Weaveworld (41 page)

‘Calhoun … Calhoun …’

He sat up. Lemuel was at his side, smiling through the thicket of his beard.

‘There’s someone here asking for you,’ he said.

‘Oh?’

‘We haven’t much time, my poet,’ he said as Cal struggled to his feet. ‘The carpet’s being rewoven. In little more than minutes all this’ll be sleeping again. And me with it.’

‘That can’t be right.’ said Cal.

‘It is, friend. But I have no fear. You’ll be watching over us, won’t you?’

He clasped Cal’s hand in a fierce grip.

‘I dreamt something …’ Cal said.

‘What was that?’

‘I dreamt that this was real and the other wasn’t.’

Lemuel’s smile faded, ‘I wish what you dreamt were true,’ he said. ‘But the Kingdom’s all too real. It’s just that a thing that grows too certain of itself becomes a kind of lie. That’s what you dreamt. That the other place is a place of lies.’

Cal nodded. The grip on his hand tightened, as though there was a pact in the making.

‘Don’t be lost to it, Calhoun. Remember Lo, eh? And the orchard?
Will you?
Then we’ll see each other again.’

Lemuel embraced him.

‘Remember,’
he said, his mouth next to Cal’s ear.

Cal returned the bear-hug as best he could, given Lo’s girth. Then the orchard-keeper broke from him.

‘Best go quickly,’ he said. ‘Your visitor has important business, she says,’ and he strode away to where the rug was being rolled up, and some last melancholy songs sung.

Cal watched him thread his way between the trees, his fingers brushing against the bark of each as he passed. Commanding them to sweet sleep, no doubt.

‘Mr Mooney?’

Cal looked round. There was a small woman with distinctly oriental features standing two trees’ breadth from him. In her hand she held a lamp, which she raised as she approached him, her scrutiny both lengthy and unapologetic.

‘Well,’ she said, her voice musical, ‘he told me you were handsome, and so you are. In a quirky kind of way.’

She cocked her head slightly, as if trying to make better sense of Cal’s physiognomy.

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-six. Why?’

‘Twenty-six,’ she said. ‘His mathematics is terrible.’

So’s mine, Cal was about to say, but there were other more pressing questions. The first of which was:

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Chloe,’ came the woman’s reply. ‘I’ve come to fetch you. We should hurry. He gets impatient.’

‘Who does?’

‘Even if we had time to talk I’m forbidden to tell you,’ Chloe replied. ‘But he’s eager to see you, that I can say. Very eager.’

She turned and started to walk away from the corridor of trees. She was still speaking, but Cal couldn’t catch the words. He set off in pursuit of her, the end of a sentence drifting back to him.

‘– not time by foot –’

‘What did you say?’ he asked, coming abreast of her.

‘We have to travel quickly,’ she said.

They had reached the perimeter of the orchard, and there
stood, of all things, a rickshaw. Leaning on the handles, smoking a thin black cigarette, was a wiry middle-aged man, dressed in bright blue pantaloons and a shabby vest. On his head, a bowler hat. This is Floris,’ Chloe told Cal. ‘Please get in.’

Cal did as he was told, settling himself amongst a litter of cushions. He could not have refused this adventure if his life had depended upon it. Chloe got in beside him.

‘Hurry,’ she said to the driver, and they took off like the wind.

XI

AT THE GAZEBO

1

e’d promised himself he wouldn’t look back at the orchard, and he was as good as his promise until the very last when, before the surrounding night claimed the sight entirely, he weakened and glanced round.

He could just see the ring of light where he’d stood and recited Mad Mooney’s verse; then the rickshaw turned a corner, and the sight was gone.

Floris was responsive to Chloe’s imperative: hurry they did. The vehicle rocked and rolled, hauled over stone and pasture with equal gusto, and threatening all the while to pitch its passengers out. Cal held onto the side of the vehicle and watched the Fugue pass by. He cursed himself for sleeping as he had, and missing a night of exploration. When he’d first glimpsed the Weaveworld it had seemed so very familiar, but travelling these roads he felt like a tourist, ogling the sights of an alien country.

‘It’s a strange place,’ he said, as they passed beneath a rock which had been carved in the form of a vast, teetering wave.

‘What did you expect?’ said Chloe. ‘Your own back yard?’

‘Not exactly. But I thought I knew it, in a way. At least in dreams.’

‘Paradise always has to be stranger than you expect, doesn’t it?, or it loses its power to enchant. And you are enchanted.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And afraid.’

‘Of course you are,’ said Chloe. ‘It keeps the blood fresh.’

He didn’t really comprehend the remark, but there were
other claims upon his attention. At every turn and brow a fresh vista. And ahead the most impressive sight of all: the roiling cloud-wall of the Gyre.

‘Is that where we’re headed?’ he asked.

‘Close to it,’ said Chloe.

They plunged suddenly into a copse of birch-trees, the silver bark bright by the lightning flashes from the cloud, then headed up a small incline, which Floris took at an impressive rate. Beyond the copse the land abruptly changed character. The earth was now dark, almost black, and the vegetation seemed more appropriate to a hot-house than the open air. More than that, as they reached the top of the rise and began to make their way along its spine, Cal found himself subject to odd hallucinations. At either side of the road he kept glimpsing scenes that weren’t quite
there;
like images on a mis-tuned television, slipping out of focus and back in again. He saw a house built like an observatory, with horses grazing around it; saw several women in dresses of watered silk, laughing together. There was much else he saw, but none of it for more than a few seconds.

‘You find it unsettling?’ said Chloe.

‘What’s going on?’

‘This is paradoxical ground. Strictly speaking, you shouldn’t be here at all. There are always dangers.’

‘What dangers?’

If she offered a reply it was drowned out by a thunder-clap from the belly of the Gyre, which followed upon lilac lightning. They were within a quarter of a mile of the cloud now; the hairs on Cal’s arms and nape stood up; his testicles ached.

But Chloe wasn’t interested in the Mantle. She was gazing at the Amadou, moving in the sky behind them.

‘The re-weaving’s under way,’ she said. ‘That’s why the Gyre’s so restless. We have less time than I thought.’

On this cue Floris picked up his pace to a run, which threw loose earth up from his heels into the rickshaw.

‘It’s for the best,’ said Chloe. ‘This way he won’t have time to get maudlin.’

Three minutes more of bruising travel and they came to a
small stone bridge, at which Floris brought the vehicle to a dusty halt.

‘Here we disembark.’ said Chloe, and led Cal up a short flight of well-trodden steps to the bridge. It spanned a narrow but deep gorge, the sides of which were mossy and plumed with ferns. Water rushed beneath, feeding a pool where fishes jumped.

‘Come, come –’ said Chloe, and hurried Cal over the bridge.

Ahead was a house, its doors and shutters flung wide. There were copious bird-droppings on the tiled roof, and several large black pigs slumbering against the wall. One raised itself as Cal and Chloe approached the threshold, snuffling at Cal’s legs before returning to its porcine slumbers.

There were no burning lights inside; the only illumination came from the lightning, which this close to the Gyre was practically constant. By it, Cal surveyed the room Chloe had ushered him into. It was sparsely furnished, but there were papers and books on every available surface. On the floor lay a collection of thread-bare rugs; and on one of these a vast – and probably vastly ancient – tortoise. At the far end of the room was a large window, which looked onto the Mantle. In front of it a man was seated in a large, plain chair.

‘Here he is,’ said Chloe. Cal wasn’t sure who was being introduced to whom.

Either the chair or its occupant creaked as the man stood up. He was old, though not as old as the tortoise; about Brendan’s age, Cal guessed. The face, though clearly acquainted with laughter, had known pain too. A mark, like a smoke stain, ran from his hairline to the bridge of his nose, where it veered off down his right cheek. It didn’t disfigure his face, rather lent it an authority his features wouldn’t otherwise have possessed. The lightning came and went, burning the man’s silhouette into Cal’s mind, but his host said nothing. He just looked at Cal, and looked some more. There was pleasure on his face, though quite why Cal didn’t know. Nor did he feel ready to ask, at least not until the other broke the silence between them. That didn’t seem to be on the cards, however. The man just stared.

It was difficult to be certain of much in the flare of the lightning, but Cal thought there was something familiar about the fellow. Suspecting they’d stand there for hours unless he initiated a conversation, he voiced the question his mind had already asked.

‘Do I know you from somewhere?’

The old man’s eyes narrowed, as if he wanted to sharpen his sight to pin-point and pierce Cal’s heart. But there was no verbal reply.

‘He’s not allowed to converse with you,’ Chloe explained. ‘People who live this close to the Gyre –’ Her words died.

‘What?’ said Cal.

‘There’s not time to explain,’ she said. ‘Just believe me.’

The man had not taken his gaze off Cal for a second, not even to blink. The perusal was quite benign; perhaps even loving. Cal was suddenly overcome by a fierce desire to stay; to forget the Kingdom, and sleep in the Weave, here; pigs, lightning and all.

But already Chloe had her hand on his arm.

‘We must go,’ she said.

‘So soon?’ he protested.

‘We’re taking chances bringing you here in the first place,’ she said.

The old man was now moving towards them, his step steady, his gaze the same. But Chloe intervened.

‘Now don’t,’ she said.

He frowned, his mouth tight. But he came no closer.

‘We have to be away,’ she told him. ‘You know we must.’

He nodded. Were there tears in his eyes? Cal thought so.

‘I’ll be back soon enough,’ she told him. I’ll just take him to the border. All right?’

Again, a single nod.

Cal raised his hand in a tentative wave.

‘Well,’ he said, more mystified than ever. ‘It’s … it’s been … an honour.’

A faint smile creased the man’s face.

‘He knows,’ said Chloe. ‘Believe me.’

She took Cal to the door. The lightning blazed through the room; the thunder made the air shake.

At the threshold Cal gave his host one last look, and to his astonishment – indeed to his delight – the man’s smile became a grin that had a subtle mischief about it.

‘Take care,’ Cal said.

Grinning even as the tears ran down his cheeks, the man waved him away and turned back towards the window.

2

The rickshaw was waiting on the far side of the bridge. Chloe bundled Cal into his seat, throwing the tasselled cushions out to lighten the load.

‘Be swift,’ she said to Floris. No sooner had she spoken than they were off.

It was a hair-raising journey. A great urgency had seized everything and everybody, as the Fugue prepared to lose its substance to pattern again. Overhead, the night sky was a maze of birds; the fields were rife with animals. There was everywhere a great readying, as if for some momentous dive.

‘Do you dream?’ Cal asked Chloe as they travelled. The question had come out of the blue, but was suddenly of great importance to him.

‘Dream?’ said Chloe.

‘When you’re in the Weave?’

‘Perhaps –’ she said. She seemed preoccupied. ‘– but I never remember my dreams. I sleep too deeply …’ She faltered, then looked away from Cal before saying, ‘… like death.’