Seaward by Susan Cooper Page B

it sailed through the painted sky, was a beautifully detailed model of a square-rigged ship.
    She saw on one wall a huge picture of an empty desert, the sand sweeping and curving in long smooth dunes; around it were shelves filled with books and glass jars and chunks of many-coloured rock, strange intricate pieces of machinery, the brilliant blue wings of a bird spread and mounted, the white grinning skull of a horse. In one corner of the room stood a small neat bed; in another a big desk, set out with pads of writing-paper and a broad white sketchbook, and jars of pens and pencils and brushes. She saw an artist’s easel, and a stand holding an enormous book open at a page of illuminated manuscript written in a languageshe did not understand. She thought: this is Westerly; I don’t know him—
    Westerly said abruptly, “Check through the window. That one.” He jerked his head, bending over something beside the desk that she could not see.
    Cally went to the tall window in the far wall and knelt on the window-seat, looking out. In the lake, the causeway had grown; steadily the massive forms of the People were lumbering along it, splashing into the water at the end, piling themselves in endless rows to form a path through the dark water. The closed window kept out the thunder of their moving, but she could feel a faint menacing vibration through her fingers on the sill.
    On the far shore she saw the figure of a man, motionless, waiting.
    She swung round. “Stonecutter’s there! They’ve almost made a way for him. What—”
    Westerly was hauling on a vertical metal wheel as tall as himself; she was certain it had not been there before. He grinned at her. Pausing for breath, he said, “There was always a trapdoor, in my dream—” and he hauled again at the wheel, and above their heads a section of the sky-painted ceiling swung down and a rope ladder fell into the room, dangling.
    â€œGo on up,” Westerly said. He caught the ladder and held it taut. Nervously Cally took hold of the wooden rungs and began to climb, clutching tighter as the rope swayed.
    Westerly called up after her, “Keep your head down, or they’ll see.”
    Cally hauled herself out through the opening. The rough stone bit at her hands. She was out on the top of the tower, on a broad expanse of mortared stone; high crenellated walls stretched all around her in a square, their tops alternately as high as her waist and higher than her head. Clear blue sky filled the high world, and the sun was hot; from below came the grinding and thudding of the stone People at their dogged advance.
    Westerly came up after her, coiling the rope ladder, shutting the trapdoor. “Well, if no one can get into that room but me—”
    The noise below suddenly stopped. They could hear nothing but the small whine of the wind round the walls. Looking down, pressed cautiously against the parapet, they saw Stonecutter crossing his living stone bridge to the island.
    Westerly said, “Does he want to take you back?”
    â€œI think he just wants to stop me.” Cally felt cold at the thought. “The woman he lives with—she gave me a message to carry. I think—he doesn’t want the message to go.”
    â€œWell,” Westerly said cheerfully, “he’s out of luck. We’re on our way down from here.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œI’ll show you.”
    They saw Stonecutter look up at the tower. Striding towards it, he disappeared into the trees.
    Westerly swung his pack down from his shoulder and began rummaging inside. But Cally grabbed his arm.
    â€œLook at the People!”
    They saw the waters of the lake swirl and the grey causeway begin to disappear, as the giant stone figures, dark and shining wet now, came crowding up out of the lake on to the island. Like a tide they came, steadily advancing; as they reached the edge of the trees they divided, and moved off in a grey