The White Oak by Kim White

Author:Kim White
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy, Young Adult, Adventure
Publisher: Story Machine Studio
Published: 2012-04-06T14:00:00+00:00

From a distance, the sphere looked solid, but up close I see that it’s made of thousands of parts. The outer shell is formed by thick cast-iron plates that shift continuously in response to movement underneath. Several of the metal plates screech and clank, then pull apart, creating a gate about the size of a twostory building. Lucas and I run along the dock to be among the first to get to the gate. Iron bars with a single cagelike turnstile block the entrance. The crowd swarms and pushes on the turnstile, but it’s locked in place. The metal pier continues into the sphere about a hundred feet, forming a walkway through the shell that’s as treacherous as the river. The bands of metal that form the inner shell of the globe spin at different speeds, cutting through the walkway like guillotine blades. Some move so quickly that they’re only a blur. It’s like a giant armillary sphere with orbiting rings and metal plates that shuffle like puzzle pieces to open at the waterline and close again as the sphere plunges into the river, its wake rippling under the dock.

Lucas and I stand on tiptoe and try to peer through the gate. I see that the globe is an old machine. It must have been shiny and perfect when it was first made, but now it’s rusty, and it groans and clanks like an old tractor.

Behind us, shades push and clamor to get away from the ferry, off the dock, and through the metal turnstile. They’re crammed up against the iron bars, waiting to get in.

“Form a line!” a squeaky voice yells from above. The shades look up to see a troll-like man in a metal basket looking down at them. The basket, attached to a swiveling hydraulic arm, holds the little man high above the crowd. “I am the gatekeeper,” he says, as his basket swoops down and hovers above them, then glides down to lock into place next to the turnstile. His flabby body protrudes between the metal slats of the basket. He has thick, wrinkled skin and a flat head, and his toad eyes stare, unblinking, from behind tiny rectangular glasses. “Single file,” he croaks.

The crowd pushes and stumbles until an acceptable line is formed. It snakes down the dock all the way back to the ferry. Anxious to get inside, the crowd pushes the first shade toward the turnstile.

“Hold it!” the gatekeeper yells. “We can’t start without the scanner. Where’s the boatswain?”

We all turn to look for the boatswain. He is making his way slowly, insolently, toward the gatekeeper. As he passes, I can see how much he enjoys the distress he’s causing. Walking as slowly as possible, he carries his black box, and the scanner he used to check our coins. As soon as he is within range of the mechanical basket, the troll swoops over and snatches the mechanism from his hands, dropping an identical box at his feet. The boatswain ignores it, turning to harass one of the shades, pushing her backward and toward the edge of the pier.

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