Weaveworld (59 page)

But, as he turned to the door, something
did
make him flinch. Not a sight, but a memory: of Messimeris’ last act. That stepping forward, that raised hand. He hadn’t realized what it had signified until now. The man had been seeking payment. Try as he might to find some other explanation, Shadwell could not.

He, the sometime Salesman, had finally become a purchaser; and Messimeris’ dying gesture had been to remind him of that.

He would have to start the campaign moving. Subdue the opposition and get access to the Gyre as speedily as possible. Once he’d drawn back the veil of cloud he’d be a God. And Gods were beyond the claims of creditors, alive or dead.

IV

THE ROPE-DANCERS

1

al and Suzanna walked as swiftly as curiosity would allow. There was much, despite the urgency of their mission, that slowed their steps. Such fecundity in the world around them, and a razor-sharp wit in its shaping, that they found themselves remarking on the remarkable so frequently they had to give it up and simply look. Amid the spectacle of flora and fauna surrounding them they saw no species entirely without precedent in the Kingdom of the Cuckoo, but nothing here – from pebble to bird, nor anything the eye could admire between – was untouched by some transforming magic.

Creatures crossed their path that belonged distantly to the family of fox, hare, cat and snake; but only distantly. And amongst the changes wrought in them was a total lack of timidity. None fled before the newcomers; only glanced Cal and Suzanna’s way in casual acknowledgement of their existence, then went about their business.

It might have been Eden – or an opium dream of same – until the sound of a radio being ineptly tuned broke the illusion. Fragments of music and voices, interspersed with piercing whines and white noise, all punctuated by whoops of pleasure, drifted from beyond a small stand of silver birches. The whoops were rapidly replaced, however, by shouting and threats, which escalated as Cal and Suzanna made their way through the trees.

On the other side was a field of tall, sere grass. In it, three
youths. One was balanced on a rope slung loosely between posts, watching the other two as they fought. The source of the acrimony was self-evident: the radio. The shorter of the pair, whose hair was so blond it was almost white, was defending his possession from his bulkier opponent, with little success. The aggressor snatched it from the youth’s grip and threw it across the field. It struck one of several weather-worn statues that stood half lost in the grass, and the song it had been playing abruptly ceased. Its owner threw himself at the destroyer, yelling his fury:

‘You bastard! Your broke it! You damn well broke it.’

‘It was Cuckoo-shite, de Bono,’ the other youth replied, easily fending off the blows. ‘You shouldn’t mess with shite. Didn’t your Mam tell you that?’

‘It was
mine
!’ de Bono shouted back, giving up on his attack and going in search of his possession. ‘I don’t want your scummy hands on it.’

‘God, you’re pathetic, you know that?’

‘Shut up, dickhead!’ de Bono spat back. He couldn’t locate the radio in the shin-high grass, which merely fuelled his fury.

‘Galin’s right,’ the rope-percher piped up.

De Bono had fished a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from the breast pocket of his shirt, and had crouched down to scrabble around for his prize.

‘It’s corruption,’ said the youth on the rope, who had now taken to performing a series of elaborate steps along its length: hops, skips and jumps. Starbrook would have your balls if he knew.’

‘Starbrook
won’t
know,’ de Bono growled.

‘Oh yes he will,’ said Galin, casting a look up at the rope-dancer. ‘Because you’re going to tell him, aren’t you. Toller?’

‘Maybe,’ came the reply; and with it a smug smile.

De Bono had found the radio. He picked it up and shook it. There was no music forthcoming.

‘You shit-head,’ he said, turning to Galin. ‘Look what you did.’

He might have renewed his assault at this juncture, if Toller, from his perch on the rope, hadn’t set eyes on their audience.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he said.

All three stared at Suzanna and Cal.

This is Starbrook’s Field,’ said Galin, his tone threatening. ‘You shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t like women here.’

‘Mind you, he’s a damn fool,’ said de Bono, putting his fingers through his hair and grinning at Suzanna. ‘And you can tell him that, too, if he ever comes back.’

‘I will,’ said Toller, grimly. ‘Depend on it.’

‘Who is this Starbrook?’ said Cal.

‘Who’s Starbrook?’ Galin said. ‘Everybody knows …’ His voice trailed away; comprehension dawned. ‘You’re Cuckoos,’ he said.

That’s right.’

‘Cuckoos?’ said Toller, so aghast he almost lost his balance. ‘In the Field?’

De Bono’s grin merely became more luminous at this revelation.

‘Cuckoos,’ he said. Then you can mend the machine –’

He crossed towards Cal and Suzanna, proffering the radio.

‘I’ll give it a try,’ said Cal.

‘Don’t you
dare,’
said Galin, either to Cal, or de Bono, or both.

‘It’s just a radio, for God’s sake,’ Cal protested.

‘It’s Cuckoo-shite,’ said Galin.

‘Corruption,’ Toller announced once more.

‘Where did you get it?’ Cal asked de Bono.

‘None of your business.’ said Galin. He took a step towards the trespassers. ‘Now I told you once: you’re not welcome here.’

‘I think he’s made his point, Cal,’ Suzanna said. ‘Leave it be.’

‘Sorry,’ Cal said to de Bono. ‘You’ll have to mend it yourself.’

‘I don’t know how,’ the youth replied, crest-fallen.

‘We’ve got work to do,’ Suzanna said, one eye on Galin. ‘We have to go.’

She pulled on Cal’s arm. ‘Come on,’ she said.

That’s it,’ said Galin. ‘Damn Cuckoos.’

‘I want to break his nose,’ Cal said.

‘We’re not here to spill blood. We’re here to
stop
it being spilled.’

‘I know. I know.’

With an apologetic shrug to de Bono. Cal turned his back on the field, and they started away through the birches. As (hey reached the other side they heard footsteps behind them. Both turned. De Bono was following them, still nursing his radio.

‘I’ll come with you.’ he said, without invitation. ‘You can mend the machine as we go.’

‘What about Starbrook?’ Cal said.

‘Starbrook’s not coming back,’ de Bono replied. ‘They’ll wait ‘til the grass grows up their backsides and he still won’t come back. I’ve got better things to do.’

He grinned.

‘I heard what the machine said,’ he told them.
‘It’s going to be a fine day.’

2

De Bono proved an instructive fellow-traveller. There wasn’t a subject he wasn’t prepared to speculate upon, and his enthusiasm for talk did something to coax Suzanna from the melancholy that had come in the wake of Jerichau’s death. Cal let them talk. He had his hands full trying to walk and repair the radio at the same time. He did, however, manage a repeat of his earlier question, as to where de Bono had got the item in the first place.

‘One of the Prophet’s men,’ de Bono explained. ‘Gave it to me this morning. He had boxes of them.’

‘Did he indeed,’ said Cal.

‘It’s a bribe,’ said Suzanna.

‘You think I don’t know that?’ said de Bono. ‘I know you get nothing for nothing. But I don’t believe everything a Cuckoo gives me’s corruption. That’s Starbrook’s talk. We’ve lived with Cuckoos before, and survived –’ He broke off, and turned his attention to Cal. Any luck?’

‘Not yet. I’m not very good with wires.’

‘Maybe I’ll find somebody in Nonesuch,’ he said, ‘who can do it for me. It’s only spitting distance now.’

‘We’re going to Capra’s House,’ said Suzanna.

‘And I’ll go with you. Only
via
the town.’

Suzanna began to argue.

‘A man’s got to eat,’ said de Bono. ‘My stomach thinks my throat’s cut.’

‘No detours,’ said Suzanna.

‘It’s not a detour,’ de Bono replied, beaming, ‘it’s on our way.’ He cast her a sideways glance. ‘Don’t be so suspicious,’ he said. ‘You’re worse than Galin. I’m not going to lead you astray. Trust me.’

‘We haven’t got time for sight-seeing. We’ve got urgent business.’

‘With the Prophet?’

‘Yes …’

‘There’s
a piece of Cuckoo-shite,’ Cal commented.

‘Who? The Prophet?’ said de Bono. ‘A Cuckoo?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Suzanna.

‘See, Galin wasn’t entirely wrong,’ Cal said. ‘The radio’s a little piece of corruption.’

‘I’m safe,’ said de Bono, ‘it can’t touch me.’

‘Oh no?’ said Suzanna.

‘Not here,’ de Bono replied, tapping his chest, ‘I’m sealed.’

‘Is that how it has to be?’ said Suzanna, sighing. ‘You sealed up in your assumptions, and us in ours?’

‘Why not?’ said de Bono. ‘We don’t need you.’

‘You want the radio,’ she pointed out.

He snorted. ‘Not
that
much. If I lose it I won’t weep. It’s worthless. All Cuckoo stuff is.’

‘Is that what Starbrook says?’ Suzanna remarked.

‘Oh very clever,’ he replied, somewhat sourly.

‘I dreamt of this place –’ Cal said, breaking into the debate, ‘I think a lot of Cuckoos do.’

‘You
may dream of
us,’
de Bono replied ungraciously. ‘We don’t of you.’

‘That’s not true,’ Suzanna said. ‘My grandmother loved one
of your people, and he loved her back. If you can love us, you can dream of us too. The way we dream of you, given the chance.’

She’s thinking of Jerichau. Cal realized: she’s talking in the abstract, but that’s who she’s thinking of.

‘Is that so?’ said de Bono.

‘Yes, that’s so,’ Suzanna replied, with sudden fierceness. ‘It’s all the same story.’

‘What story?’ Cal said.

‘We
live it and
they
live it,’ she said, looking at de Bono. ‘It’s about being born, and being afraid of dying, and how love saves us.’ This she said with great certainty, as though it had taken her a good time to reach this conclusion and she was unshakeable on it.

It silenced the opposition awhile. All three walked on without further word for two minutes or more, until de Bono said:

‘I agree.’

She looked up at him.

‘You do?’ she said, plainly surprised.

He nodded. ‘One story?’ he said. ‘Yes, that makes sense to me. Finally, it’s the same for you as it is for us, raptures or no raptures. Like you say. Being born, dying: and love between.’ He made a small murmur of appreciation, then added: ‘You’d know more about the last part, of course,’ he said, unable to suppress a giggle. ‘Being the older woman.’

She laughed; and as if in celebration the radio leapt into life once more, much to its owner’s delight and Cal’s astonishment.

‘Good man,’ de Bono whooped. ‘Good man!’

He claimed it from Cal’s hands, and began to tune it, so that it was with musical accompaniment that they entered the extraordinary township of Nonesuch.

V