by Brett
Davidson
Part 3
The Hiatus was a necessary but frightening time.
When Aeiphanes
paused, the sun escaped it by slivers of a degree in each hora.
It took two dekaphae for the disc of the sun to disappear once it had
touched the horizon. Even now the last droplet of fire still
trembled on the horizon, peculiar green flashes splitting off from it
through the layers of atmosphere and a great misty half-halo spanning
North-West to South-West. As the wall of the horizon darkened,
the shadows spilled like a flood across the plain. The festival
of the creeping end was a celebration of misrule and as such, of
course, it merely confirmed the usual order. The
preparations for the celebrations gathered apace and Io watched from a
high gantry.
Fore, she could see, various parties of devotees were
meditating and
staring through smoked glass and mumbling their prayers, while Aft,
once the skipping magenta afterimages had cleared from her eyes, the
first, and - lore said - last stars were visible. There were very
few, but they seemed, in light of her visions, far more real.
Starboard, between the outrider cars and the ruined Castle, the
starport had been transformed into the festive field for the
celebrations. She watched the marquees and pavilions being set up
and mentally traced the route she would take through them to the ruined
Castle. There was nothing save Medeis’ word that would actually
bar her from investigating the structure herself. It would be a
simple matter to present herself as acting as the library’s liaison for
the various sects that would perform their rituals there; as he had put
it himself once, you could go anywhere with a cap, a chart on a slate
and a pen. The high do not deign to notice minor officials and
the low dread being caught up in time-wasting checks and
references. Everyone would pretend not to see her and hope that
she would move on - which was exactly what she would do. She
grinned to herself and tied the ear flaps of her very official
librarian’s cap under her chin.
There was a flutter from above and she started.
The tail of a
long silver ribbon fell from the mast atop the Palatine Tower to the
foredeck, where it was secured by red-clad crew. It glittered
with the very last flashes of coloured light from the sun. Down
the train, the gesture was repeated in turn. In theory, the
shadow of the horizon would rise until only the electrum mast tips
shone briefly with the last of the light. When the moment of true
darkness came, a Monstruwacan would be permitted - grudgingly, even
now, after the centuries of their existence - to climb to the top of
the aftmost tower and light the green terminal lantern.
There was even, spectacle of spectacles, a hobbled
azhdarcho, its wings
trimmed and split so that they were no more than twenty yards of
bioluminescent banners. Handlers pulled it this way and that as
they tried to steer it into a ceremonial enclosure. Where and how
did they capture such a monster? The thing was hideous, like a
half-erected tent come to life and equipped with a head like a
three-yard sword. Even more hideous perhaps were the souls of men
who would torture and humiliate such a magnificent beast.
Thankfully the landwhales had moved on or been driven off. Their
immense lumbering masses made them barely faster than the Terminator,
but then they did not need to be much faster, and with the city stalled
by the dictate of calendar and ritual, they had been able to flee
whatever butchery they might have risked.
Why was she so cynical? Why could she never adopt
the pretence
when even pretence was such a joy, all the more so because it was
chosen? She would have thought that the melancholy foundation on
which it was built would make it all the more piquant for her peculiar
soul. She took a deep breath and the cold air was like spring
water. She felt alive, too alive perhaps. The time of
darkness seemed too natural, too real to her.
Was she born out of time? Was this too late or too
soon?
She looked down and tried not to think. She was
old enough to be
aware of these feelings, too young yet to understand them.
Below, it was simple. The bustling workers were
setting up the
tables that would be laden with hot pastries, sweets and broth, the
kindling for the bonfires was being stacked, the stages for the mystery
plays and other entertainments were being assembled. She could
climb down to the plain, wander about, eat honeyed cakes, meet a boy
perhaps and take him into one of the proliferating shadows behind a
wheel, grapple and stroke his long limbs and let him taste the
sweetness still on her tongue, then she might take him into herself…
Ah, that. She took a sip from her flask. The
warmth that
spread in her chest made her forget it for a while.
Her wrist hurt, she could not stay here forever.
She climbed down, thinking that this was what she wanted
and she
walked, and continued walking, the slate tucked neatly under her arm
and her stride purposeful. The fairground passed into her trail
and the ruined Sky-Castle rose. There was something about it that
was somehow more compelling than any ephemeral pleasures.
***********************************************
The eye of memory opened on Io’s childhood. This
was how she had
seen the place an orbit ago.
Of the very oldest ruins
alongside the Road, some were identified as castles, towers, pyramids
and, of course, the ever-present milestone obelisks. Like all
fixed things, they seemed strange, lacking in some essential symmetry
by being fused so intimately with the earth. The city in which
she lived was an example of proper symmetry and beauty: it
had a full-roundedness, elevated upon its many wheels, and was not some
mere imitation of an excrescence. The girl had not thought that
the
Castle was at all odd. She knew that it flew.
She had been flying through the
halls that encircled the
Castle’s
perimeter, skipping and bowling her hoop before her. Her route
had wound up to a broken gallery where she caught the golden light of
the
sunset and down again, where she saw ponderous machinery of unknown
purpose, and then it took a turn she never saw before. So fast,
so
absorbed in her play, she had not noticed where she turned into this
hall, still singing the nursery rhyme to herself.
The snail that follows
the sun
What will he do whenwinter comes?
Tap, tap, tap. The sound of her feet, her hand on
her hoop,
driving it before her. Tap, tap, tap-tap. She thought that
she had heard a footfall, just one, but there was no such thing as one
step. She stopped, the hoop rolled around the bend,
wobbling. She did not hear another step and she did not hear the
hoop fall. Carefully she crept ahead and took a look around the
corner. The hall was empty, without even her hoop.
The walls were strange. They glittered like glass
or water.
She snatched herself back and then she heard another
footfall. A
man stepped around the corner of the corridor that had been
empty. From the way she had come, his companion, a woman,
came. The hoop was in her hands.
Why were they companions? Because they were.
It was obvious
that they fitted together. It was obvious too that they did not
fit here. He wore wine-purple, like a Monstruwacan, but his
oddly-cut coat was embroidered with luminous thread, and she wore a
cloak of shimmering grey velvet, shot with the hint of red flame.
Also, both of them were very tall, with white hair like silk, though
they were not extremely old. Actually, it was hard to tell what
age they were. There was nobody who looked like them in Aeiphanes.
They frightened her, she wanted to run, but they were
close on either
side of her now.
“We had not seen you here before,” the woman in grey
said.
She looked around. The walls were not decent
metal, but something
translucent, like glass or jade. The strangers were reflected
there as if they might be inside the walls.
“Why not share tea with us and tell us why we are here?”
the man asked,
holding out his hand and smiling. The corners of his eyes
crinkled with mischief or kindness; she could not tell.
She fled, but the hall seemed to bend to their
intentions and wound
back to a round, intimate room. There were chairs, a samovar, a
table like a Heliomancer’s board-wheel, a pedestal with a bust upon it.
The face depicted was just like that of the man in
purple.
He was behind her. She spun around.
“What have you been singing?”
“I, I-” she fumbled. He was strange, far too tall
even for an
adult, too.
“I won’t hurt you.”
So she sang, suddenly self conscious so that the notes
sounded skewed:
The snail that follows
the sun
What will he do when winter
comes?
“Indeed,” the man said. “Have you ever really
asked yourself that
question?”
“What do you mean? I know what happens.”
Crawl abed and wind up
tight
And never, never roll again.
“Never is a word I hear often,” he said. “Do you
believe in
never?”
“I’m not sure”
“Ah… is there another couplet to the rhyme?”
“A cup?”
“More words.”
She nodded. Possibly he could be trusted.
She had been
warned about strangers of course, but… she couldn’t think of a reason,
except that he seemed familiar and because of what she almost
remembered, he wasn’t a bad man.
There are spiders
creeping too
Are they coming for me or for
you?
Now that was creepy. It didn’t really help to
think too much
about the words.
“Ah, I see - and more?” he prompted.
“I’m not sure that I like it, really. It’s just a
song.”
“Have you ever wondered why rhymes are written?
Don’t you want to
know what it means?”
She shook her head, wide-eyed and let a few more
fragments stumble out
of her mouth:
Do
you see their webs made of eyes, do…
That was enough. “Oh, I don’t remember the rest.”
He smiled, the seams of his face deepening. “That
is
enough. It is scary, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“Do you know,” he asked, “that the snail has a better
way of hiding?”
A shake this time.
“I do,” said the companion suddenly, as if on cue.
Io was a precocious girl, even then. She knew when
she was being
manipulated. “You’re just like spiders too,” she blurted.
“Giant white spiders.”
The couple exchanged glances. The man nodded, then
both backed
away from her and sat down together on one of the couches. The
woman gestured towards another. “Sit, please.”
Io thought about this for a while and then
complied. If they sat
down, then they weren’t going to grab her at once.
“Would you like some tea?” The woman pointed at
the steaming
samovar.
“No.” Everyone knew that if you accepted food and
drink from
fae-folk, you were bound to them forever.
“We’re not really spiders,” the woman cooed. She
might have been
soothing, but there was too much of a hint of pent-up energy in her.
“Except just a little,” the man said lightly.
Io hoped that he was joking, but her hands were wringing
the arms of
her chair with unease.
“I make lines, you see. Connections,” he added.
She stopped squirming and stood up. “I have to go
now, I’m with
people, they’re missing me,” she stuttered.
“Of course,” said the man. “But wouldn’t you like
to take
something with you?”
Gifts were snares, but they were still gifts.
“What?”
“This.” He held out a bundle of cloth to her which
she realised
was a stuffed doll of some kind. It was lanky and had red hair,
like her. Nobody made dolls that looked like her.
Unthinking, she reached out her hand to take it, but he withdrew.
“Careful,” he said. “You’re right to worry; we do have
tricks. Look.” He gave the doll a twist, turning it inside
out, making her wince in sympathy. Rather than showing bare
lining, the doll had another appearance. This time, it was a
woman with white hair in a suit of armour. Little panels of
golden cloth made the plates… and she looked a little like the man’s
companion. “And then there’s this.” Another twist, and this
time a queen in a red veil, which was, she saw peering at it closely,
made of dozens of ants.
“Do you like it?” the woman asked.
“Her,” Io corrected. “Like her.”
“Ah, so you do.”
“What’s she called?”
“I don’t know, what do you think that she should be
called? There
are so many of her after all…”
Io held out her hand again. “Thank you,” she
said. “I’ll
think of names, I’ll look after her.”
Satisfied, the man passed the doll to her at last.
“It’s up to
you to think of names, but if you like, you can start with what she is:
Entekora.”
“Enke-?”
“Entekora,” he repeated. “It means inside-out
doll. They’re
popular where we come from.”
Io took the doll and held it to her breast, not thinking
to ask him
where exactly it was that he came from. “Thank you,” she
repeated, and cradled the soft doll, murmuring the new word.
“Ent-ek-kora, Entekora.”
“You can go now. We’ll see you again.”
And she had gone, forgetting her hoop.
She had never
told Medeis or
anyone else what she had seen or whom she had met. The doll, she
had said, was simply lying in an old sealed compartment. It was
perhaps the first harbinger of adulthood, when a person becomes aware
of their individuality and certain experiences and fancies are entirely
one’s own. Preoccupied with the mysteries of the wrecked
hibernaculum and astrogation chamber, the Monstruwacans had not had
time to question her more deeply. The fits, though, she could
never keep secret.
***********************************************
A discrete structure in its operational prime, the
Castle now had no
edges as such. Plates and frames had collapsed, strewing their
fragments about in a glacis of litter. She picked her way through
the wreckage, the task made difficult by the low light that sent long
lines of deep shadow across her path and hid the numerous crevasses and
pitfalls along the way. The basic structure, segmented and a
little like a city made into a ring, was still visible, but time and
the Salvage Corps had reduced it to little more than a sketch and a
pile. What they had left was both functionally useless and highly
significant - as it should be.
Indeed, the whole surface of the earth, and the layers
beneath, were a
great garden of memorials, a history rewritten over again with each
circuit, leeched of all utility and ever more deeply imbued with
meaning. Like so many of the memorial sites along the sides of
the Roads, the Castle was a place regarded by the enlightened of
Aeiphanes as an example of the picturesque
to be venerated and to
inspire reflection. Few would bother or dare to actually visit
the place.
Except of course various scavengers, cultists,
Monstruwacans and their
young charges.
The wind was rising now, singing and thrumming in the
tall interlaced
frames. A superstitious soul might have thought that spirits
inhabited the ruin. The ruin was, after a thousand years of
decay, completely bare of life. One a little more observant than
her might had wondered why no creatures had made their homes here, but
she did not notice, concentrating all the more on finding the place of
the fae-folk who had given her the doll, but there was the real mystery
now of how they could be everywhere and everywhen now, something she
had barely conceived of when she was a mere girl.
The hidden cell was, in the end, no more a puzzle to
open than any
trap. By deceit or some violation of the normal rules of space
that a wall crossed by a bar of shadow turned into overlapping planes
with enough space between for her to squeeze through. Under her
feet, the strangely coloured oxidation disappeared and the floor became
smooth and glassy and they were there, so simply and so directly.
The aristocratic features of the man and the woman that she thought of
now as the Puppet Master and the Companion were sculpted in white and
shadow like engravings in the air. They were subtly and
significantly different from how they seem in her memory. With
eyes of two orbits’ age, she had learned to see details that she could
not be aware of as a child: the woman was stockier than the man, she
realised, her curves a combination of fluidity and muscle. She
looked like a lover and a brawler. The man had the face of a
sophisticate, but there was something sad in his eyes.
The woman in grey took a step toward her. Io was
about to speak,
but she staggered and the floor seemed to tilt… No! she cried
silently. Not now of all times! The smell was overpowering,
sickening. She doubled over and fell to her knees. In
anger, she slammed her wounded fist against the floor. The agony
transfixed her like a thunderbolt and she howled.
She howled, but the did not see the floor vanish from
beneath
her. When she could understand her own senses again, she was
still kneeling. She looked up to catch the white-haired man
tucking a wand into his sleeve. She stared at him.
“Your… condition was known to us. We know
palliatives, we even
cultivate its expression.”
“Cultivate?”
“Of course. A person such as yourself was better
than any
spyglass.”
She thought then that she did not like the ruthlessness
that was
implied in his phrasing. “Who are you, where are you from?” she
demanded. “Why this… game?”
“It is in the nature of prophecies to be somewhat
obscure.” The
man gave a nervous, almost shameful smile. “That is what we are:
not so much prophets as prophecies in our own right.”
Io nursed her hand. It was throbbing with a dull
agony. “As
clear as iron,” she muttered.
The woman leant over and put her hand on her
shoulder. “We are
sorry,” she said. “We are more dependent on you than you might
think. We need you, and we can help.”
“We can help,” the man repeated, “but we cannot cure
you.
Nonetheless, we can ameliorate the effects of your condition and turn
it to your advantage.”
She pulled herself to her feet. They still loomed
over her like
adults over a child. She had no idea what to say. These
apparitions were clear and certain as anyone could be, but where did
they come from? They had deliberately not answered her questions
and had in fact added more. “Please,” she begged. “I need
to understand. If you say you care, please let me understand.”
The man nodded. “We owe you that, indeed it is
necessary.
Your questions… some answers lie in your own home. Will you take
us there?”
Io considered this. She trusted them, a little -
very
little. They had done nothing to persuade her trust, they had not
patronised her with any bribes, possibly because they knew that they
did not need to. She felt in their voices with something other
than hearing a basic timbre that was utterly sincere and caring.
Her secret, pricking more sharply on the Anniversary, wanted to fly
from her and settle in their hands. “I’ll show you,” she
decided. “Follow me.”
© Brett
Davidson
21 Feb 2006
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