Un Lun Dun

“Worth a try.” The Unstible-thing’s voice was loud and angry, and Brokkenbroll was silent. “Put the UnGun down, put the book down, and go.”

“Very well,” Brokkenbroll said. “Of course. It’s a good idea…I’ll…go and ask…”

“And leave an unbrella to help me.”

There was a pause.

“I will not,” said Brokkenbroll nervously. “I think you forget we’re partners. The unbrellas are my servants.”

Deeba heard the clank of metal, a gate slid into place. There was a receding mechanical grind.

“Oh well,” the voice muttered. “Never thought I’d get rid of him.”

“Oh my lord…” muttered Mortar. “What have I done?”

“Sleep.” There was a whoosh like wind, and Mortar’s voice petered out to nothing.

I need to get these things off me, Deeba thought, and wriggled her wrists again. Curdle grabbed the unbrella with its cardboard spout. Deeba heard the book.

“Brokkenbroll’ll realize you’re double-crossing him,” it said. “Probably does already.”

“Silly unbrella man,” Unstible-Smog said. “It’s too late for him now.”

“When he realizes and joins us, you know—”

“Book.” The voice was heavy. “I am very busy. Last experiments. Chemistry. Working on this a long time. Breathed a lot of books. Very helpful, those librarians. Provided me a lot of fuel. Now I need to focus. I would rather not deal with you or ’Broll or the stupid old Propheseer. But make me pay attention to you and I will. In fact,” it said with sudden greed, “not got any chemistry chapters in you…?”

“No,” said the book hurriedly. “Nothing but geography. And half of that’s wrong. Shtum, me.”

There was the sound of tearing, and a quick cry.

Deeba strained again, but it was hopeless. She slumped and closed her eyes.

It’s no good, she thought. I’ve come so far, I got so near what we had to do, and it’s going to finish like this. I can’t get out. Brokkenbroll controls the broken umbrellas completely.

“Wait,” she said aloud. Her eyes snapped open. The broken ones…

She examined her old umbrella. Its shaft and folded-up canopy lay flat beneath her, its crook around her legs. She examined the long gash in the canopy, which tore straight through several of the lizards.

Deeba frowned. There was an idea swimming somewhere in her head, and she strained to catch it.

“Curdle,” she whispered. “I need you to fetch something. In my bag. See? The pouch! Fetch!”

The little carton followed her frantic nods eagerly. One by one, it began to drag things out of the bag.

“No,” she said, “not the socks. Not the notebook. Not the…not my keys, no. The little black thing. No. No. No. Yes!”

With her hands gripped together, it wasn’t easy to open her sewing kit, but eventually Deeba did so, and drew out a needle and thread. It was even harder to bend down to the unbrella holding her feet, with the other one around her wrists, but slowly and carefully Deeba managed it. She used one of the needles that Obaday had given her, and she would have sworn it seemed to help her, dipping and stitching with simple metal enthusiasm. Curdle hopped excitedly around her.

With crude, ugly loops of thread, all she could manage with her two hands working together, Deeba began to repair her umbrella. She listened to the murmurs of the Unstible-thing behind the door, trying to work out what it was doing. And as she did so, she clumsily sewed up the split that had ruined her umbrella’s canopy.

The instant Deeba had put the last stitch into the unbrella, and closed the tear, it quivered. It trembled, and something changed.

The red-and-lizard thing shook itself like an animal waking up. Deeba held her breath. It moved fitfully, then slowly unhooked from her ankles and turned on its handle, opening and stretching its fabric in what could have been a yawn.

It turned, and the eyes of the biggest lizard faced Deeba.

“Yes,” whispered Deeba. “I did it!” She bit her lip to stop herself shouting in delight. She watched what had once been her umbrella hopping around the corridor, bending to examine things around it.

“Hey,” she whispered, and it turned to her. “Do you remember me? From a long time ago.”

It paused for several seconds, then nodded its tip uncertainly up and down.

“Do you remember a minute ago you were gripping me?”

It nodded. Vehemently.

“But you don’t want to hold my legs?” She gesticulated at her ankles. The unbrella bent to look at them. It raised its canopy a tiny bit and lowered it again. An umbrella-shrug. Then it shook it no.

“You had to. You were ordered. And now you don’t have to obey.”

It nodded and jumped and spun, and cartwheeled, and bounced from wall to wall and ceiling to floor. It opened and closed and flew in little jerks.

It’s free! It doesn’t have to do what Brokkenbroll says! Deeba thought.

It’s not an unbrella at all, anymore. It’s something else. When it was an umbrella, it was completely for one thing. When it was broken, it didn’t do that anymore, so it was something else, and that’s when it was Brokkenbroll’s. His slave.

But if it’s fixed…It’s not unbroken— then it would be an umbrella, just a dumb tool again. But now it’s not broken either, so it’s not his anymore.

It’s something new. It’s not an umbrella, and it’s not an unbrella. It’s…

“What are you?” muttered Deeba. “A rebrella?” Whatever it is, she thought, it’s its own thing, now.

“You like being free,” she said. The rebrella nodded enthusiastically. “In return…would you help me?”

The floor was littered with glass, and splintered wood from the window frames. There were little metal rods, too, a few inches long, that had secured the windows closed.

Curdle and the rebrella picked up random broken bits and brought them each to Deeba.

“No, not the glass,” she said. “The rod. Yeah, that’s it.”

The unbrella that held her wrists was bent in the middle of its shaft. It took a lot of effort, but with the help of the rebrella— and the enthusiastic unhelpful participation of Curdle— Deeba held it firmly. The rebrella forced it open, and Deeba held a rod flush with the unbrella’s shaft. Between them they managed to unbend it and wrap sticking-tape around and around her captor and the metal rod, binding them together, bracing the unbrella straight.

And suddenly, fixed like that, it wasn’t an unbrella at all. It sprang away from Deeba’s hands and did a dance of delight, like the first rebrella had.

With her hands and legs free, Deeba was able to get hold of the remaining unbrellas in turn. They didn’t fight— their orders had been to hold still.

Two were so broken Deeba couldn’t fix them. The others she patched up quickly. None of them looked good, but very soon Deeba was surrounded by four delighted rebrellas, jumping with the pleasure of no longer being Brokkenbroll’s to control. They were like animals playing.

Her mind raced. She was painfully conscious of how time was passing, that her friends were waiting, and that she had only one last chance to stop the Smog.

“Will you help me?” she said. She had to say it a few times before the rebrellas lined up, seemingly eager. The exception was the red-and-lizard rebrella, which was quicker. Perhaps because it was mine for ages, she thought, it understands me.