Weaveworld (54 page)

He felt like one himself. An insubstantial wanderer. And cold too, the way the dead must be cold. He put his hands in his jacket pocket to warm them, and his fingers found there half a dozen soft objects, which he took out and examined by the light of a nearby lamp.

They looked like withered plums, except that the skin was much tougher, like old shoe-leather. Clearly they were fruit, but no variety he could name. Where and how had he come by them? He sniffed at one. It smelt slightly fermented, like a heady wine. And appetizing; tempting even. Its scent reminded him that he’d not eaten since lunchtime.

He put the fruit to his lips, his teeth breaking through the corrugated skin with ease. The scent had not deceived; the meat inside did indeed have an alcoholic flavour, the juke burning his throat like cognac. He chewed, and had the fruit to his lips for a second bite before he’d swallowed the first, finishing it off, seeds and all, with a fierce appetite.

Immediately, he began to devour another of them. He was
suddenly ravenous. He lingered beneath the wind-buffeted lamp, the pool of light he stood in dancing, and fed his face as though he’d not eaten in a week.

He was biting into the penultimate fruit when it dawned on him that the rocking of the lamp above couldn’t entirely account for the motion of the light around him. He looked down at the fruit in his hand, but he couldn’t quite focus on it. God alive! Had he poisoned himself? The remaining fruit dropped from his hand and he was about to put his fingers down his throat to make himself vomit up the rest when the most extraordinary sensation overtook him.

He rose up:
or at least some part of him did.

His feet were still on the concrete, he could feel it solid beneath his soles, but he was still floating up, the lamp shining
beneath
him now, the promenade stretching out to right and left of him, the river surging against the banks, wild and dark.

The rational fool in him said:
you’re intoxicated; the fruits have made you drunk.

But he felt neither sick nor out of control; his sight (sights) were clear. He could still see from the eyes in his head, but also from a vantage point high above him. Nor was that all he could see. Part of him was with the litter too, gusting along the promenade; another part was out in the Mersey, gazing back towards the bank.

This proliferation of viewpoints didn’t confuse him: the sights mingled and married in his head, a pattern of risings and fallings; of looking out and back and far and near.

He was not
one
but
many.

He Cal; he his father’s son; he his mother’s son; he a child buried in a man, and a man dreaming of being a bird.

A bird!

And all at once it
all
came back to him; all the wonders he’d forgotten surged back with exquisite particularity. A thousand moments and glimpses and words.

A bird, a chase, a house, a yard, a carpet, a flight (and he the bird;
yes! yes!
); then enemies and friends; Shadwell, Immacolata; the monsters; and Suzanna, his beautiful
Suzanna, her place suddenly clear in the story his mind was telling itself.

He remembered it all. The carpet unweaving, the house coming apart; then into the Fugue, and the glories that the night there had brought.

It took all his new-found senses to hold the memories, but he was not overwhelmed. It seemed he dreamed them all at once; held them in a moment that was sweet beyond words: a reunion of self and secret self which was an heroic remembering.

And after the recognition, tears, as for the first time he touched the buried grief he felt at losing the man who’d taught him the poem he’d recited in Lo’s orchard: his father, who’d lived and died and never once known what Cal knew now.

Momentarily, sorrow and salt drew him back into himself, and he was single-sighted once more, standing under the uncertain light, bereft –

Then his soul soared again, higher now, and higher, and this time it reached escape velocity.

Suddenly he was up,
up
above England.

Below him moonlight fell on bright continents of cloud, whose vast shadows moved over hill-side and suburb like silent ushers of sleep. He went too, carried on the same winds. Over tracts of land which pylons strode in humming lines; and city streets the hour had emptied of all but felons and wild dogs.

And this flight, gazing down like a lazy hawk, stars at his back, the isle beneath him, this flight was companion to that other he’d taken, over the carpet, over the Fugue.

No sooner had his mind turned to the Weaveworld than he seemed to sniff it – seemed to know where it lay beneath him. His eye was not sharp enough to pick out its place, but he knew he could find it, if he could only keep this new sense intact when he finally returned to the body beneath him.

The carpet was North-North-East of the city, that he
was
certain of; many miles away and still moving. Was it in Suzanna’s hands?; was she fleeing to some remote place where she prayed their enemies wouldn’t come? No, the news was
worse than that, he sensed. The Weaveworld and the woman who carried it were in terrible jeopardy, somewhere below him –

At that thought his body grew possessive of him once more. He felt it around him – its heat, its weight – and he exalted in its solidity. Flying thoughts were all very well, but what were they worth without muscle and bone to act upon them?

A moment later he was standing beneath the light once more, and the river was still churning and the clouds he’d just seen from above moved in mute flotillas before a wind that smelt of the sea. The salt he tasted was not sea-salt; it was the tears he’d shed for the death of his father, and for his forgetting, and for his mother too perhaps – for it seemed all loss was one loss, all forgetting one forgetting.

But he’d brought new wisdom from the high places. He knew now that things forgotten might be recalled; things lost, found again.

That was all that mattered in the world: to search and find.

He looked North-North-East. Though the many sights he’d had were once more narrowed to one, he knew he could still find the carpet.

He saw it with his heart. And seeing it, started in pursuit.

IX

A SECRET PLACE

uzanna stirred from her drugged sleep only slowly. At first the effort to keep her lids open for more than a few seconds was too much for her, and her consciousness struggled in darkness. But by degrees her body was cleansing itself of whatever Hobart had put into her veins. She just had to let it do that job in its own good time.

She was in the back of Hobart’s car; that much was clear. Her enemy was in the front seat beside the driver. At one point he looked round, and saw that she was waking, but said nothing. He just stared at her for a little time, then returned his attentions to the road. There was something uncomfortably lazy about the look in his eyes, as if he was certain now of what the future would bring and had no need to hurry towards it.

In her drowsy state it was difficult to calculate time, but surely hours passed as they drove. Once she opened her eyes to find them passing through a sleeping city – she did not know which – then the remnants of the drug won her over again and when next she woke they were travelling a winding country road, lightless hills rising to either side. Only now did she realize that Hobart’s car was leading a convoy; there were headlamps shining through the back window from the vehicles behind. She summoned up strength enough to turn round. There was a Black Maria following, and several vehicles behind that.

Again, drowsiness overtook her for a timeless while.

It was cold air that woke her again. The driver had opened
the window, and the air had brought goose-pimples to her arms. She sat up and breathed deeply, letting the chill slap her to wakefulness. The region they were driving through was mountainous. The Scottish Highlands, she presumed; where else would there still be snowy peaks in the middle of spring? They took a route now that led them off the road onto a rocky track, which slowed their pace considerably. The track rose, winding. The engine of the van behind laboured; but the road got rougher and steeper still before it delivered them to the top of the hill.

‘There,’ said Hobart to the driver. ‘We found it. There!’

Suzanna peered from the window. There was neither moon nor stars to illuminate the scene, but she could see the black bulk of the mountains all around, and far below, lights burning.

The convoy followed the hill top for half a mile, then began a steady descent into the valley.

The lights she’d seen were car headlamps, the vehicles parked in a large circle, so that the lights created an arena. The arrival of Hobart’s convoy was clearly expected; as they came within fifty yards of the circle she saw figures coming to greet them.

The car came to a halt.

‘Where are we?’ she slurred.

‘Journey’s end,’ was all Hobart would say. Then, to the driver: ‘Bring her.’

The legs beneath her were rubber-jointed; she had to hold onto the car for a while before she could persuade them to behave. With the driver keeping firm hold of her, she was then taken towards the arena. Only now did she realize the scale of the gathering. There were dozens of cars in the ring, and many more in the darkness beyond. The drivers and passengers, who amounted to hundreds, were not Human but Seerkind. Amongst them were anatomies and colorations that must have made them outcasts in the Kingdom.

She scanned the faces, looking for any that she knew, and one in particular. But Jerichau was not amongst them.

Hobart now stepped into the ring of light, and as he did so from the shadows on the opposite side of the arena stepped a figure Suzanna assumed was that of the Prophet. His appearance was greeted with a soft swell of murmuring from the Seerkind. Some pushed their way forward to get a better look at their Saviour; others fell to their knees.

He
was
impressive, Suzanna conceded to herself.

His deep-set eyes were fixed on Hobart, and a small smile of approval found his lips as the Inspector bowed his head before his master. So, that was the way of it. Hobart was in the Prophet’s employ, which fact scarcely covered the latter with glory. Words were exchanged between them, the breath of the speakers visible on the cold air. Then the Prophet put his gloved hand on Hobart’s shoulder and turned to announce to the assembly the return of the Weaveworld. Suddenly the air was full of shouts.

Hobart turned towards the Black Maria and beckoned. From its recesses came two of the Inspector’s cohorts, carrying the carpet. They entered the ring of light, and, at Hobart’s instruction, laid the carpet at the Prophet’s feet. The crowd was hushed utterly in the presence of their sleeping homeland; and the Prophet, when he spoke, did not need to raise his voice.

‘Here,’
he said, almost casually.
‘Did I not promise?’

… and so saying he put his heel to the carpet. It unrolled in front of him. The silence held; all eyes were on the design; two hundred minds and more sharing the same thought…

Open Sesame…

… the call of all eager visitors, set before closed doors, and desiring access.

Open; show yourself…

Whether it was that collective act of will that began the unweaving, or whether the Prophet had previously plotted the mechanism, Suzanna could not know. Sufficient that it began. Not at the centre of the carpet, as at Shearman’s house, but from the borders.

The last unweaving had been more accident than design, a
wild eruption of threads and pigment, the Fugue breaking into sudden and chaotic life. This time there was clearly system at work in the process, the knots decoding their motifs in a pre-arranged sequence. The dance of threads was no less complex than before, but there was a consummate grace about the spectacle, the strands describing the most elegant manœuvres as they filled the air, trailing life as they went. Forms were clothing themselves in flesh and feather, rock was flowing, trees taking flight towards their rooting place.