Weaveworld (93 page)

‘Terrible weather we’re having,’ and he turned to find the monkey Novello, and its human companion, standing no more than two yards from him, camouflaged by stillness.

‘It was Smith who did it,’ said the monkey, leaning towards Cal. ‘Him who pulled you through. Don’t let them blame me.’

The man threw the animal a sideways glance.

‘He’s not speaking to me,’ Novello announced, ‘because I strayed outside. Well, it’s done now, isn’t it? Why don’t you come along to the fire? You’d better lie down before you fall down.’

‘Yes,’ Cal said, ‘… please.’

Smith led the way. Cal followed, his stupefied brain still grappling with what he’d just experienced. The Kind might be cornered, but they weren’t without a trick or two; the illusion that kept this wood from sight had survived close scrutiny. And once on the other side there was a second surprise: the season. Though the branches of the trees above
him were bare, and it was last summer’s moss he was walking on, there was a scent of spring in the air, as if the ice that gripped the Spectred Isle from end to end had no hold here. Sap was rising; buds were swelling; things on every side were turning their cells to the sweet labour of growth. The sudden clemency induced a mild euphoria in him, but his frozen limbs hadn’t got the message. As he came within a few yards of the fire he felt his body lose its power to hold itself up. He reached out to one of the trees for support, but it stepped away from him – or so it seemed – and he fell forward.

He didn’t hit the ground. There were arms to catch him, and he gave himself over to them. They carried him to the vicinity of the fire, and he was gently laid down. A hand touched his cheek and he looked away from the flames to see Suzanna kneeling at his side, firelight on her face.

He said her name – or at least hoped he did. Then he passed out.

2

It had happened before that he’d closed his eyes seeing her, only to wake and find her gone. But not this time. This time she was waiting for him, on the other side of sleep. Not just waiting, but holding him, and rocking him. The layers of clothes, paper pulp and photographs he’d been wearing had been peeled off him as he slept, and a blanket wrapped around his nakedness.

‘I found my way home,’ he said to her, when he could get his tongue to work again.

‘I went to Chariot Street to fetch you,’ she said, ‘but the house had gone.’

‘I know …’

‘And Rue Street too.’

He nodded. ‘De Bono came looking for me …’ He halted, silenced by the memory. Even the fire, and her arms around him, couldn’t prevent his shuddering as he stood again in the fog, and glimpsed what it had half concealed.

‘… the Scourge came after us,’ he said.

‘And Shadwell,’ she added.

‘Yes. How did you know?’

She told him about the Shrine.

‘So what happens now?’ he said.

‘We wait. We keep the rapture up, and we wait. We’re all here now. You were the only one missing.’

‘I’m found now,’ he said softly.

She tightened her hold on him.

‘And there’ll be no more separations,’ she said. ‘We’ll just have to pray they pass us by.’

‘No praying
please,’
said a voice from behind Suzanna. ‘We don’t want angels hearing us.’

Cal craned his neck to see the newcomer. The lines on the face before him were deeper than they’d been, the beard a little more grizzled: but it was still Lem’s face, Lem’s smile.

‘Poet,’ Lo said, bending to put his hand through Cal’s hair. ‘We almost lost you.’

‘No chance,’ said Cal, with a slow smile. ‘Have you still got the fruits?’

Lo patted the breast pocket of his coat, the modernity of which rather suited him. ‘Got them here,’ he said. ‘Speaking of which: is the man hungry?’

‘I can always eat,’ said Cal.

‘There’s food to be had when you want it.’

‘Thank you.’

Lem was about to depart, then turned back and very solemnly said:

‘Will you help me plant, Calhoun? When the time comes?’

‘You know I will.’

Lem nodded. ‘I’ll see you in a while,’ he said, and withdrew from the circle of firelight.

‘Are my clothes dry?’ Cal asked, ‘I can’t wander around like this.’

‘Let me see if I can borrow something for you,’ Suzanna replied.

He sat up to let her rise, but before she did so she kissed him on the lips. It was not a casual kiss; its touch did more to
warm him than a dozen fires. When she left his side he had to wrap the blanket around him to cover up the fact that more than sap was rising tonight.

Alone, he had time to think. Though he’d come within spitting distance of death it was already difficult to remember the pain he’d been in, such a short time ago; possible, even, to think there was no world at all beyond this enchanted wood, and that they could stay here forever and make magic. But seductive as that thought was he knew indulging it, even for a moment, was dangerous. If there was to be a life for the Kind after tonight – if by some miracle Uriel and its keeper
did
pass them by – then that life had to be lived as part of the Wonderland he’d found in Gluck’s bureau of miracles. One world, indivisible.

After a dozing time, Suzanna returned with a collection of clothes, and laid them beside him.

‘I’m going to make a round of the lookouts,’ she said, ‘I’ll see you later.’

He thanked her for the clothes, and began to dress. This was his second borrowed skin in twenty-four hours, and it was – predictably, given its source – odder than anything Gluck had supplied. He took pleasure in the collision of styles: a formal waistcoat and a battered leather jacket; odd socks and pigskin shoes.

‘Now that’s the way a poet should dress,’ Lemuel declared when he came back for Cal. ‘Like a blind thief.’

‘I’ve been called worse.’ Cal replied. ‘There was talk of food?’

‘There was,’ said Lem, and escorted him away from the fire. Once his flame-dazzled eyes had grown accustomed to the half-light he realized there were Kind everywhere; perched in the branches or sitting on the ground between the trees, surrounded by their earthly goods. Despite the wonders these people had been intimate with, tonight they resembled any band of refugees, their eyes dark and full of caution, their mouths tight. Some, it was true, had decided to make the best of what might well be their last night alive. Lovers lay in each others’ arms exchanging whispers and kisses; a singer poured a lilt onto the air, to which three women were dancing,
the stillness between their steps so profound they were lost amongst the trees. But most of the fugitives were inert, keeping themselves under lock and key for fear their dread show.

The smell of coffee came to greet Cal as Lem brought him into a clearing where another fire, smaller than the one he’d slept by, was burning. Half a dozen Kind were eating here. He knew none of them.

‘This is Calhoun Mooney,’ Lem announced. ‘A poet.’

One of the number, who was sitting in a chair while a woman carefully shaved his head, said:

‘I remember you from the orchard. You’re the Cuckoo.’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you come to die with us?’ said a girl crouching beside the fire, pouring herself coffee. The remark, which would have been judged an indiscretion in most company, drew laughter.

‘If that’s what it comes to,’ said Cal.

‘Well don’t go on an empty stomach,’ said the shaved man. As his barber towelled the last of the suds from his scalp Cal realized he’d grown his mane to conceal a skull decorated with rhymthic pigmentation from the gaze of the Kingdom. Now he could parade it again.

‘We’ve only got bread and coffee,’ Lem said.

‘Suits me,’ Cal told him.

‘You saw the Scourge,’ said another of the company.

‘Yes,’ Cal replied.

‘Must we talk about that, Hamel?’ said the girl at the fire.

The man ignored her. ‘What was it like?’ he asked.

Cal shrugged. ‘Huge,’ he said, hoping the subject would be dropped. But it wasn’t just Hamel who wanted to know; all of them – even the girl who’d objected – were waiting for further details. ‘It had hundreds of eyes …’ he said. ‘That’s all I saw, really.’

‘Maybe we could blind it,’ Hamel said, drawing on his cigarette.

‘How?’ said Lem.

‘The Old Science.’

‘We don’t have the power to keep the screen up much longer,’ said the woman who’d been doing the shaving.
‘Where are we going to get the strength to meet the Scourge?’

‘I don’t understand this Old Science business,’ said Cal, sipping at the coffee Lem had brought him.

‘It’s all gone anyway,’ said the shaved man.

‘Our enemies kept it,’ Hamel reminded him. ‘That bitch Immacolata and her fancy-man – they had it.’

‘And those who made the Loom,’ said the girl.

‘They’re dead and gone,’ Lem said.

‘Anyway,’ said Cal. ‘You couldn’t blind the Scourge.’

‘Why not?’ said Hamel.

‘Too many eyes.’

Hamel wandered to the fire and threw the stub of his cigarette into its heart.

‘All the better to see us with,’ he said.

The flame the stub burned with was bright blue, which made Cal wonder what the man had been smoking. Turning his back on the fire Hamel disappeared between the trees, leaving silence in his wake.

‘Will you excuse me, poet?’ said Lem. ‘I’ve got to go find my daughters.’

‘Of course.’

Cal sat down to finish his meal, leaning his back against a tree to watch the comings and goings. His short sleep had only taken the edge off his fatigue; eating made him dozy again. He might have slept where he sat but that the strong coffee he’d drunk had gone straight to his bladder, and he needed to relieve himself. He got up and went in search of a secluded bush to do just that, rapidly losing his bearings amongst the trees.

In one grove he came upon a couple dancing to the late-night music from a small transistor radio – like lovers left on a dance floor after the place had closed, too absorbed in each other to be parted. In another place a child was being taught to count, its abacus a string of floating lights its mother had spoken into being. He found a deserted spot to unburden himself, and was fumbling to do the buttons of his borrowed trousers up again when somebody took hold of his arm. He turned to find Apolline Dubois at his side. She was in black,
as ever, but was wearing lipstick and mascara, which didn’t flatter her. Had he not seen the all but empty vodka bottle in her hand her breath would have told him she’d had a good night’s drinking behind her.

‘I’d offer you some,’ she said, ‘but it’s all I’ve got left.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he told her.

‘Me?’ she said. ‘I never worry. It’s all going to end badly whether I worry or not.’

Drawing herself closer to him, she peered at his face.

‘You look sick,’ she announced. ‘When did you last have a shave?’

As he opened his mouth to answer her something happened to the air around them. A tremor ran through it, with darkness at its heels. She forsook her hold on him instantly, dropping the vodka bottle in the same moment. It struck his foot, but he managed to bite back his curse, and was thankful for it. Every sound from between the trees, music or mathematics, had ceased utterly. So had the noises in the undergrowth, and from the branches. The wood was suddenly death-bed quiet, the shadows thickening between the trees. He put his arm out and clutched hold of one of the trunks, fearful of losing all sense of geography. When he looked around Apolline was backing away from him, only her powdered face visible. Then she turned away, and that too was gone.

He wasn’t entirely alone. Off to his right he saw somebody step from the cover of the trees and hurriedly kick earth over the small fire by which mother and child had been engaged in their lessons. They were there still, the woman’s hand pressed over her off-spring’s mouth, the child’s eyes turned up to look at her, wide with fear. As the last light was snuffed out Cal saw her mouth ask a question of the man, who in answer jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Then the scene went to black.

For a few moments Cal stayed put, vaguely aware that there were people moving past him – purposefully, as if to their stations. Rather than remain where he was, clinging to the tree like a man in a flood, he decided to go in the direction the fire-smotherer had pointed, and find out what was going
on. Hands extended to help him plot his course as he navigated his way between the trees. His every movement produced some unwelcome sound: his pigskin shoes creaked: his hands, touching a trunk, brought fragments of bark down in a pattering rain. But there was a destination in sight. The trees were thinning out, and between them he could see the brightness of snow. Its light made the going easier, and by it he came to within ten yards of the edge of the wood. He knew now where he was. Ahead lay the field where he’d seen Novello playing; and louring over it, the white slope of Rayment’s Hill.

As he started to move closer somebody put their hand on his chest, halting him, and a nod from a dogged face at his side directed him back the way he’d come. But somebody crouched in the shrubbery closer to the edge of the trees turned to look at him, and with a raised hand signalled that he should be allowed passage. It was only when he came within a yard of her hiding-place that he saw it was Suzanna. Though they were very near the perimeter of the trees, and the snow-light was almost lurid, she was difficult to see. A rapture was wrapped around her like a veil, strengthening on her exhaled breaths, weakening on the intake. Her attention was on the field again, and the hill beyond. Snow was still falling without pause; it seemed to have erased his tracks, though not, perhaps, unaided.

‘It’s here,’ she whispered, without looking his way.

He studied the scene before him. There was nothing out there but the hill and the snow.

‘I don’t see –’ he began.

She silenced him with a touch, and nodded towards the young trees at the outskirts of the wood.

‘She sees it,’ her whisper said.

He studied the saplings, and realized that one was flesh and blood. A young girl was standing at the very edge of the trees, her arms extended, her hands holding onto the branches of saplings to left and right.