Christopher Priest - The Inverted World

He put down the camera for a moment, and unfurled a long paper roll, wound like a scroll. He laid this on the ground, looked at it thoughtfully for a few seconds, then picked up the camera and returned to the water’s edge.

Deliberately, he pointed the camera upstream for a second or two, then lowered the camera and turned. He pointed it at the opposite bank, then, startling her, he pointed it in her direction. She ducked down out of sight, and by his lack of reaction she guessed he had not seen her. When she next looked, he was pointing the camera downstream.

He returned to the length of paper, and with great care inscribed a few symbols.

Still moving deliberately, he put the camera back in its case, rolled up the paper and stowed it with the rest of the equipment.

He stretched elaborately, then scratched the back of his head. Listlessly, he returned to the water’s edge, sat down, and dangled his feet in the water. In a moment, he sighed and lay back, his eyes closed.

She regarded him closely. He certainly looked harmless enough. He was a big, well-muscled man, and his face and arms were deeply tanned. His hair was long and shaggy: a great mane of light auburn hair. He wore a beard. She estimated his age somewhere in the middle thirties. In spite of the beard he had a clean-cut, youthful face, grinning at the simple animal bliss of cold wet feet on a hot dry day.

Flies hovered around his face, and from time to time he would swipe at them lazily.

After a few more moments of hesitation she started forward, and half-walked, half-skidded down the bank, pushing a minor avalanche of soil before her.

The man’s reaction was immediate. He sat up, looked round sharply, and scrambled to his feet. In so doing he turned awkwardly, and slipped down on his stomach, his feet thrashing in the water.

She started to laugh.

He recovered his foothold, and dived for his equipment. A few seconds later he had a rifle in his hands.

She stopped laughing… but he did not raise the rifle.

Instead, he said something in Spanish so bad that she could not understand it.

She spoke only a little Spanish herself, so instead she said in the language of the villagers: “I didn’t mean to laugh.”

He shook his head, then looked at her carefully. She spread her hands to prove that she carried no kind of weapon, and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. He seemed satisfied that she presented no threat to him, and put down the rifle.

Again, he said something in atrocious Spanish, then muttered something in English.

“You speak English?” she said.

“Yes. Do you?”

“Like a native.” She laughed again, and said: “Do you mind if I join you?”

She nodded towards the river, but he continued to stare dumbly at her. She slipped off her shoes, and walked down to the bank. She waded in, hitching up her skirt. The water was freezing cold; it made her toes curl with pain, but the sensation was delightful. In a moment, she sat on the ground, keeping her feet in the water.

He came and sat beside her.

“Sorry about the gun. You startled me.”

“I’m sorry too,” she said. “But you looked so blissful.”

“It’s the best thing to do on a day like this.”

Together they stared down at the water flowing over their feet. Beneath the rippling surface, the white flesh appeared to distort like a flame flickering in a draught.

“What’s your name?” she said.

“Helward.”

“Helward.” She tried the sound of the word. “Is that a surname?”

“No. My full name is Helward Mann. What’s yours?”

“Elizabeth. Elizabeth Khan. I don’t like being called Elizabeth.”

“I’m sorry.”

She glanced at him. He looked very serious.

She was a little confused by his accent. She had realized he was not a native of this region, and he spoke English naturally and without effort, but he had a strange way of pronouncing his vowels.

“Where do you come from?” she said.

“Round here.” He stood up suddenly. “I’d better water the animal.”

He stumbled again as he climbed the bank, but this time Elizabeth did not laugh. He walked straight into the trees, did not pick up his equipment. The rifle was still there. He looked over his shoulder at her once, and she turned away.

When he returned he was leading both horses. She got up, and led her own down to the water.

Standing between the horses, Elizabeth stroked the neck of Helward’s.

“She’s beautiful,” she said. “Is she yours?”

“Not really. I just ride her more often than any of the others.”

“What do you call her?”

“I… haven’t given her a name. Should I?”

“Only if you want to. Mine hasn’t got a name either.”

“I enjoy riding,” Helward said suddenly. “It’s the best part of my work.”

“That and paddling in rivers. What do you do?”

“I’m a… I mean, it hasn’t really got a label. What about you?”

“I’m a nurse. Officially, that is. I do lots of things.”

“We have nurses,” he said. “In the… where I come from.”

She looked at him with new interest. “Where’s that?”

“A city. In the south.”

“What’s it called?”

“Earth. Although most of the time we just call it the city.”

Elizabeth smiled uncertainly, not sure she had heard correctly. “Tell me about it.”

He shook his head. The horses had finished drinking, and were nuzzling each other.

“I think I’d better be on my way,” he said.

He walked quickly towards his equipment, scooped it up, and stuffed it hurriedly in the saddle-bags. Elizabeth watched curiously. When he had finished he took the rein, turned the horse round and led her up the bank. At the fringe of the trees he looked back.

“I’m sorry. You must think me very rude. It’s just… you’re not like the others.”

“The others?”

“The people round here.”

“Is that so bad?”

“No.” He looked around the river-side as if seeking some further excuse to stay with her. Abruptly, he seemed to change his mind about leaving. He tethered the horse to the nearest tree. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“I wonder… do you think I could draw you?”

“Draw me?”

“Yes… just a sketch. I’m not very good, I haven’t been doing it very long. While I’m up here I spend a lot of time drawing what I see.”

“Was that what you were doing when I met you?”

“No. That was just a map. I mean proper drawings.”

“O.K. Do you want me to pose for you?”

He fumbled in his saddle-bag, then brought out a wad of paper of assorted sizes. He flicked through them nervously, and she saw that there were line-drawings on them.

“Just stand there,” he said. “No… by your horse.”

He sat down on the edge of the bank, balancing the papers on his knees. She watched him, still disconcerted by this sudden development, and felt a growing self-consciousness that was generally alien to her personality. He stared over the paper at her.

She stood by the horse, her arm running underneath its neck so that she could pat the other side, and the horse responded by pressing its nose against her.

“You’re standing wrong,” he said. “Turn towards me more.”

The self-consciousness grew, and she realized she was standing in an unnatural, awkward position.

He worked away, slipping through one sheet of paper after the next, and she began to relax more. She decided to pay no attention to him, and petted the horse again. After a while he asked her to sit in the saddle, but she was growing tired.

“Can I see what you’ve done?”

“I never show this to anyone.”

“Please, Helward. I’ve never been drawn before.”