The White Mountains
Also by John Christopher
The City of Gold and Lead
The Pool of Fire
When the Tripods Came
A Dusk of Demons
To Jessica:
this, and the rest, with love
SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1967 by John Christopher
Copyright renewed © 1995 by John Christopher
Preface copyright © 2003 by John Christopher
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
is a trademark of Simon & Schuster.
Book design by Ann Sullivan
The text for this book is set in New Caledonia.
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Christopher, John.
The White Mountains / John Christopher.
p. cm.
Sequel to: When the tripods came.
Sequel: The city of gold and lead.
Summary: Young Will Parker and his companions make a perilous journey toward an outpost of freedom where they hope to escape from the ruling Tripods, who capture mature human beings and make them docile, obedient servants.
ISBN 0-689-85504-4
eISBN 978-1-4424-2722-8
[1. Science fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C457 Wh 2003
[Fic]—–dc21 2002070808
Contents
Preface to the Anniversary Edition
One Capping Day
Two My Name Is Ozymandias
Three The Road to the Sea
Four Beanpole
Five The City of the Ancients
Six The Castle of the Red Tower
Seven The Tripod
Eight Flight and a Follower
Nine We Fight a Battle
Ten The White Mountains
Preface to the Anniversary Edition
What Is a Tripod?
Well, there’s a brief description in the first chapter of The White Mountains: “… we could see it over the roofs of the houses to the south: the great hemisphere of gleaming metal rocking through the air above the three articulated legs, several times as high as the church. Its shadow came before it, and fell on us when it halted, two of its legs astride the river and the mill.… one of the enormous burnished tentacles came down, gently and precisely, and its tip curled about Jack’s waist, and it lifted him up, up, to where a hole opened like a mouth in the hemisphere, and swallowed him.”
So a Tripod is a monstrous machine, some sixty feet high. It travels on three metal legs and has tentacles (three, we discover later) which can reach down and sweep a boy up into an opening in the metal pod which seems to represent its head. But is a Tripod an intelligent machine? Or some extraordinary form of transportation? And if the latter, are there creatures inside the pod, driving this weird sort of tank on stilts the way we might drive a car?
At the end of The White Mountains, the reader may have his or her own guess about exactly what kind of thing a Tripod is, but he or she doesn’t really know. I’ll let you into a secret: at that point the writer didn’t know, either.
Thirty-five years ago I received a letter which was to prove much more important than it seemed at the time. By then I had been a professional writer for over ten years, writing different kinds of fiction but principally what was commonly known as science fiction.
The letter was from my London agent. A publisher who had read my adult novels was wondering if I would write something for a younger audience. This would be a new departure for me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to get involved. But it was encouraging that someone was actually asking me to write something, instead of just waiting till I sent a manuscript in. I also reckoned that, children’s novels being normally much shorter, I wouldn’t be squandering more than a month of precious writing time.
But what sort of a book was it going to be? The publisher obviously wanted science fiction, but I was getting tired of destroying the world—by famine or freezing or earthquakes—and I was no longer interested in exploring the universe outside our planet. There was a reason for that.
When I was the age of the boys and girls for whom it was now proposed I write, I’d been very excited about the possibilities of space travel, but those had been different days. In the early thirties we knew just enough about the solar system for its possibilities to be a magnet to the imagination. The Moon might be cold and dead, but the planets offered scope for dreaming. Mars, for instance, was colder than our earth and had a thinner atmosphere, but possibly not too cold or airless to support life.
And Mars had those canals. An Italian astronomer called Schiaparelli, looking through his telescope in the nineteenth century, said he had seen canali on Mars’s rust-red surface. In Italian that just meant “channels,” but it got translated as “canals,” which was much more intriguing. Maybe in that thin but breathable atmosphere there were long waterways, built by an ancient race of Martians, dotted with Martian cities that were lit by day by a smaller sun and at night by the magic gleam of two low-lying moons. An ancient race, because one might suppose that on that chillier planet the process of life’s evolution had been in advance of ours. Apart from being older, the Martians might well be wiser and able to pass on to us the fruits of their knowledge. Or, if they were so ancient as to have become extinct, the ruins of their cities might still be there to be explored.
Then there was Venus—closer to the sun and much hotter than the earth—with its perpetual blanket of clouds. What might lie beneath the clouds? Perhaps a planet in an earlier period of evolution, as Mars was in a later one. Something like our own Carboniferous era, perhaps. Did tropical swamps teeming with dinosaurs and hovering pterodactyls await the arrival of our first spaceship?
Because that was something else we felt confident about: early experiments with rockets had already made the eventual conquest of space more than plausible. It could happen in our lifetime, and with it bring unthinkable wonders. It was a bit like being in Elizabethan England, reading stories about what might be found in the new world which was opening up on the far side of the barely explored western ocean.
But in three short decades everything changed. By the 1960s we knew more about the universe and the solar system—but what we’d learned was much less interesting than what we’d imagined. We knew that Mars was not just cold but an altogether hostile environment, Venus a choking oven of poisonous gases. The chance of any kind of life existing on either planet—or anywhere within reach of our probing rockets—was incredibly remote. That brave new world on the other side of the ocean of space had turned into a lifeless desert.
A couple of years after I wrote The White Mountains, space itself was finally conquered. The landing on the Moon was televised around the world, timed to coincide with prime-time U.S. television viewing. That meant the early hours of the morning in the Channel Islands, where I then lived. The boy I had been at fourteen would never have believed that I couldn’t be bothered to stay up to watch it.
I had seen the future, and found
it disappointing; so what remained? Well, there was the past. The color which had bleached out of our interplanetary speculations was still bright in human history and there was life there, and romance and action. I doubted if my inquiring publisher would be much impressed by getting a story set in feudal England, but there might be a way around that.
Imagine a race of aliens who conquer the earth. They have a means of controlling their human slaves, which involves putting a metal Cap on their heads when they reach puberty. Through the Cap they can subdue people individually, suppressing rebellious impulses. To exercise a more general control they need to impose a social organization which is orderly and hierarchical. The chaotic capitalist system which they first encounter, with its emphasis on individual enterprise, is not suitable for this purpose. So they delve into human history and find a system which is. Out go bankers and inventors and those awkward types who just want to do something different; back come kings and nobles, farmers and peasants—people accustomed to order imposed from above, in a world which only changes with the seasons.
The publisher wanted the future; I was more interested in the past. I reckoned I might satisfy both of us by combining the two, in a medieval world threatened and dominated by monstrous futuristic machines.
Somehow it worked. Over and over again in the letters I’ve had from young readers there have been comments along these lines: “What really got me about the book was not knowing whether I was in the past or the future.”
So I wrote The White Mountains and sent it off. The London publisher approved of it. Another copy went to New York. My agent there wrote back to say he had offered the book to a children’s book publisher, who had turned it down but said they might be interested if I rewrote it. He enclosed a long letter from the children’s books editor.
Basically, what she said was that she loved the first chapter but the rest of the book was a mess: it would need a complete reworking from Chapter 2 onward. This was something that had not happened to me before. My adult novels had either been taken or rejected as they stood. I was not used to rewriting and certainly not eager to start doing so with a mere children’s book. Macmillan had been the first U.S. publisher to see the book; another firm might take a different view.
Then I read thoroughly the letter I’d previously only skimmed. I realized the observations were sharp, the suggestions very much to the point. And I was forced to accept that my own attitude had been badly flawed. I was to learn a hard but invaluable lesson: there’s no such thing as a “mere children’s book,” and children’s book editors are some of the brightest and most dedicated people in the field. So, after fuming a little, I went back to work and rewrote the book from the end of Chapter 1. I sent the revised version to the London publisher, who said yes again. Then it came back from New York with another letter: The beginning and the end were okay, but the middle was still wrong. I sighed, and went back to the typewriter. The third version met her high critical standards. The London publisher simply agreed yet again.
It isn’t easy to start an apprenticeship when you are the author of thirty published books, but it’s certainly good for you. With the sequel, The City of Gold and Lead, the New York editor only asked me to rewrite the beginning. When she received The Pool of Fire, the last book in the trilogy, she cabled an immediate acceptance.
I thought then that I’d licked it, but I still had a lot to learn about writing for young people. The next book I wrote was rejected as a total mess, only salvaged when my American and British editors brought me to London and sat over me till we (one of them, actually) came up with a solution to the chief and seemingly intractable problem. Over the years I was to be grateful for much advice and help from children’s book editors, something I had never encountered while writing my thirty previous adult books.
My editor in New York was Susan Hirschmann. The original version of The White Mountains was probably just about worth publishing: the London editor thought so. But would it, without Susan, have remained in print and worthy of a commemorative relaunch, three and a half decades after its original publication? I’ve no doubt about the answer to that.
Apart from the one in the church tower, there were five clocks in the village that kept reasonable time, and my father owned one of them. It stood on the mantelpiece in the parlor, and every night before he went to bed he took the key from a vase, and wound it up. Once a year the clockman came from Winchester, on an old jogging packhorse, to clean and oil it and put it right. Afterward he would drink camomile tea with my mother, and tell her the news of the city and what he had learned in the villages through which he had passed. My father, if he were not busy milling, would stalk out at this time, with some contemptuous remark about gossip; but later, in the evening, I would hear my mother passing the stories on to him. He did not show much enthusiasm, but he listened to them.
My father’s great treasure, though, was not the clock, but the Watch. This, a miniature clock with a dial less than an inch across and a circlet permitting it to be worn on the wrist, was kept in a locked drawer of his desk; and only brought out to be worn on ceremonial occasions, like Harvest Festival, or a Capping. The clockman was only allowed to see to it every third year, and at such times my father stood by, watching him as he worked. There was no other Watch in the village, nor in any of the villages round about. The clockman said there were a number in Winchester, but none as fine as this. I wondered if he said it to please my father, who certainly showed pleasure in the hearing, but I believe it truly was of very good workmanship. The body of the Watch was of a steel much superior to anything they could make at the forge in Alton, and the works inside were a wonder of intricacy and skill. On the front was printed “Anti-magnetique Incabloc,” which we supposed must have been the name of the craftsman who made it in olden times.
The clockman had visited us the week before, and I had been permitted to look on for a time while he cleaned and oiled the Watch. The sight fascinated me, and after he had gone I found my thoughts running continually on this treasure, now locked away again in its drawer. I was, of course, forbidden to touch my father’s desk and the notion of opening a locked drawer in it should have been unthinkable. Nonetheless, the idea persisted. And after a day or two, I admitted to myself that it was only the fear of being caught that prevented me.
On Saturday morning, I found myself alone in the house. My father was in the mill room, grinding, and the servants—even Molly who normally did not leave the house during the day—had been brought in to help. My mother was out visiting old Mrs. Ash, who was sick, and would be gone an hour at least. I had finished my homework, and there was nothing to stop my going out into the bright May morning and finding Jack. But what completely filled my mind was the thought that I had this opportunity to look at the Watch, with small chance of detection.
The key, I had observed, was kept with the other keys in a small box beside my father’s bed. There were four, and the third one opened the drawer. I took out the Watch, and gazed at it. It was not going, but I knew one wound it and set the hands by means of the small knob at one side. If I were to wind it only a couple of turns it would run down quite soon—just in case my father decided to look at it later in the day. I did this, and listened to its quiet rhythmic ticking. Then I set the hands by the clock. After that it only remained for me to slip it on my wrist. Even notched to the first hole, the leather strap was loose; but I was wearing the Watch.
Having achieved what I had thought was an ultimate ambition, I found, as I think is often the case, that there remained something more. To wear it was a triumph, but to be seen wearing it … I had told my cousin, Jack Leeper, that I would meet him that morning, in the old ruins at the end of the village. Jack, who was nearly a year older than myself and due to be presented at the next Capping, was the person, next to my parents, that I most admired. To take the Watch out of the house was to add enormity to disobedience, but having already gone so far, it was easier to contemplate it. My mind made up, I was determined to waste no
ne of the precious time I had. I opened the front door, stuck the hand with the Watch deep into my trouser pocket, and ran off down the street.
The village lay at a crossroads, with the road in which our house stood running alongside the river (this giving power for the mill, of course) and the second road crossing it at the ford. Beside the ford stood a small wooden bridge for foot travelers, and I pelted across, noticing that the river was higher than usual from the spring rains. My Aunt Lucy was approaching the bridge as I left it at the far end. She called a greeting to me, and I called back, having first taken care to veer to the other side of the road. The baker’s shop was there, with trays of buns and cakes set out, and it was reasonable that I should be heading that way: I had a couple of pennies in my pocket. But I ran on past it, and did not slacken to a walk until I had reached the point where the houses thinned out and at last ended.
The ruins were a hundred yards farther on. On one side of the road lay Spiller’s meadow, with cows grazing, but on my side there was a thorn hedge, and a potato field beyond. I passed a gap in the hedge, not looking in my concentration on what I was going to show Jack, and was startled a moment later by a shout from behind me. I recognized the voice as Henry Parker’s.
Henry, like Jack, was a cousin of mine—my name is Will Parker—but, unlike Jack, no friend. (I had several cousins in the village: people did not usually travel far to marry.) He was a month younger than I, but taller and heavier, and we had hated each other as long as I could remember. When it came to fighting, as it very often did, I was outmatched physically, and had to rely on agility and quickness if I were not going to be beaten. From Jack I had learned some skill in wrestling which, in the past year, had enabled me to hold my own more, and in our last encounter I had thrown him heavily enough to wind him and leave him gasping for breath. But for wrestling one needed the use of both hands. I thrust my left hand deeper into the pocket and, not answering his call, ran on toward the ruins.