Sense And Sensibility And Sea Monsters (34 page)

Elinor shook her head slightly and continued. “Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she said. I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on the point of communicating by paper. Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to say, that he has great pleasure in offering you the lighthouse at Delaford, now just vacant, and only wishes it were more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having so respectable and well-judging a friend.”

“Colonel Brandon!”

“Yes,” continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was over, “Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern for what has lately passed—for the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you—a concern which I am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion.”

Another walloping crash came against the Dome; the servant fired his gun a third time, wildly, and again the shell glanced harmlessly off the vast flank of the narwhal.

“Colonel Brandon give
me
a living! Can it be possible?”

Elinor smiled in spite of herself. “It seems the unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find friendship anywhere.”

“No,” replied be, with sudden consciousness, “not to find it in
you
; for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all.”

“You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon’s
discernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till I understood his design, that the old lighthouse keeper had been dragged off by Pirate Dreadbeard, nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift.”

For a short time Edward sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak. At last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said, “Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman.”

Further expression of gratitude was impossible, as their attention was drawn anew by the continued pitched battle outside the glass. After carelessly absorbing two or three more bits of buckshot from the Furci-Landy gun, the narwhal swiveled his massive head and eyed the servant up and down, as if deciding whether he was worth its trouble. Evidently it decided in the affirmative, as it then thrust forward its gigantic head and speared the man, waving his arms helplessly, like a shish kebab, upon its horn.

This easy victory served to inspire the narwhal and its cohort of swordfish attendants to ever more vigorous efforts; they all turned their attention back to the Dome-glass and resumed banging and tapping and pounding upon it at a furious pace. What had begun as a light spider web of cracks had now blossomed into a network of ominous furrows, growing deeper and longer by the instant. Edward rose rapidly and made for the door.

Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a rapid assurance on
her
side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on
his
with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it; and on
both
their parts that the world in which they were safely cosseted against the ravaging sea would prove as durable as the engineers claimed it to be.

“When I see him again,” said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, “I shall see him the husband of Lucy.” She paused in her reflections, and then added, with glance to the Dome-glass, “
If
I see him again.”

Mrs. Jennings ran back into the docking, panting heavily, her boots dripping wet from having disembarked too hurriedly from her gondola.

“Hurry, Elinor! You must hurry! Marianne!”

“What? Mrs. Jennings you are in a panic! What can be—”

Mrs. Jennings grabbed Elinor by the collar, a gesture which sent a jolt of pain from the scar on her neck. “Pay attention, dear girl! I know you are in a state of pleasurable distraction, owing to your recent engagement to Colonel Brandon—”

“Engagement? Why no—what can you be thinking of?— Why, Colonel Brandon’s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.”

“Lord bless you, my dear!” she replied in confusion, somewhat lessening her grip. “Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!”

The deception could not continue after this, especially in these circumstances, as the glass was increasingly splintered, with fresh fissures appearing every moment, each one serving to further encourage the narwhal and her underlings. An explanation rapidly took place: Colonel Brandon wanted not to marry Elinor, but to offer Edward a living as lighthouse keeper of Delaford.

“But none of that matters now!” sputtered Mrs. Jennings. “For God’s sake, can’t you see that? We have to go! We cannot tarry another moment! The Dome—the whole of the Dome is going to collapse!”

“But the engineers—” cried Marianne, rushing from upstairs, a look of concern etched on her pale brows.

“Forget the engineers! We must get to the Ascension Station— now!”

O
UTSIDE, MRS. JENNINGS
and the Dashwood sisters encountered a world transformed.

As their terrified retinue of remaining servants paddled Mrs. Jennings’s elegant gondola furiously towards the Ascension Station, Marianne and Elinor clutched the handles of their luggage, staring upwards at the curved ceiling of the Sub-Station Dome; it was clear now that what had appeared to be a couple of rogue swordfish, perhaps a handful, engaged in a quixotic effort to crack the glass where it abutted Mrs. Jennings’s docking, was in fact the smallest expression of an assault of unimaginable proportions. A thick blanket of fish coated every inch of the Station’s exterior, ramming again and again, in ragged rows, against the ceiling of the world. The Dome was cracked in a million places; it trembled under the weight of the fish ceaselessly battering themselves against it.

Men and women looked at each other with chilled expressions— or stared numbly ahead as they streamed through the canals in a mad dash for the Ascension Station. The waterways were crowded with people on rafts and gondolas and tugs and kayaks and skiffs; with people riding sea horses, sea cows, tortoises, sea lions; all imaginable means of conveyance had been pressed into use; one servant swam a desperate Australian crawl with a woman and two frightened infants strapped upon his back.

No longer were servants seen swimming outside the glass, trying with gutting knives or air-rifles to do battle against the swordfish, narwhals, humpbacks, silverfish, skates, dugongs, bass, and the other legions of fish that were massed against them—the enemy by now was too numerous. To reach the Ascension Station, and escape to safety before … the
unspeakable
occurred, was the goal of every mind.

Except for the one lone swimmer—either mad or courageous or both—who was suddenly seen paddling determinedly outside the glass.

“By God!” cried Marianne. “It’s Sir John!”

And nor was that intrepid luminary wearing a Ex-Domic Float-Suit, Sir John was stripped stark naked, but for a diving helmet and air-pack; in his right hand he clutched a glinting, foot-long silver cutlass, as with his left hand he propelled himself mightily forward, like a giant single-flippered fish, his bald head cutting through the water like a bullet, his beard tucked inside the helmet. He swam unerringly towards a gigantic green-grey walrus, which by its size and regal purple-orange crest seemed to be as the leader of the fish army.

As the thousands of terrified residents of Sub-Station Beta watched wide-eyed, Sir John raised the cutlass with a wild expression and descended furiously upon the bull walrus. Sir John cut a deep, angry gash in the thick flank of the bull, which reared back angrily and turned its tusks upon the old adventurer. They exchanged blows—One! Two! Three!—as inside the cracked Dome the citizens of the Station ooh’ed and ahh’ed, and outside it the fish legions stared at their leader with glassy eyes.

Thrust! Thrust! Parry! Sir John danced backwards in the water from the thrusting tusks of the beast. And then, with a surge of maniacal energy, he plunged his cutlass deep into the front lobe of the walrus’s skull. Thick black blood gushed from the hole, like ocean-spray spurting from the devil’s own blowhole.

The remaining fish seemed to hesitate—unwilling, perhaps, to resume their assault upon the Sub-Station if their champion was dead. Elinor allowed herself a sigh of relief. “Can it be?” she murmured to Marianne. “Are we saved?” Unconsciously, her eyes swept the crowds for some sign of Edward; to see confidence in his eyes would be her surest, her most encouraging sign.

But then, with one last furious, dying burst of energy, the bull walrus launched his shaggy head and protruding tusks back again towards Sir
John. The beast missed him by the slimmest of margins, and his huge, thick head instead crashed into the Dome—causing a horrible, impossibly loud crack that echoed through the Sub-Station.

Then there was silence. In that queer long stretch of silence—which could not, in truth, have lasted more than a split second—the many thousands of people crowded in the central canals of Sub-Marine Station Beta, staring wide-eyed up at their now-crumbling protective shell, understood what was about to occur; and could at last, and too late, fully comprehend what it meant that they had made their home four miles below the surface of the ocean.

And then the silence ended, and glass tumbled in great jagged chunks from the roof of the Dome, and the water rushed in.

Once it began, the Dome gave way quickly, with sheets of glass heaving end over end to the ground, followed by waves of water rushing in from all directions; by walls of water pouring in from above; by great torrents of water crashing down like the wrath of God.

“Activate!” cried Elinor to Marianne, who looked about helplessly as the water buffeted them angrily about and bore them upwards. “Activate your Float-Suit!” With the same desperate motion, the girls tugged on the cords tucked up within their sleeves, and felt their twin armbands inflate and the nasal reeds begin to pump oxygen; and not a moment too soon, for in a matter of seconds the great glass Dome was in ruins, and they were underwater. The girls kicked their legs furiously and propelled themselves upwards as swiftly as they could, as all around them the world was subsumed.

* * *

“Ten … ten minutes to departure …”

The voice was that of a servant, walking the long echoing corridors of the Ascension Station, where Marianne, Elinor, and Mrs. Jennings sat, huddled in towels, awaiting the departure of Emergency Ferry No. 12.

THE DOME GAVE WAY QUICKLY, WITH SHEETS OF GLASS TUMBLING AND SLICING TO THE GROUND, FOLLOWED BY WAVES OF WATER RUSHING IN FROM ALL DIRECTIONS.

Sub-Station Beta had been reclaimed by the ocean. All that remained was the Ascension Station, the gigantic plain white waiting room, at the base of the long stovepipe that had once jutted proudly from the lip of the Dome; and soon the Ascension Station, too, would be abandoned, once all surviving residents were boarded onto emergency ferries and evacuated to safety. All around Elinor, hundreds of people sat in miserable small crowds, shivering and waterlogged, wondering whether friends and loved ones had survived, largely presuming they had not. Many had been drowned as the great waves crashed in, many had been eaten by the fish who swarmed giddily in, and many had been drowned and
then
eaten, or vice versa.

Elinor stared out the glass window of the Ascension Station and watched as the crew of gigantic monster lobsters, whom she had seen wreak such havoc that night at Hydra-Z, swam happily by; they were joined in their flotilla by a flight of swordfish, and Elinor swore she saw among the group the one with a gleaming patch of silver iridescence under its horn—the very fish that had led the tapping pack on Mrs. Jennings’s docking station.

This unsettling reverie was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Lucy Steele, who, alone among the miserable survivors awaiting emergency Ascension, seemed perfectly content—the destruction of the Station, after all, did not affect her newly decided prospects. Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in Delaford before long. She openly declared that no exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood’s part, either present or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing anything in the world for those she really valued.

“Yes, yes,” replied Elinor; this was the last topic of conversation she felt interested in discussing at such a moment.

“Nine … nine minutes to departure …”

As for Colonel Brandon, Lucy was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly anxious that he should be treated as
one in all worldly concerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and scarcely resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry.