The Year's Best Science Fiction 11

THE VOLCANO DANCES J. G. BALLARD

They lived in a house on the mountain Tlaxihuatl half a mile below the summit. The house was built on a lava flow like the hide of an elephant. In the afternoon and evening the man, Charles Vandervell, sat by the window in the lounge, watching the fire displays that came from the crater. The noise rolled down the mountain-side like a series of avalanches. At intervals a falling cinder hissed as it extinguished itself in the water tank on the roof. The woman slept most of the time in the bedroom overlooking the valley or, when she wished to be close to Vandervell, on the settee in the lounge.

In the afternoon she woke briefly when the devilsticks man performed his dance by the road a quarter of a mile from the house. This mendicant had come to the mountain for the benefit of the people in the village below the summit, but his dance had failed to subdue the volcano and prevent the villagers from leaving. As they passed him pushing their carts he would rattle his spears and dance, but they walked on without looking up. When he became discouraged and seemed likely to leave, Vandervell sent the house-boy out to him with an American dollar. From then on the stick-dancer came every day.

“Is he still here?” the woman asked. She walked into the lounge, folding her robe around her waist. “What’s he supposed to be doing?”

“He’s fighting a duel with the spirit of the volcano,” Vandervell said. “He’s putting a lot of thought and energy into it, but he hasn’t a chance.”

“I thought you were on his side,” the woman said. “Aren’t you paying him a retainer?”

“That’s only to formalize the relationship. To show him that I understand what’s going on. Strictly speaking, I’m on the volcano’s side.”

A shower of cinders rose a hundred feet above the crater, illuminating the jumping stick-man.

“Are you sure it’s safe here?”

Vandervell waved her away. “Of course. Go back to bed and rest. This thin air is bad for the complexion.”

“I feel all right. I heard the ground move.”

“It’s been moving for weeks.” He watched the stick-man conclude his performance with a series of hops, as if leapfrogging over a partner. “On his diet that’s not bad.”

“You should take him back to Mexico City and put him in one of the cabarets. He’d make more than a dollar.”

“He wouldn’t be interested. He’s a serious artist, this Nijinsky of the mountain side. Can’t you see that?”

The woman half-filled a tumbler from the decanter on the table. “How long are you going to keep him out there?”

“As long as he’ll stay.” He turned to face the woman. “Remember that. When he leaves it will be time to go.”

The stick-man, a collection of tatters when not in motion, disappeared into his lair, one of the holes in the lava beside the road.

“I wonder if he met Springman?” Vandervell said. “On balance it’s possible. Springman would have come up the south face. This is the only road to the village.”

“Ask him. Offer him another dollar.”

“Pointless—he’d say he had seen him just to keep me happy.”

“What makes you so sure Springman is here?”

“He was here,” Vandervell corrected. “He won’t be here any longer. I was with Springman in Acapulco when he looked at the map. He came here.”

The woman carried her tumbler into the bedroom.

“We’ll have dinner at nine,” Vandervell called to her. “I’ll let you know if he dances again.”

Left alone, Vandervell watched the fire displays. The glow shone through the windows of the houses in the village so that they seemed to glow like charcoal. At night the collection of hovels was deserted, but a few of the men returned during the day.

In the morning two men came from the garage in Ecuatan to reclaim the car which Vandervell had hired. He offered to pay a month’s rent in advance, but they rejected this and pointed at the clinkers that had fallen on to the car from the sky. None of them was hot enough to burn the paintwork. Vandervell gave them each fifty dollars and promised to cover the car with a tarpaulin. Satisfied, the men drove away.

After breakfast Vandervell walked out across the lava seams to the road. The stick-dancer stood by his hole above the bank, resting his hands on the two spears. The cone of the volcano, partly hidden by the dust, trembled behind his back. He watched Vandervell when he shouted across the road. Vandervell took a dollar bill from his wallet and placed it under a stone. The stick-man began to hum and rock on the balls of his feet.

As Vandervell walked back along the road two of the villagers approached.

“Guide,” he said to them. “Ten dollars. One hour.” He pointed to the lip of the crater but the men ignored him and continued along the road.

The surface of the house had once been white, but was now covered with gray dust. Two hours later, when the manager of the estate below the house rode up on a gray horse, Vandervell asked: “Is your horse white or black?”

“That’s a good question, senor.”

“I want to hire a guide,” Vandervell said. “To take me into the volcano.”

“There’s nothing there, senor.”

“I want to look around the crater. I need someone who knows the pathways.”

“It’s full of smoke, Senor Vandervell. Hot sulphur. Burns the eyes. You wouldn’t like it.”

“Do you remember seeing someone called Springman?” Vandervell said. “About three months ago.”

“You asked me that before. I remember two Americans with a scientific truck. Then a Dutchman with white hair.”

“That could be him.”

“Or maybe black, eh? As you say.”

A rattle of sticks sounded from the road. After warming up, the stick-dancer had begun his performance in earnest.

“You’d better get out of here, Senor Vandervell,” the manager said. “The mountain could split one day.”

Vandervell pointed to the stick-dancer. “He’ll hold it off for a while.”

The manager rode away. “My respects to Mrs. Vandervell.”

“Miss Winston.”

Vandervell went into the lounge and stood by the window. During the day the activity of the volcano increased. The column of smoke rose half a mile into the sky, threaded by gleams of flame.

The rumbling woke the woman. In the kitchen she spoke to the house-boy.

“He wants to leave,” she said to Vandervell afterwards.

“Offer him more money,” he said without turning.

“He says everyone has left now. It’s too dangerous to stay. The men in the village are leaving for good this afternoon.”

Vandervell watched the stick-dancer twirling his devil sticks like a drum major. “Let him go if he wants to. I think the estate manager saw Springman.”

“That’s good. Then he was here.”

“The manager sent his respects to you.”

“I’m charmed.”

Five minutes later, when the house-boy had gone, she returned to her bedroom. During the afternoon she came out to collect the film magazines in the bookcase.

Vandervell watched the smoke being pumped from the volcano. Now and then the devil-sticks man climbed out of his hole and danced on a mound of lava by the road. The men came down from the village for the last time. They looked at the stick-dancer as they walked on down the road.

At eight o’clock in the morning a police truck drove up to the village, reversed and came down again. Its roof and driving cabin were covered with ash. The policemen did not see the stick-dancer, but they saw Vandervell in the window of the house and stopped outside.

“Get out!” one of the policemen shouted. “You must go now! Take your car! What’s the matter?”

Vandervell opened the window. “The car is all right. We’re staying for a few days. Gracias, Sergeant.”

“No! Get out!” The policeman climbed down from the cabin. “The mountain—pfft! Dust, burning!” He took off his cap and waved it. “You go now.”

As he remonstrated Vandervell closed the window and took his jacket off the chair. Inside he felt for his wallet.

After he had paid the policemen they saluted and drove away. The woman came out of the bedroom.

“You’re lucky your father is rich,” she said. “What would you do if he was poor?”

“Springman was poor,” Vandervell said. He took his handkerchief from his jacket. The dust was starting to seep into the house. “Money only postpones one’s problems.”

“How long are you going to stay? Your father told me to keep an eye on you.”

“Relax. I won’t come to any mischief here.”

“Is that a joke? With this volcano over our heads?”

Vandervell pointed to the stick-dancer. “It doesn’t worry him. This mountain has been active for fifty years.”

“Then why do we have to come here now?”

“I’m looking for Springman. I think he came here three months ago.”

“Where is he? Up in the village?”

“I doubt it. He’s probably five thousand miles under our feet, sucked down by the back-pressure. A century from now he’ll come up through Vesuvius.”

“I hope not.”

“Have you thought of that, though? It’s a wonderful idea.”

“No. Is that what you’re planning for me?”

Cinders hissed in the roof tank, spitting faintly like boiling rain.

“Think of them—Pompeiian matrons, Aztec virgins, bits of old Prometheus himself, they’re raining down on the just and the unjust.”

“What about your friend Springman?”

“Now that you remind me . . .” Vandervell raised a finger to the ceiling. “Let’s listen. What’s the matter?”

“Is that why you came here? To think of Springman being burned to ashes?”

“Don’t be a fool.” Vandervell turned to the window.

“What are you worrying about, anyway?”

“Nothing,” Vandervell said. “For once in a long time I’m not worrying about anything at all.” He rubbed the pane with his sleeve. “Where’s the old devil-boy? Don’t tell me he’s gone.” He peered through the falling dust. “There he is.”

The figure stood on the ridge above the road, illuminated by the flares from the crater. A pall of ash hung in the air around him.

“What’s he waiting for?” the woman asked. “Another dollar?”

“A lot more than a dollar,” Vandervell said. “He’s waiting for me.”

“Don’t burn your fingers,” she said, closing the door.

That afternoon, when she came into the lounge after waking, she found that Vandervell had left. She went to the window and looked up towards the crater. The falls of ash and cinders obscured the village, and hundreds of embers glowed on the lava flows. Through the dust she could see the explosions inside the crater lighting up the rim.

Vandervell’s jacket lay over a chair. She waited for three hours for him to return. By this time the noise from the crater was continuous. The lava flows dragged and heaved like chains, shaking the walls of the house.

At five o’clock Vandervell had not come back. A second crater had opened in the summit of the volcano, into which part of the village had fallen. When she was sure that the devil-sticks man had gone, the woman took the money from Vandervell’s jacket and drove down the mountain.