Nicola tentatively opened her eyes. Had they really survived that? Her memories of the last ten minutes of her life seemed to be broken into tiny pieces, like jagged fragments of glass.
She could remember:
Clinging to the side of the raft as it flew high in the air.
The feel of cold water closing over her head as her side of the raft tipped under.
Gasping for air as it righted itself.
The sound of Sean hollering "WOO-HOO" as if he were actually having a good time.
And then suddenly it was all over. The roaring sound stopped. The raft became wonderfully still.
Nicola sat up. The rest of the Space Brigade and Henry were all lying flat on their backs on the raft. Everyone was drenched through. The mountains were behind them and the river had widened. It was now flat and tranquil. The raft was barely moving. Above them, the sky was becoming lighter and the stars were fading.
"Dawn," said Henry Sweet, sitting up. "My favorite time of the day." He looked at Nicola. "Have you ever seen a Whimsian dawn?"
Nicola shook her head.
"You're about to see something you'll never forget."
Nicola could see the curve of Whimsy's giant sun glimmering on the horizon. The light began to change. Everything was bathed in a fine gold mist, as if someone was sprinkling the planet with gold dust. Streaks of peach, cherry, and mango slowly appeared across the sky, as if that same person was now lazily trying out paint colors on a ca
nvas. As the sun rose higher, the colors deepened and became more beautiful, like an orchestra reaching its crescendo.
By the time the sun was hovering over the horizon like a burning coin, Whimsy's birds were singing and the Space Brigade was all sitting up, lifting their faces to the soft, warm rays.
Henry raised his eyebrows at Nicola.
"Incredible," she agreed.
"My life's goal is to paint a Whimsy dawn," he said. "I've tried it a hundred times but I never quite capture its essence. One day I will."
"Unless Volcomania wins the war," said Nicola.
"What do you mean?" said Henry."I'll still paint! Painting is my life! I would never stop. I paint every day of my life."
"Yes, but if Volcomania wins the war, everyone will be put in artistic factories. You'll have to paint what they tell you to paint. You'll be on a schedule."
"A schedule? Me? I couldn't paint to a schedule!"
"You might have to," said Nicola. She didn't mean to be cruel. She just wanted Henry to understand what this war could mean to his planet.
"That's why you have to fight," said Sean.
"That's why you have to defend yourselves," said Nicola.
Henry stared at them. His mouth opened as if he were going to say something but no sound came out.
"Is this Griddlemill?" interrupted Shimlara. "I can smell the roses."
Henry cleared his throat and looked around. He pointed at the shore, where dozens of rosebushes were growing. "That's Griddlemill there. There's a beautiful picnic spot through--oh. Oh dear." He dropped his hand.
"What is it?" said Nicola.
She looked where he'd been pointing and saw an ugly tangle of vicious-looking barbed wire rising high in the air above the roses.
"They've built a prison camp over our picnic area," said Henry. "That's where I proposed to my wife!" He leaped to his feet, causing the raft to rock alarmingly. "These people are barbarians! They must be stopped!"