Glass (16 page)

CHAPTER 15

When he was ready, Dwllis insisted that he go to the Baths alone. He did not want Cuensheley around when he presented Subadwan with what he had discovered.

He had never been to the place before. He considered public bathing a decadent and unnecessary waste of time, particularly if, as he had heard, persons of both sexes bathed naked. He found himself worried about entering the Baths because the potential for embarrassment was great, and he feared embarrassment almost as much as he feared anger. Embarrassment was equivalent to shame: to ostracision.

At the entrance he shouldered past lunar students and pushed through the double doors. High walls painted pastel blue and decorated with maps of starfields greeted him. The hall floor and ceiling were tiled, and the sound of his motion, and that of the shutting door, reverberated for many seconds. ‘Hello?’ he said. As he waited he noticed skittering at his feet a pair of bathkins – small, lithe creatures kept here to ensure the building remained free of pyuter vermin expelled by the bursting blisters of Westcity.

A woman approached – a lesser, Dwllis judged. ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

‘Good afternoon my good woman,’ he replied. ‘I am here to speak with the madam Subadwan.’

‘I’ll go get her.’

‘No matter,’ Dwllis said, following, ‘just lead me to her if you would be so kind.’

‘She expecting you, eh?’

‘She is indeed.’

Dwllis was led to a chamber set with luxurious divans, in which Subadwan sat. ‘Thank you, Calminthan,’ she said as the woman departed. Subadwan looked wan. Her clothes were fresh and pressed but they lay awkwardly, as if the body underneath was recovering from injury, and her whole manner was of a tired, dejected woman.

‘Good afternoon, Lord Archivist,’ Dwllis began. He indicated the bank of memories under his arm. ‘This case contains the stories you asked me to collate.’

‘Thank you,’ Subadwan said. ‘What, um... what did you find?’

‘Some curious things.’

Subadwan nodded. ‘Well, tell me some of them.’

Dwllis sat opposite the Lord Archivist, opening his case. The screen edges formed themselves, their plastic strips dovetailing and merging to create four corners. Into this space Dwllis poured liquid to make the screen. Random rainbow pixels shimmered, then expanded like oil on water to form the opening screen. Dwllis pressed pads, said, ‘Begin,’ then watched numbered red circles appear. He requested number one.

‘Beginning my research,’ he said, ‘I saw that there had been worship of Gaya before Cray was built. Did you know Gaya was somehow related to an Emerald Goddess? Emerald being a word used to denote a variety of green.’

‘How could humans have been here before Cray?’

‘It only makes sense if my theory of a previous city is followed,’ Dwllis replied. ‘This earlier city is implied by the antique memories that I collate, but it remains mysterious.’

‘Does this Emerald Goddess appear in any of the tales of Cray’s origin?’

‘No. That story speaks vaguely of stellar fish. But it is clear that five hundred years ago worship of the Emerald Goddess changed, splitting into three large factions and a fourth smaller one.’

‘These factions,’ Subadwan asked, ‘what were they?’

‘They seem to be linked to age. One was the faction of the Chthonic Aspect – deep, underground, with a young idol central in the imagery. The second was of the Vivid Aspect, with a middle-aged idol. The third was of the Wise Aspect – old, profound, perhaps a little sad. The fourth faction was the runt, as it were, and was devoted to the Male Aspect.’

‘That could be the druids,’ Subadwan said.

Dwllis had considered this possibility already, but thought it unlikely. ‘Possibly,’ he said.

‘Tell me more of these idols.’

Dwllis selected new information via his screen. ‘The Chthonic Aspect was perhaps the most dangerous of the four. It seems to represent the darkness of the pre-formed mind, the unconscious perhaps, with its primal desires, raw sensations, and its simple outlook. This idol is young, dark-skinned, recently entered into puberty, with a manner of arrogance – yet she was deadly, and at the same time sombre.’

‘Noct,’ Subadwan said.

Dwllis stared at her. ‘I am sorry, Lord Archivist?’

‘Noct,’ said Subadwan, louder. ‘Sounds like Noct.’

Dwllis looked down at the pyuter screen. ‘If your guess is correct, then what is to follow must be put into a new framework. Noct she is. The Chthonic Aspect... which means that Noct is the sister of Gaya.’

Subadwan did not seem shocked. ‘I realise the implications. Do continue.’

Dwllis did. ‘The Vivid Aspect – which clearly is Gaya – was the middle-aged aspect, pinkly voluptuous, begging your pardon madam, with a vital and overly emotional outlook. Her sigils and fetishes were blue.’

‘Green,’ Subadwan corrected.

‘Green?’

‘Gaya’s blue was originally green.’

‘Quite fascinating. Now, the Wise Aspect–’

‘Selene.’

‘–was old and pale, with a round face. Wrinkled, she was, with white sigils. She was skilled in the telling of tales with profound meanings. Yes, Lord Archivist, Selene that would be. It would seem that Noct, Gaya and Selene are all sisters, descended if you like from the early, pre-Crayan Emerald Goddess.’

‘And the fourth faction,’ said Subadwan, ‘the Male Aspect, was that tiny bit of masculinity within the Emerald Goddess. A druid once told me that his sect was derived from mine. At the time I believed him only with my mind, not with my heart, but now... Gaya love me, how the Triad would change if that fact became known.’

‘Reeve Umia would suppress it instantly,’ Dwllis said.

‘He would. But only we two know at the moment.’ Subadwan paused, then added, ‘We two are custodians of dangerous knowledge.’

Dwllis’s mind spun with possibilities. ‘Lord Archivist,’ he said, ‘I bring knowledge too of the Emerald Goddess, gathered, as was all the previous material, by my predecessors. The Emerald Goddess was ancient, fat and fertile if I might be so bold, and she represented the very Earth we stand on. Your religion is the spiritual successor of that most ancient of cults.’

Subadwan nodded. ‘I am the rightful leader of this city! All religions should accept Gaya as pre-eminent.’ Subadwan stood and began to pace around her divan. ‘Noct has with her arrogant thrusting taken over this city, made it her own. Noct and the Triad are one, aren’t they? It should be
Gaya
and the Triad are one. This constant darkness is her sombre spirit. We have to bring her down to make Cray a place fit for everyone to live in.’

‘I would not advocate war,’ Dwllis said nervously.

Subadwan sat. ‘I can’t help wanting to do something to make Cray better. It’s a horrible city. Often I hate it, I can’t help that. Gaya save me, to think that I left my own father and then became the Lord Archivist of Gaya. What an irony!’

Dwllis was alarmed at the course the conversation was taking. He had expected Subadwan to be shocked, but he had not expected quite this conclusion. The thought of Subadwan and the Archive of Gaya attempting a coup made him shudder, especially with the Archive of Selene so volatile and agitated by the arrival of Pikeface. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘you have two enemies of considerable power, namely this upstart demagogue Pikeface, whom I consider far more dangerous than the doddery old Tierquthay, and of course Reeve Umia, who has the entire weight of the Triad behind him. Surely you must accept your position as it is now?’

‘We’ll see,’ Subadwan replied.

~

When Dwllis departed the Baths, he began to walk west. Only minutes had passed before a knot of chanting, jumping, flailing Selenites barred his way. ‘The moon is gone! The Spacefish is here! Selene to the fore! Come down pale Selene and cover us all with light! Oh, ecstasy! Oh, ecstasy!’ But from the centre of this mob a more sinister figure emerged.

Pikeface. Gulping convulsively, Dwllis looked up at the towering man. Truly he was a hideous sight. It was easy to ignore the steely muscles, the shimmering blue-black cloak and the armour, and instead gaze at the fish face emerging bent over from the cloak’s neck. Those baleful eyes, the toothed maw, the slick skin reflecting light storms in the plastic street below. Dwllis stood frozen as a bathkin before a carnivorous pedician, waiting for the pounce.

‘Who are you?’ Pikeface demanded in an astonishingly loud voice.

‘I am the Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower.’

Pikeface laughed. ‘Have you come to challenge me or aid me? Speak quickly.’

Petrified, Dwllis found one iota of courage. He replied, ‘I am just a man of Cray, and I demand right of passage!’ And with that he ran.

They did not stop him, but Pikeface laughed again and Dwllis heard him call out, ‘We are kin against authority!’

He ran all the way along Peppermint Street, his composure lost, until at the junction with Culverkeys Street he paused to look back, to see that no pursuit had been made. Gasping for breath he made at a more sedate pace to the Cowhorn Tower, where he locked himself in.

Crimson Boney and the translator sat in a side room. Dwllis ignored them and made for his own chamber, where he changed all his clothes and perfumed his sweating body with peach-scented talc. Then he sat and considered the afternoon’s events.

When evening arrived he left the Cowhorn Tower, leaving Crimson Boney to talk as much as he could with the translator, for he wanted urgently to speak with the gnostician. He made for the Copper Courtyard, cool, calmed, but carrying unease among his thoughts. There Cuensheley sympathetically received him, and offered him free drinks, and accommodation for the night should he require it.

He told her of the day’s events, omitting only his encounter with Pikeface. She was more concerned at what she called his suicidal defence of gnosticians. Dwllis, irritated by her prejudice, stood up as if to leave.

Cuensheley said, ‘I’m going to bed. You coming?’

Dwllis attempted a casual laugh. ‘No. I must return to the Cowhorn Tower. Soon, Crimson Boney will be conversing with me.’

Cuensheley kissed him, and he left. Outside, gnosticians were making merry, following a jaunty procession down the street. At the head one group carried a yellow disk, while another carried a giant kissleaf. Dwllis had seen the ritual before – soon the kissleaf would be punctured, and the clay fishes that the gnosticians carried would joyfully be cracked into two. He shrugged to himself, uneasy with such symbolism. What exactly did the ritual represent?

But as he approached the Cowhorn Tower his thoughts turned to Pikeface. Kin, he had been called. Why? He knew not. At the door of the Cowhorn Tower he paused, turning to look out over the city, Subadwan’s words in his mind: ‘It’s a horrible city. Often I hate it...’

Dwllis both loved and hated it. He felt part of it. Yet its odious alleys, deafening din, its shameful regime and decadent morals were aspects that he loathed. He slammed the door shut.

~

Aquaitra pondered long over whether she should follow the instructions just sent by Subadwan. The Archive was losing its coherence as if Gaya was fading, and it seemed to her that her Lord Archivist was the cause of this problem. Subadwan was remote and, if she admitted it to herself, ineffectual. The Archive could only last a short time if its leader was exiled.

Yet they had been friends for years. Since the young Subadwan had escaped the ethical clutches of Noct’s pyutons, she and Aquaitra had found pleasure and solace in each other’s company. It was not an especially close friendship, but it was steadfast, and both, without saying it, had thought it could last until the end of their days.

Not so. Now all was changed. Subadwan had gone, had accused her of absurd misdemeanors, had become involved in a deadly affair. Still, Aquaitra felt bonds. She would do as Subadwan had instructed and collect shells from the beach.

Dawn was approaching. She walked south to the edge of the city, then descended to the beach by way of a wriggling column of bronze plates, worn and dented over the years by many boots. Around her grew sharp plants, leafless now, their scarlet stems slick with tiny razors, while between these globular black masses expanded – the aerial roots of deeper plants that drew sustenance from geological sources.

The beach lay all around her. For a few moments she studied its dead surface. Few people ventured here since the sands were considered unsafe, the haunt of agnosticians ejected from their tribal homes, of suicidal gnosticians who ended their lives in the surf, slashing their throats with shards of glass, and of unspecified sea monsters that on occasion rose up from the depths to lay single eggs the size of a cart.

Not the place for an Archivist. Aquaitra, glancing this way and that, walked away from the cliff face and began to search for glass shells.

There did not appear to be many about. Because they seemed to serve no purpose they were ignored by most, but some with an eye for beauty collected them, displaying them like trophies on bookshelves or hanging them from wire to make prettily tinkling mobiles.

For a moment Aquaitra stood straight and cursed Subadwan for asking this ridiculous favour. She could see the advantage of comparing Tanglanah’s gift with another, but why ask her? Sighing, she continued the search.

After half an hour she thought there really must be no shells on the beach, but as she turned to gaze over the sea at rosy dawn clouds she saw half buried in ochre sand what looked like glittering fingers, curved as if part of a buried corpse. It was a shell. Aquaitra plucked it from the sand and brushed off the debris. It was the size and shape of her own hand, perfectly transparent, with flaws at its hinge that sparkled like opals. She put it to one ear and, when she turned to minimise the noise of the crashing sea, heard a babbling brook that seemed to leap down over clacking stones. Suddenly inspired, she dug again and found the other half of the shell.

She turned to face the beach, placing a shell over each ear.

Ghostly apparitions clouded her vision as the strength of the sonic disturbance mesmerised her mind. It was as if an alternate world had imposed itself upon her consciousness. For a while she stood swaying, as the half-hallucinations flickered and shimmered across her senses, manifesting as colours, brief smells of perfume and blossom, and then a taste at the back of her tongue like bitter lemons. And after a few seconds there was heat on her back, something brushing the fine hairs on her arms, and then a hand stroking her head.