The Giant's Almanac by Andrew Zurcher (black female authors .txt) 📕

over the nape of Aslan’s neck, Fitz soon realized that each of the eight snakes dancing off the iron ring was a lever or winch, and each one controlled one of the eight halyards by which the huge spinnaker was tethered. As Mr Ahmadi adjusted them to respond to the turbulent gusts, he studied the telltale ripples and dimples that appeared and vanished as quickly in the face of the sail before him. From instant to instant his hands struck the outer surface of the ring, darting first to one, then to another of the long, sinuous iron heads, racing to slacken or tighten one or another of the halyards by twisting here, or releasing pressure there. Always the black face of the sail, flung out pregnant and swollen before them, stood featureless, taut, tight as a drum.

Then, suddenly, they burst out of the tunnel. Fitz clutched Aslan hard by the haunches and pulled him even nearer; Clare held him, in turn, by both shoulders as she braced her feet on a wooden bar that ran low round the side of the gig. The motion of the wheels on the tracks seemed to change in the open air; where before the tunnel running with bricks had rushed around them, the sail billowing within inches of its walls, and every moment a deafening alarm, now they seemed to be flying, almost suspended, in a huge and noiseless expanse. Night was falling, and the sky vaulted among its evening lights, russet bars crowding behind them, and before them the heavy pall already part-spangled with stars of night.

‘What is this thing?’ Ned called, trying to get Mr Ahmadi’s attention.

‘I call it a hopper,’ called back its pilot, without turning.

Ned braced his arm on the hopper’s side. A stand of evergreens was approaching on the right, beyond open pastures; he stared at it, turning their impossible speed over and over in his mind.

‘Why?’

This time Mr Ahmadi let go one of his hands from the iron ring, and unfolded his body backwards, so that, like a dancer on the arm of the straining machine, he was for an instant extended.

‘I fervently hope,’ he shouted against the blast of air, ‘that I will need neither to tell you, nor to demonstrate.’

For a long while they watched the countryside pour by them, night gathering and settling in its turns and folds, a little deeper with every bend. The wind stayed almost right behind them while they shot on before, their speed hardly flagging even as they drew up the long, rolling land swells, hardly gaining as they cascaded down the gentle slopes beyond. From time to time one or other of the sail’s corded extremities rippled and began to fold; then Mr Ahmadi drew the snake-headed winch from its socket, and holding the wayward halyard limp and fluttering at the length of his arm, whipped it like a lash in the air, beating and again beating the sail until – sometimes with the greatest reluctance, like a mule cudgelled into service – it took the wind again, and flew.

Moments after they sped howling past a deserted station platform in a little town, the track came round a bend and suddenly joined a second, then a third track – all three of them running in parallel. Mr Ahmadi spun to face them.

‘I’m going to need your help,’ he shouted. Aslan barked, and Mr Ahmadi shot him a scowl, as if noticing for the first time that he was there. ‘There’s a low bridge coming – in a minute, or less. When I tell you, all of you lean to the right – hard.’

As they neared the bridge, the problem was obvious: the pole set at the rear of the gig, from which the spinnaker flew, would be too tall to clear the underpass. A lump began to rise into Fitz’s throat, as he realized just how fast they were hurtling down the track; then he understood that the lump was his stomach.

‘Now!’ cried Mr Ahmadi, and he dropped to the floor of the gig to release the handle that locked the wheels. Clare tumbled on to Fitz, and Fitz on to Ned, lurching sideways with Aslan in his arms, and the whole of the buggy seemed to topple rightward for a long, sickening arc of a moment, accompanied by the squeal of metal ripping and shearing against metal. Just as they passed under the bridge, clearing its squared span by inches, Mr Ahmadi shouted again, and all three of them, dragging the dog, pushed back against the lean, climbing upward until the gig crashed down again on the rails, locking into place.

Mr Ahmadi bellowed into the wind before them, iron snakes shaking in his hands. To Fitz’s terrified eyes, with the black sail unfurled before him and the light of the moon glazing his silhouette from top to toe, he seemed an otherworldly form, a prophet or shaman of exorbitant power sent to conduct them into unintelligible wonders. And yet, as the gig settled again into its regular carriage, Ned and Clare looked relieved almost beyond words; for the first time since they had climbed aboard in the tunnel, Ned relaxed enough to take a look around.

‘Habi,’ he said. Mr Ahmadi didn’t hear him. ‘Habi! Habi!’

He didn’t need to point. The moment Mr Ahmadi turned, he saw the train bearing down on them from behind. The driver must have seen them, too, for the train – now very near, and gaining with every second – let out a piercing whistle.

‘Again!’ called Mr Ahmadi, over his shoulder, and he took the top two halyards into his hands, shaking their snakes at the sky. At the signal given, he again swooped down to release the wheels just as his three passengers rolled to the right; but this time he sprang to his feet and hauled dramatically on the upper stays, changing the angle of the envelope so that the wind began to lift the gig straight into the air. For