sounded.

He said, with heavy sarcasm: “That makes them a bad breed of dog, I suppose?”

“Bad?”

“Being German.”

It annoyed him further when Brad at once picked up the reference to the argument on Sunday. “We were talking about Hitler.”

“I like the Germans,” Simon said. “They've got some idea of order and discipline. They're not weak and sloppy, like some countries.”

“Something in that. We've still had to fight them twice in this century.”

“We?”

He put a lot into that monosyllable. He stared at Brad and got a stare back; negative, bland almost. Brad said: “As I recall, the Germans surrendered to Field Marshal Montgomery in 1945 at Lüneburg Heath. As I also recall, he was serving at the time under a guy called Eisenhower.”

Simon said: “Our school caretaker fought alongside the Americans in North Africa. He was in the
Guards. He said they always used to say the next war would be between the two yellow nations—the Chinese and the Americans.”

There was another rumble of thunder, seeming almost directly behind Brad. They stood facing each other. A smile was starting on Brad's face, and Simon had mixed thoughts. He already regretted the remark, but the fact of Brad's swallowing the insult undoubtedly made up for quite a lot.

He didn't have time to banish the satisfaction or clear his thoughts before he found himself flat on his back in the rough grass. Brad had pulled the punch out of nowhere and delivered it fast. It had been heavier than he would have expected, too, but it was being off-balance that had felled him. He got to his feet, while Brad watched him expressionlessly.

“Right,” Simon said.

It was soon apparent that, although he had not mentioned it, boxing was also a sport in which Brad had had more than a little practice. He took up a proper stance, though southpaw, and used his fists scientifically. He was fast, too, and at the beginning landed more punches, particularly stinging raps to the face. What he lacked, of course, was weight.

They exchanged punches, circling and stumbling on the uneven ground. Simon had a glimpse of Tarka watching them earnestly from a few feet away, and the distraction earned him a jolting blow to the ribs. He was concentrating on body blows himself; Brad's guard was weaker there. He dropped Brad, waited for him to get up, and then put him down a second time. As Brad got once more to his feet, Simon suddenly felt ashamed. His opponent was at least three inches shorter and maybe twenty pounds lighter. He stepped back, as Brad squared up.

“Okay, I'm sorry,” Simon said. Brad watched him warily. “It was a stupid thing to say.”

Brad gave him a long considering look, then nodded slowly and grinned. He put a hand forward, and Simon took it. They shook. Brad said: “I was only going to point out you were bleeding. . . . Did you know that? But fine, anyway.”

Simon became aware of a trickle of blood on his right cheek. He wiped it with the arm of his shirt.

“Better?”

“Yes. It's only a nick.” Brad came closer and examined it. “You won't need surgery, but it's something they'll notice.”

“I ran into a branch. Or got snagged on a bramble.”

“Something like that.” Brad grinned again. “I guess we should have done this a few days ago.”

Tarka was staring up at them. Simon whistled cheerfully to her.

“Come on, you miserable little bitch. Let's find those badgers.”

•  •  •

They continued the walk in companionable conversation. Brad, it emerged, had been at least as reluctant over the trip as Simon. He had wanted to travel west, not east. His father, who had also remarried, lived in California.

“On the coast, north of Los Angeles. And I really mean
on
the coast. His house is right on the beach, and you ought to see the breakers. Fantastic surfing.”

Surfing was an unknown world to Simon, but the regret in Brad's voice carried conviction. He said: “Your mother wouldn't let you go?”

“Oh, she'd let me all right. She has to share me, half and half, for the summer vacation, with Dad calling the shots over when.”

“So why not?”

“Because she and Hank just got married. She's
worried that I won't get along with him. I like him well enough, but short of sending him roses I don't know how I'm going to convince her.”

“But if your father calls the shots . . .”

“Hank was determined they should go on this trip to Europe. She'd have been miserable if I'd stayed behind.”

“You've stayed behind here.”

“I meant, stay behind and visit L.A. She doesn't mind leaving me here.”

“But she needed to have your father agree?”

“I wrote him and asked. He's a pretty reasonable guy.”

“Yes.”

There was a silence, no longer unfriendly. Cloud had built fast, hiding the sun. The ground, as they walked uphill, had become more wooded, until they were following a path with trees and bushes close on either side. Tarka galloped ahead, stopping occasionally to savour some specially pungent patch of ground.

Brad said: “You had plans, too?”

Simon told him about the cruise. Brad nodded sympathetically. “Tough.”

“Yes, but . . .”

He stopped as Tarka, cravenly yelping, bolted down the path, towards and past them. He turned, calling her, but she continued at full pelt. He was about to give chase when Brad spoke.

“Look at that. . . .”

Simon caught the note of incredulity and turned back. Brad was pointing, but the gesture was unnecessary. It was coming slowly towards them from the spot at which Tarka had taken fright. He felt his hair prickle.

“What is it?”

Brad didn't answer. It was roughly spherical, eight or ten feet across, blindingly white—a whiteness of sunlight reflected dazzlingly from mist or ice. Except that there was no sun. It appeared to float a foot or so above the ground. Thunder growled, and a heavy drop of rain splashed Simon's face. He said: “It's what they call a fireball, isn't it? I've read about them.”

The progress had slowed and now halted. It hovered a dozen feet away from them. That was some relief, but he still didn't like the look of it. He was trying to reassure himself by adding: “A form of ball lightning. Quite harmless.”

Brad said slowly: “I guess it has to be ball lightning. Only ball lightning's supposed to be coloured—red or yellow. And nothing so big—no more than inches across.”

He took a step forward.

Simon, alarmed, said: “I'd watch it. Even if it is supposed to be harmless, I wouldn't try interfering with it.”

“Whatever it is,” Brad said, “I doubt we'll ever see anything like it again. I want to see it close up.”

The huge ball did not move, but Simon's hairs still prickled. It could be static electricity causing that, but it could also be the same old-fashioned cowardice which had sent Tarka streaking for home.

Brad continued advancing. For Simon, the thought of Tarka produced the attractive thought that he was responsible for her and maybe ought to go after her and make sure she was all right. The prospect of explaining that to Brad later was something he liked rather less. Or he could just stand his ground, while Brad went forward and investigated. And then listen to Brad's report on it?

He made a conscious, sweating effort to move his feet, and followed Brad. The fireball stayed on the
same spot, but he had a feeling, as much from intuition as from anything he could actually see, that it was spinning on its axis. And somehow inside the dazzling white there seemed to be colours—hundreds and thousands of tiny winking jewels. He said uneasily: “It's quite pretty.”

He wasn't sure what happened next—whether the sphere moved like a lightning stroke towards them, or suddenly expanded. There was a weird sensation of rapid motion and absolute stillness at the same time and a quivering in his body as though every joint and every muscle were being violently twitched. He thought, with detachment: So this is what it's like being electrocuted. Then all the white was black.

I
T WAS LIKE AWAKENING FROM
sleep by being tossed into a cold bath. The sensation of stinging wetness was so vivid that Simon put a hand to his face and was surprised to find both dry. There had been a moment of unconsciousness, but it seemed no more than a moment, with the recollection of what had happened immediately before it intense and real. As real as the present awareness of lying on the ground, where he must have fallen.

The fireball? There was no sign of it. He looked around him into an ordinary wood on an ordinary hot grey afternoon. Brad? Yes, Brad was there behind
him, getting to his feet. Simon stood up, too. His muscles trembled slightly but obeyed him. He turned round to look properly at Brad, a deliberate act. No, there was nothing wrong with him. He lifted his right arm, clenching the fist tight. As far as he could tell, anyway. He asked tentatively: “Brad?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I'm not sure. The ball hit us, I guess. You okay?”

“Yes. You?”

Brad nodded. “It must be true they're harmless. Or maybe we just lucked out. Static electricity does funny things.”

Simon remembered the first intimation of something out of place: the dog's panic flight. Turning to look in the direction she'd gone, he was aware of another jolt, but mental, not physical. There was no path. He was standing on unmarked, rough ground in the middle of the wood. But where in the wood? That vast spreading tree, its gnarled trunk several feet across, had not been there. He would have noticed it. Trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice, he said: “Where are we?”

“That's what I was starting to wonder.” Brad reached up to an overhanging branch and shook it, as though testing its reality. “Not where we were when we got hit.”

“That's crazy!” He hesitated. “Some sort of dream?”

Brad let go of the branch. He came towards Simon and, before Simon realized what was happening, had given him a short punch, jolting rather than painful, to the ribs. He grinned.

“That feel like a dream?”

“But what . . . ?”

“Maybe a freak atmospheric condition. You read about those rains of frogs from the sky? We got picked up and then dumped. In another part of the wood.”

Simon looked up at the sky. “No wind then. Or now.”

“But in between? I was out. Not long, I guess, but how would I know? And you?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Long enough, maybe, for some kind of updraft to lift us.”

“And set us down again, both in the same spot, without a bruise?”

Brad shrugged. “You have a better explanation?”

“It would make as much sense to have been taken—I don't know—to another planet or something.”

“Not to me, it wouldn't.” Brad was emphatic. “A planet with an atmosphere as near the same as ours as makes no difference? And flora. That's a good old-fashioned oak tree.” He pointed. “Complete with squirrel.”

It was sound reasoning, but did not affect the feeling of total strangeness, of dislocation from reality, which had been growing rather than diminishing since he picked himself up. Simon looked about him. A normal sky, an ordinary wood. The squirrel had halted on an upper branch of the oak and was brushing whiskers with paws. Well, one would be strange, dislocated, after getting knocked out by some weird electrical thing and physically shifted around by an even weirder typhoon. He said: “I suppose we might as well try getting back.”

“Yes. Back where, though? We don't have any
idea whereabouts in the wood we are. Do you know?”

“No. But the wood's not large. And once we're out of it, I'll know where I am. Even if we come out on the far side.”

Brad nodded. “I guess that figures. So lead on. You're the trailblazer.”

They had originally been walking uphill, so Simon set off down; the wood covered the crest of a hill, so down had to be right, like following water. It wasn't particularly easy going. There were places where they had to struggle through undergrowth, or skirt it. Altogether the wood was far denser than he recalled, but he didn't know the southern part very well. And they seemed to have been travelling longer than he would have expected without coming to open country. Brad commented on that eventually.

“Could we be circling, do you think?”

It was not offered critically, but it annoyed him. He said shortly: “No.”

“A small wood, you said.”

“It's deceptive. Save your breath.”

Brad obediently stayed silent, but Simon was starting to worry again. They should have been clear of the trees by now, in whichever direction they were
heading. He pressed on faster, with Brad slogging after him. Were the trees thinner over on the left, and was that a glimpse of open sky? He headed that way. Definitely thinner, and more sky. They pushed through the last few feet and stood in the open, the wood behind them, grassland in front. Sheep grazed in the distance.

The only trouble was, he hadn't the faintest notion where they were. The wood, he knew, was surrounded on three sides by built-up areas, with open country to the south. But the lie of the land was wrong for the southern outskirts, and for that matter where were Ruckton church and the village?

“Anywhere you know?” Brad asked.