That Book Your Mad Ancestor Wro - Bishop, K.J

8/20/2019 That Book Your Mad Ancestor Wro - Bishop, K.J

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THAT BOOK YOUR MADANCESTOR WROTE

K.J. BISHOP



CONTENTSTHE ART OF DYING

THE LOVE OF BEAUTYWE THE ENCLOSEDMALDOROR ABROADALSISOTHE MEMORIAL PAGELAST DRINK BIRD HEADBETWEEN THE COVERS

TWO DREAMSTHE HEART OF A MOUSESAVING THE GLEEFUL HORSEMOTHER’S CURTAINS

BEACH RUBBLEDOMESTIC INTERIOR VISION SPLENDIDMADAME LENORA’S RINGS



SHE MIRRORSWHEN THE LAMPS ARE LITTHE CRONE MEETS HER SON

ON A BATTLEFIELD) NOTESACKNOWLEDGEMENTSALSO BY K.J. BISHOPCOPYRIGHT



THE ART OF DYING

Mona Skye, the duellist and poet oately tragic fame, lay with her angulaimbs folded atop brocade cushions in

corner of the smoking-room beneath th

Amber Tree café. Fever made her lonface beautiful; it reddened her lips ancaused her grey eyes to sparkle ansmoulder. The lean woman had gained

perversely tender grace as she wasteowards frailty. Even her pale hai

seemed softer and brighter.

The disease turns her into that ol cliché, the beautiful and beloved thin

hat can live only a short while… VaJardine swallowed down the sour tast

of anger with a mouthful of drows





and powders out onto the little courtyarbelow the apartment she and Vali shared

‘She’s asleep,’ a man’s voice cam

softly out of the gloom on Mona’s otheside. A black damask sleeve reacheacross the cushions and long fingerifted the pipe from her hand to drape

around the narghile’s stem. Another pipwas raised to lips half-hidden in thshadow of curtainous black hair. Th

man, whose name was Gwynn, was sometime adventurer from the snowswept north of the world. He and Monhad once been comrades-in-arms an

sweethearts down in the canyon countreast of the Teleute Shelf. The love-affaihad been uncomplicated and brief anheir friendship had endured. Separat



routes had brought them to Sheol, on thbrink of the great plateau. Travellers nonger, now they both played th

southern city’s games of easy money anfast death.

Gwynn drew on the pipe, and througa nebula of smoke regarded his olnamorata and the woman who was heover now.

‘Vali, will you hear the advice of

friend?’‘I’ll listen…’‘Get her out of Sheol. Take he

somewhere cleaner.’

‘Why? Clean air might be good foher lungs, but it won’t cure a death-wishWe might as well stay here where aeast there’s some civilisation.’ Val



could hear how bitter she sounded.‘I’m not talking about the air,’ Gwyn

said. His greenish eyes were slitted

This city is venomous. Some people paralyses, others it injects with despairt doesn’t like us. You should leave anake her with you.’

‘And go where?’He exhaled a dense stream of smoke

Anywhere else.’

‘Ha! I don’t see you packing youbags and moving out, Mr Sage Advice.’Gwynn laughed dryly. ‘I tried once

but I got homesick.’ He made the pip

bubble once more, then pulled his gloveon and buttoned them, and raised himseloff the cushions. ‘I’m tired,’ he saidand so are you. I’m going to get us



cab.’Vali watched the back of his damas

ailcoat retreat into the slumberin

recesses of the room, in which the lampit smoke hung as though over

battlefield where sleep was the worshat could happen. Almost all of Mona’

friends had deserted her, fearing thewould catch her illness, or elsmotivated by embarrassment. Sh

wondered whether it was love, loyaltyor some other reason that kept Gwynhovering near the flame.

And what about you? Why are yo

crisping your wings when she rejectou along with the rest of the world

She addressed her reflection in thnarghile’s polished vase, as if the imag



n the maternal figure of the water-piphad some power to explain her own souo her. But the distorted little picture i

he bulging metal showed her no oracleonly a woman of a certain tough genusn a much-travelled coat of bottle-gree

suede, hair rolled in the long, tighdreadlocks worn by the military clans oOran, her homeland in the Shelf’western tropics. She had kept the styl

for aesthetic reasons, though technicallshe no longer had the right to wear it. Iwent with the old scars faintly markinher dark face.

Her own notions of justice had causeher to hang up her mask and withdrawfrom the milieu of the juridical theatresShe preferred to sell her skills on th



street, where there was no affectation ofairness and right. It was an ethic osorts, foreign to Sheol’s codes of living

but then, it was a common saying thaeveryone in Sheol was a foreigner.

And we blow here like leaves in

ale, and sometimes we find love. Monhad said that last autumn, a year agnow, in a briefly voguish bar on ArcadBridge.

Love turns us all a little mad, Vali’misshapen reflection seemed to say.She felt torpid, but her mind wa

unquiet. The little indulgence in opiu

had not brought her serenity, much leseuphoria, and she mocked herself fosuccumbing to the stuff’s promises. Theagain, perhaps she should have indulge



more. She found her boots and tuggehem on, her fingers seeming to float ahey dealt with the array of buckles an

aces. If someone happens to want iece of you now, Jardine, she thoughhe management’ll be cleaning you of

he carpet for a week.

Over the troubled sound of Mona’breathing, Vali became aware of scratching noise behind her, as of

mouse scuttling over slate. She lookearound and saw a reedy, fair-haireeenager perched on the edge of a divan

writing hastily in a thick notebook. Val

would have taken him for one mordesperate poet seeking inspiration ismoke dreams, if she had not caught higlancing furtively across at her wit



alert eyes. The damned press! Well, shwould see what lies this one wawriting.

She rose, advanced, and, glaringsnatched the notebook out of his handShe skimmed the pages:

Society Report: Mona Skye

the renowned sabreur, sonnetee

and despiser of the world

observed unconscious in a druden on the notorious Sycamor

Street strip: it seems the end i

near for the self-destructin

heroine…

At the Cutting Edge: Mon

Skye’s worsening condition ha





form, an art against which ther

can be no appeal. Watching Mon

Skye, one is exposed to a

exquisite release of energies aher body, as though whisperin

secrets to a confidant, reveals new

stages of its degenerative journey

Killer and victim are one

coexisting in a symbiosis o

extended intimacy…

It was only the usual drivel, merelaimed at a higher class of audience, buVali felt the pressure of fury rising insid

her like steam in a boiler. Her minflung up an image of an autopsconducted while pretentious types loafearound the slab drinking trendy wine



and picking at hors d’oeuvres.She willed herself to composure. Icil

she said to the boy, ‘It is in bad taste t

serve up a person’s suffering aentertainment for the chattering classes.’

He was wearing a suit that needesome cleaning and a leather coat thawas at least two sizes too big. Hifingers twitched nervously.

‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘the last thing

want to do is offend. This city looks tour former profession for inspiration ieverything, including matters of taste.’

Unfortunately, it was the truth. Val

wondered how, even in her present stateshe had forgotten. Every day she sawchildren playing ‘Chop-Chop’ and ‘KilEm All’ on the pavements. Duellist



were fêted in popular culture. Theimages were made into character doll

and reproduced on household items an

souvenirs. Wildly fictionalised, luristories about their adventures anprivate lives were supplied to an eagepublic in cheap magazines with titleike Corinthian, Hearts and Blades an

Tales from the Theatre of Woe

Sometimes she saw dolls with her ow

face in secondhand shops, going cheapMerchandise featuring Mona’s image, ohe other hand, was currently riding

wave of popularity. Now, it seemed

Mona’s lengthy embracing of death haattracted the attention of the bourgeoisie

It is she who is guilty of bad taste

she’s making a shabby exhibition o



herself, and I’m as guilty for acceptin

a part in it, Vali thought with a drearsense of entrapment. She was grateful t

he opium for numbing some of heembarrassment.

‘I have a duty to the people,’ the kiwas explaining. ‘They must havnformation.’ He drew himself up anilted his head to look Vali in the eyeThe freedom of the press is sacred

ma’am.’She looked down at him. ‘Nothing isacred,’ she said flatly. She handed bache notebook, in which he immediatel

resumed writing. She had the impressiohat he was recording the incident whic

had just occurred.‘Can I quote that? Nothing is sacred?’



She was sorry she had allowehimself to get angry at a magazine hackof all insignificant people.

‘Go ahead,’ she said wearily.Gwynn returned then, emerging out o

he smoke and shadows. ‘Our charioawaits.’ His gaze taking in the penwielding youth, he raised an eyebrow aVali.

‘Let’s go,’ she muttered.

Carrying Mona, Vali followeGwynn up the stairs and out to the yarbehind the café. The young scrib

climbed behind them, introducinhimself to their backs. His name waSiegfried and he worked for Verba

erve magazine. Perhaps they read it, o



had seen it somewhere? He wahonoured, in any case, to make theiacquaintance.

He was ignored.Vali welcomed the chilly kick of th

autumn night outside. Mona coughed iher sleep. The vehicle was a hoodechaise harnessed to a wretched-lookinnag whose ill condition was typical oSheol’s cab horses. Vali and Gwyn

were too busy seating Mona comfortablnside to notice Siegfried positioninhimself to get aboard. When he squeezehimself in next to Vali, she found hersel

at a loss. Merely telling the kid to leavseemed a weak reaction to his bizarrrudeness, and if he refused to go, whacould she do? To remove him by forc



would likely rebound in publicity of theast desirable kind. Killing him withou

preamble would be crass. She wondere

f Gwynn would do anything, but he wastill ignoring the boy, evidentlregarding him as her guest and heproblem. She resigned herself taccepting it as yet another strange anuncomfortable situation to be enduredand gathered up her dignity.

‘Magnolia Terrace, river end,’ shordered the driver, a bent and leatherbeldam wearing a battered tricorn and voluminous cloak. The old woma

cracked her whip and the horse lurcheoff at a trot, drawing them across thflagstones and out into the traffic ancrowds that filled Sycamore Street fro



side to side even this late on a colnight.

It was unpleasantly congested unde

he canvas hood. Vali and Gwynn hawisted sideways to give Mona mor

room, Vali’s muscular frame stilrequiring a good third of the seat. Thassorted firearms and blades the threcarried made the cramping of bodieeven more uncomfortable.

While they were arranged thusSiegfried embarked upon a celebritnterview. Mona being still unconscious

he questioned the other two.

How many people had they eackilled? Did they enjoy their workCould they share any special memoriesn their respective views, what was th



duellist’s role in society? What did thedo in their spare time? How were theihomes decorated? What did they think o

Mona’s dance with death? The youtfired questions and chased answers witrelentless zeal, seeming oblivious to thperil he would be in should one or botof his captive subjects lose patience. Orf he did understand, he was stimulate

by the danger.

Vali responded with monosyllables osilence. With an air of endeavouring tkeep the pest off her back, Gwynn mehe boy’s quizzes with answers which

whether true or not, would make goocopy. Vali suspected him of enjoying thattention, but her mood didn’t allow heo be amused. He was the one with



public to think of, in any case. It waonly her closeness to Mona that madher a target of curiosity these days

Siegfried listened avidly, filling pagafter page with shorthand notes.

To Vali, their progress took on thconfused, uncontrollable quality of dream. She started to feel that she haslid into an alternative, stupidly surreaexistence crammed with details tha

were irritating, strange and boring all aonce. Battalions of late-night shopperand party-goers surged under green anred silk lanterns strung on wires acros

he streets, hurrying as if on missions ogreat and secret importance. The hacried out and thrashed the horse, whicpanted like a demon-beast in front o



hem, white breath steaming from itnostrils and bones moving like pistonunder its skin. Mona’s lovely hea

olled, saliva pooling at the corners oher mouth.

They passed an open yard where religious lynch mob was holding aauto-da-fé. Hundreds of faces, cheerinn rapt hysteria, were washed in orangight from the scaffold, where a huma

shape was visible at the centre of blaze. A procession of hooded penitentmoved across the road, each pair lashinhe shoulders of the pair in front, forcin

he through traffic to stop while thepassed. The old woman and half a dozeother drivers screamed abuse at thashers, who kept to their shuffling ritua



pace.The noise woke Mona. Her eye

opened wide and she grabbed Vali’

arm. ‘I’m dying!’ she gasped. ‘I saw it! saw Death. I’ve been dreaming. Donake me to the house, Vali. Take me to th

necropolis. I want to die there, whert’s quiet.’ She looked aroun

deliriously. ‘Where am I? Vali, are yohere too?’

Vali kissed Mona’s flushed cheek anstroked her hair, trying to soothe herDon’t fret,’ she murmured, ‘we’ll b

home soon.’

Mona clutched her hand. ‘No!’ shrasped fiercely, ‘I’m dying!’ As if tmake the point she started coughinwetly. ‘I want to die in peace,’ sh



whispered. ‘Out in the air, under thstars. Take me there, Vali. Please.’

‘All right,’ Vali said. ‘All right

sweetheart. Driver!’ she shoutedChange of plan. Take us to th

necropolis.’‘Aye; it’s pretty this time of year,’ th

beldam shouted back.They clattered through the city,

nightmare journey with Mona falling int

frequent bouts of coughing. In betweehese she lapsed into a semi-conscioustate. Every now and then the celebrateduellist would look around glassily an

ask, like a child, ‘Are we nearly theret?’

‘Soon,’ Vali promised her over anover.





of the bridge. Vali gathered Mona in hearms and lifted her out of the seat whilGwynn paid the fare. Together, Vali an

Gwynn tried to support Mona betweehem so that she could walk, but sh

sagged and stumbled so much that Valpicked her up and carried her again.

Gwynn spoke to Siegfried, who haclimbed out with them. ‘It might be jusas well for you to go back, all thing

considered.’The boy turned up the collar of hicoat against the cold, which was sharpehan in the city centre, and tugged on

pair of woollen gloves. ‘Sir, I’m noafraid of a little death,’ he saintrepidly.

‘Those could be famous last words,



said Vali, overhearing.‘I’m not famous yet.’ Siegfrie

grinned, pleased at being included in th

comradeship of these people. Vali anGwynn exchanged looks.

‘They go where angels fear to tread,Gwynn said as the cab rattled back ovehe bridge.

Mona wanted to be taken to St AnnVermicula’s tomb. From Vali’s memory

he saint was buried a good half-hour’walk over the hills towards the barrensShe moved with a swift stride, hefriend’s body a burden of long bones an

heavy furs.The necropolis was a city in mor

han name alone. Many of the greateombs and monuments were as large a



he houses of the living, while individuasarcophagi were stacked in tiereenclosures many levels high. Stone stair

provided access for those who wisheo pay their respects, or who wer

simply sightseeing. A group of touristwalking some distance away wervisible by their bobbing lanterns.

The silence of the place was angible presence in the air, as if it wer

not merely an absence of sound but hing with its own substance. There werno trees in the huge graveyard, but sofshort-bladed grass grew on the paths

muffling footsteps. The night sky wamarvellously clear, with a moon in ithird quarter and a glut of stars thaooked, Vali fancied, like ice-crystal



gathering in readiness for winter – ocandles burning in reproachful memorfor all the drowned hours in a person’

ife. But the latter seemed more like onof Mona’s thoughts.

A grey fox trotted past. Mona waquiescent, and even Siegfried seemedfor the moment at least, to have run ouof words both to say and to write. To hesurprise, Vali felt the first touch of a

unfurling peace. St Anna Vermicula’s tomb was

colonnaded mausoleum housing a blac

marble effigy of the warrior martyrstanding on the farthest hillside in tholdest section of the necropolis. ThEdge was only a few hundred metre



away across the untended land thacontinued on where the graves ended ahe bottom of the hill. It was visible as

sudden curtailing of the earth, with starrspace above. On the hillside, the silencwas replaced by the wind droning alonhe sky-coast.

Vali sat on the weathered steps of thomb, her arm around Mona. Gwynn hait a cigarette and wandered off

Siegfried, too, had put himselsomewhere out of view. It was possiblo imagine that she and Mona were alonn the landscape of marble and weeds.

She fell gradually into a sense oimelessness, as if Time were a woma

and she a babe on Time’s back, anTime had put her down, until she felt a



still and untroubled as the tombhemselves and sensed a mysteriou

familiarity with the stars.

As she grew more deeply immersed ihis state she came to an understandinhat the universe was alive. It breathe

with the breath of multitudes, and it dinot know loneliness. If it loved, therwas nothing of need or desire in its loveThe priests of this country would sa

hat the night’s ravine was alive witGod, but she couldn’t imagine their Gonhabiting that enormous tranquillity. Th

state of grace flowed without regard fo

custom or for its own alienness teverything it touched.

Mona stirred, bringing Vali back froher reverie. She was whisperin



something. Still feeling calm anstrangely adrift – had the stars moved? –Vali bent her head down to listen.

‘If you like,’ she said, and turnearound and called out to Gwynn. Hooked up from where he was sittin

cross-legged on top of a sarcophaguhigher on the hill.

‘Mona wants to go down to the Edge,Vali shouted to him. ‘I’m taking her. Sh

wants you to come too.’He crushed his cigarette out on thpitted stone and tossed the butt away toin the others on the ground. Swingin

down, he looked across the ragged lanowards the cliff. ‘Fine with me,’ h

called back. ‘The dead are rottecompany.’



The night wind out on the barre

margin was a biting cold current tha

seemed to blow straight down off thstars. But the strip of no-man’s land wasn its way, a place as beautiful as it wa

exposed. Wildflowers grew among thuntidy grasses, and these had the char of things never cared for or interferewith by anyone, and the lonely stunte

and wind-tortured trees possessed thshapeliness of driftwood. Birds camand went here too: wild geese, finchesnightjars, shrikes who had found idea

nests in the thorn bushes onto which theaffixed the rodents and smaller birds thawere their prey.

Vali and Gwynn made their way dow



he hill and across the delicate and brutground, their hair and coats whipping ihe wind, Vali carrying Mona bundled i

her wrappings of velvet and minkSiegfried followed several pacebehind, scribbling in his notebook againMore than once he tripped over rockand pieces of fallen masonry he hafailed to see, but he hardly noticed hibarked shins and stubbed toes. His hand

were trembling with excitement. Hwasn’t going to give this article tVerbal Nerve. Better publications woulwant it. He basked for a moment in th

vision of a career reporting on the liveof the rich and dangerous, as one whhad been admitted into their worldRealising he was running out of paper



he wrote as minutely as he could.When they were still only halfway t

he cliff, Mona insisted that she coul

walk.Crossing wasteland, Siegfried jottediss Skye a fragile pilgrim or refugee

iss Jardine gallant. At Edge – lon

way down.

It was indeed a long way. For over kilometre the giant escarpment dropped

down to a dead ocean of sand that wandigo in the moonlight. The silvemaculae of salt lakes dappled the grounike oil lying on water. Here and ther

he sand surrounded islets of grotesquelweathered rock. The desert land was sdistant that distance itself lost meaning –t might have been a hundred metres or



hundred leagues down. On the horizohe curve of the planet was clearl

visible, an edge beyond the one o

which they stood.Siegfried stood next to Gwynn, clos

enough that he could smell the man’spicy aftershave. He drew himself upand squared his shoulders. He wabeginning to feel part of the team now, companion to heroes. He narrowed hi

eyes and sucked in his cheeks a littlerying to copy Gwynn’s pensive scowl.‘They say there are more bones unde

hose sands than in all of the necropolis.

It was Mona who had spokenastounding Vali, who hadn’t seen heshow such lucidity for days. She starteo say something else, but abruptly brok



off coughing. A thimbleful of blooescaped her lips and fell, a drop ohuman rain, to the dry world below

More drops followed.Vali was grateful when Gwynn drew

Siegfried away. Mona had been dyinfor so long that it seemed natural for heo go on dying – and living – forever

Vali lowered her to the ground. ‘It’s all mess, Mona,’ she murmured. ‘It’s all

damned stupid mess. If we ever hacontrol, we’ve lost it.’ But still she fecalm, and she wondered if she wadeveloping apathy as an instinctiv

stratagem for survival, withdrawinfrom all care like a threatened snairetreating into its shell. Or perhapGwynn had been right about Sheol’



power to paralyse.

Gwynn led Siegfried further alon

he cliff to a spot where a flat granitboulder emerged out of the weeds, faenough away to give the two womeprivacy but still within earshot. Gwynsat down on the rock, flicking back hicoat-tails, and gestured for Siegfried tsit as well. Siegfried shakily complied

He was weak-kneed with excitementFollowing celebrities was one thinghaving a famous person actually invithis company was something els

entirely. He had never had thexperience before, and he found ntoxicating. He was expecting Gwynn t

speak, but the man’s attention was fixe



on a nearby thorn bush, a shrike’abandoned scaffold where numerous tinskeletons still hung. A spider as white a

he bones themselves was busy amonhem, spinning, moving with opulen

flourishes of its limbs.‘Look at that,’ Gwynn said softly

How precisely that spider moves, howdelicate she is. A natural and exquisitmathematician. Do you ever take time t

contemplate the wonders of natureSiegfried?’Siegfried shook his head. ‘Not really

sir.’ He was surprised by the question.

‘You should. Nature can be vernspiring. I’ve always found it so.’

Siegfried put pen to the notebook’ast page. ‘I guess I’m too much of a cit



boy, sir. I mean, I’d miss trees and thingf they weren’t there. But this place i

pretty bleak. There’s not much out here.’

‘A man about town. You must know ot of people.’

‘Yes, sir. A journalist needs contacts.‘A network of informants? Ver

commendable. By the way, there’s nneed to call me “sir”. I’m not gentleman, despite what you may hav

read in the serials.’‘I’m sorry,’ Siegfried said, shifting hiseat. ‘I think being respectful helps calmy nerves.’

‘Really?’ said Gwynn. ‘I prefer to usdrugs, myself.’ He reached into thbreast of his coat, producing a chasegold case which he flipped open



displaying long cigarettes with crimsowrappers. ‘Smoke?’

Siegfried tried to appear nonchalan

as he took one. Usually it fell to him tbuy smokes and drinks for his sourcesand like their container the cigaretteooked fine and expensive. The fanc

case had a lighter in its side, with whicGwynn lit for them both.

Siegfried inhaled with abandon. Th

obacco was smooth and richly aromatiand was joined by the pampering effectof some discreet additive. He jotted note that Gwynn was indeed

gentleman, whatever his own claim.Siegfried smoked and put to pape

various thoughts that came to him, untiGwynn asked, ‘So what is it that you’r



nervous of?’Siegfried paused in his writing. ‘I

general? Or right now?’

‘Let’s start with now.’‘I’m not really afraid,’ he said, ‘jus

excited, I guess. You know, butterflienside? Well, maybe you don’t know th

feeling. Anyway, you’re famous, and I’not anybody yet. Like you said, I know ot of people, but most of them aren

very important. I suppose I’starstruck.’‘Starstruck?’ Gwynn smiled. ‘Answe

me another question, Siegfried. What d

ou think it is about people like us Miss Skye, our profession at large, evemy unworthy self – that so fascinates thgood citizens of this town?’



Siegfried had been setting down hiviews on exactly that matter, here anhere among his other notes, since he ha

first followed the three into the AmbeTree’s basement room. He answereeagerly. ‘There are lots of reasonsYou’re artists. You’re heroes. You’re nochained by ordinary fears. You havfreedom and power most people onldream of. Some think you’re angels, sen

o wipe away the faulty so the uprighcan survive.’‘Ah. A generation whose teeth are lik

swords and whose fangs are like knives

o devour the wretched from off thearth, and the weak from among thpeople.’

Siegfried felt stirred. ‘I didn’t know





kind of divine judgement?’There was a change in the man’

voice, an undercurrent which Siegfrie

heard but could not identify. Hhesitated, pen arrested over paper. ‘I’not really sure.’

Gwynn put his cigarette down. Hplucked the head off one of the wilwhite poppies growing around the stonand carefully poked the flower into hi

op buttonhole. He gave Siegfried a foxook.‘Choose a number between one an

five.’

‘A number?’ Siegfried wanonplussed. The man hardly seemed thype to play parlour games. He shruggedAll right. Four. But I don’t–’





someone had struck a gong inside hichest. Slowly he put the notebook awan his pocket. There was nowhere h

could run to, except over the cliff. Hhad no doubt that Gwynn’s other gun wafully loaded. He had no idea of whaelse to do, so he got up and stood in thndicated place.

The revolver waved again. ‘Furtheback.’

Siegfried walked haltinglbackwards, toward the sheeescarpment. He felt sick and weakgutted, and wished he had relieve

himself back at the café, which nowseemed to belong to another world.

‘Further… Further… Stop!’Siegfried didn’t dare look around, bu



he knew the end of the ground must bright behind him. Have I been a fool? hwondered. Gwynn was taking aim. Th

gunman’s hair lifted suddenly in thwind, floating up to form a black halradiating around his starkly moonlit face

The shot was very loud.Blood and matter erupted from th

back of Siegfried’s head, and his bodfell backwards into the empty sky.

Gwynn stalked to the cliff-side anooked down. He caught a vertiginouglimpse of the dead kid, a barely visiblspeck that soon diminished out of sight

He reloaded his gun and holstered with a philosophical shrug. Perhaps w

really are instruments of divin

udgement – or divine humour, h



hought, smiling to himself. Hconsidered the idea for a moment, budecided he didn’t care for it. He ha

masters enough on earth.

Mona did not die, and seemeembarrassed. Soon afterwards shresumed taking her medicines, claiminpublicly to have grown bored witDeath as a lover, but admitting privatel

o Vali that she felt a fresh enthusiasfor life.‘What made you change your mind?

Vali asked one morning. The early su

was shining gloriously through a vase oglass flowers on the windowsilhrowing a kaleidoscope of colours ontheir bed.



Mona stretched her back and legsuxuriating in the mild sun and the feel ohe crisp linen sheets on her skin. He

malady was slowly but steadily goinnto remission. Her adventure in illnes

had been worth it, almost, for thpleasures of convalescence that wernow hers – those delicate, slightly abjecdelights of the reawakened sensesMilky tea and chicken soup, innocen

aromas of bread and soap, the dailsounds of the street below, all joined thstream of enjoyment she took in herecovery.

She hesitated over Vali’s questionShe still felt sensitive about the farcicanight at the necropolis. She rathehought she had looked into the eternit



beyond the Teleute Shelf and had, at lasfeared it. Nor could one discount thstupid kid – dying as if just to remind he

hat death had little to recommend it.She smoothed the bedspread over he

egs. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I lost mnerve.’ Wanting to give Vali a betteanswer, she said, ‘And then, sometimehe witless leaf drifts far away, until i

sees love coming to pick it up.’

Vali smiled, unfooled but nouncontent, and rang for their boy to brinbreakfast.

On a clear day early in winter theook a picnic lunch to the necropolis

They sat outside the mausoleum of SAnna Vermicula. Mona had been takin



her various physicks like a modepatient. She was less pale, and habegun training with her sword again.

‘I’m feeling much better,’ she saidchewing delicately on a sandwichWanting to die was some strang

summer madness that lingered on out oseason, I think.’

‘Perhaps it was,’ Vali agreed.She couldn’t recapture the sense o

imelessness she had felt a month agoThe world was marching on. Biggefactories with more and taller chimneywere growing on the Volta’s east bank

giving the whole area the appearance oa huge fortress perpetually on fire. Chinew bars attracted the in-crowd oArcade Bridge. The days were frost



now, and although snow rarely fell oSheol, Vali felt this year might prove aexception.

Munching on a biscuit, she watchehe tiny figures of a tour group standin

near the Edge, peering down at the sandwhich covered Sheol’s other graveyardCloser, in the middle of the no-man’and, a group of children were playinMasked Avengers’. Their high voice

carried on the wind: The men in the masks,The ladies in the masks,

See how they kill, see how they kill– Six-shooters and switchblades,Swords, daggers and poison,We all fall down,







gaudy theatres and beer halls the streetbecame dark, the buildings closelpressed, the walls bare of signs, posters

paint – of everything except lightabsorbing soot.

Seaming smoked a cigarette, a lasprocrastination, while a polka spinnindown from a loft somewhere invited hio head back, spend the rest of the nigh

with friends, and let that be that.

Act as if you belong, she had tolhim, and you’ll be safe enough.He took three slow breaths, the

stepped through the arch.

Immediately he was struck by cold, sensation he remembered from his singlprior excursion into the Ravels. He hagone in with a few others after a



evening of drinking, and they haventured only a few blocks into thworming scrawl of alleys before thei

iquid courage ran out.Tonight he had to go in much further

and all alone. His poet friend Stroud haurged him to refuse the commission, buSeaming had argued that an artist shoulwelcome all experiences, evedangerous ones. Stroud had solemnl

clasped his hand and promised him flattering elegy.Seaming had no intention of puttin

Stroud to the trouble of composing an

such work. Indulging a secret taste focloak-and-dagger aesthetics, he haprepared a disguise, scouring thriverside flea markets until he found



heavy black coat and a stovepipe hawhich, he hoped, combined to give hiunimposing person a grim and siniste

air. To add some further menace to hicostume he had borrowed an imitatiopistol from an acquaintance who ran small theatre, and a sturdy knife froStroud, who had a fetish for sharpobjects and owned a collection ovarious blades. He felt more secur

knowing that he had one real weaponeven if he had no idea how to use itWith his small drawing case clutcheunder his arm, the other hand shoved i

he trouser pocket where he had stowehe knife, he plunged ahead.

The cold was soon joined by burning smell – this, too, he remembere



from before – as if there were a firnearby, but he could see no sign osmoke or flames. The sounds of Cak

Street dwindled away behind him, whilhe darkness thickened in the streets – s

small that they seemed like tunnels in mountain of brick. In the absence ostreet lamps, only occasional dull lightn the tenement windows, brown with oi

and dust, confirmed the presence o

iving beings.Seaming kept his eyes averted frohe windows as, following the direction

he had memorised, he crept along by th

general faint light of the city, whicstreaked the cloudy March sky with gravy of ruddy greys and left enormouenclaves of shadow unprodded.







been featured, she had indicated heavily underlined paragraph:

Alfred Seaming’s portraitcould be images of saints. H

perceives an urgent need for a new

idealism. ‘What is the point o

merely reproducing th

commonplace world, with all it

banality and vice? I wish to pain

my sitters’ noblest qualitieswhich, I believe, are the qualitie

of their true selves.’

‘Yes,’ he said hurriedly, ‘quite so.While he stood passionately by thwords, he was embarrassed by howpompous they looked on paper. The trut







she had in mind: was he to fight a duelWalk slowly across Tourbillion Paradn the evening rush hour with his eye

shut? Nothing so foolish as either, sh

nformed him. He had only to visit her ihree nights’ time at a certain address ihe Ravels, which she handed him on

plain card. If he would simply arrivhere, at an hour after midnight, sh

would consider that proof of sufficiencourage. He must also, she said, brinhe tools of his trade.

He came close to telling her that h

was too busy. But his pride balked anhis avarice flinched, and even hicuriosity, usually a rather passive orgahat functioned merely as an adjunct t



his imagination, made small murmurs.Seaming found himself saying yes, sh

could expect to see him there.

Later that day, feeling nervous andepressed, he had told Stroud thparticulars of the situation. Stroudwhose father had probably been a counthad reminded him that he was merely common man and had no obligation to bbrave.

Seaming had argued that even common man should avoid hypocrisyLack of adventurous spirit surely felamong those tedious, petty and bana

hings he had always professed tdespise.

Stroud shrugged and said that hpersonally had never bothered to refrai



from hypocrisy, but if Seaming wanted tworry like a poor hound and chashimself into uncomfortable corners,

was his business. This goading hagalvanised Seaming’s spirit: he woulnot decline the dare.

The air was no longer cold, bu

humid and greasy.He had just suffered down a pitch

dark, sludge-bottomed defile betweeblind walls, where he had had to feel hiway to a covered stair. The stair habrought him to a derelict quadrangle

down the middle of which he nowhurried, favouring that exposed routover the shadows in the cloistersOppressed by the sense that calamit



was imminent, it was only the fear obetraying himself as an outsider that kephim from breaking into a run.

Calamity refrained from occurringBeyond the quadrangle there was aarea, ascending a hill, of morprosperous if not much more pleasanappearance. The modestly wide streento which he stepped was a gran

boulevard by comparison with the alley

below the stair, and the increased spacbrought a dilution of the darkness. Hfound himself among the ornate facadesas showy as they were cast down by th

ravages of neglect and vandalism, oonce-desirable addresses. But if thresidents were better off than thosbelow, they were no more open abou



heir presence. There were only thsame infrequent window lights, alheavily cloaked behind curtains an

blinds, and the same dislocated soundsAmongst the latter he heard an accordioplaying, as if at a great distance. Thmusic brought back to him, in a strangntense rush, memories of old gypsy me

and their dances on the common in thvillage where he was born. He felt agai

his childish fear of the sounds ansmells of their camp, his terror oeverything about them.

Seaming caught his imagination befor

t ran away with him completely. He tolhimself to at least be rationally afraid, ihe was going to be afraid at all.

According to the directions his visito



had given him, he was nearing hidestination. He counted streets until hreached the one he was to turn up, an

after climbing the hill for ten minutes hfound the house.

It stood on the corner of a cross streeton the other side of which was a kind oovergrown, heavily wooded park. Hinerves gave pitiful thanks that he did nohave to go any closer to the pitch-blac

massif of trees.The name ‘Park View’ was spelleout in rusty iron letters on the portico. Asullen glow penetrated the fanligh

Seaming pulled the bell-rope anwaited. No one came. He gave the ropanother tug. He couldn’t hear the belringing. He knocked, feeling that he wa



being watched from all directionsparticularly from the park, which lookemore like some wild ancient forest

harbouring primitive evils, than anythinremotely civic. He waited again, for aong as he could endure, then knocke

with more force, deciding that if no onanswered this time it would not be at aldishonourable to leave his calling carand make his way back on the double

This time, however, he heard the sounof someone approaching, followed bhe decisive clicks of more than onock.

The door opened.In the hall, holding a bunch of keys

was a child in a carnival costume. No.





box like that of a talking toy.Seaming had always had a sligh

horror of dolls and automata. Even as

child he had associated them witfetches, the undead, the diabolical. Nowhe felt suddenly terrified that whatevehad been done to her might also be dono him. He thought of the other woman’

mask. Perhaps there was a plague herhat destroyed bodily tissues. H

magined his face and throat rottingcaves opening in his flesh and fillinwith dust and spiders.

She bent and repeated the phrase

hird time.Embarrassed, Seaming fumbled in

pocket and presented his card. ‘The ladof the house is expecting me,’ he said.



The dwarf turned her head to the rightHer voice box grated, ‘Come this way.’

Seaming followed her. He avoide

ooking at her by studying the hall. It wapapered in red flock and lit with weabrass lamps, which together created augly, heavy atmosphere, aggravated by smell of dampness and animals, with chemical note of furniture polish. Shurned left into another passage, whic

ended at a flight of stairs. She pointed upo the next floor. Seaming found himselmagining a past for her. He could onlhink of sad and sordid things, and agai

his thoughts embarrassed him.He wanted both to run from her and t

say something civil and friendly. Hmanaged to thank her.



She turned her head to the leftYou’re welcome.’

He thought she smirked a little; the

she left him.

The woman was waiting for him ahe top of the stairs. She was wearin

another old, out-of-repair gown, this onof dark gold velvet with panels of seepearls. Her mask glittered like a glimps

of metal in a mine.She undid the ribbon securing thmask and removed it.

Seaming held his breath, steelin

himself for whatever aberration oscarring might be revealed.

When the mask was gone, he forgot tbreathe entirely.



Hers was the very face of loveliness. No odalisque, no great lady, n

madonna, no serene and enigmatic mus

upon any pedestal had a face tcompare.

‘Welcome, Mr Seaming,’ she saidMy name is Beauty.’

Seaming felt the urge to kneeStanding, as he was, on the stairs, hmanaged a sort of half-curtsy.

‘I have worshipped you,’ hwhispered. ‘I have sought you all mife.’

‘You and thousands of others, M

Seaming,’ she said in a dry tone that hfound painful to hear coming from such face. ‘The mask allows me to live a lifof my own; to seek rather than be sough





He would be a slave.’ Now she laughed. ‘My husband i

very far from being a god, though I hav

seen pictures of ancient gods whom hsomewhat resembles, in his presenstate. But that is only a coincidence. Hs not a man either, however, though h

has taken to living more like a man thaanything else.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand you.’

‘Are your eyes the only sense you useMr Seaming? His presence pervades thihouse. Scent the air.’

At first he did not know what sh

meant, but he soon noted how markedlmore potent and acrid the animal smelbecame upstairs. It was an odour ohide, musk and gamey meat. It grew eve



stiffer as Beauty led him along thcorridor.

Seaming’s reason told him that th

conclusion he drew was the only logicaone. It gave his system another severshock. ‘You keep company with a beast,he murmured. Then he turned red, aforbidden perverse images flocked inthis mind. Women with swans. Womewith serpents. Pubescent witches ruttin

with jaguars and hogs.‘I see you understand,’ she said, as ihe had made some completely ordinarcomment. ‘The subject of maidens an

monsters has a long and varied historyot all stories end in the popula

fashion, with the maiden rescued. Somof them have more elaborate outcomes



Our tale is such a one.’With a dry throat Seaming stammered

The old woman downstairs… he

njuries… did your husband cause…?’‘He has nothing to do with he

condition. But the damaged have a sensby which they seek each other out, MSeaming.’ Beauty stopped in front of thdoor at the corridor’s end. ‘My beast ipotentially dangerous, but only if you ge

oo close to him. Otherwise, you may bcertain that you will be quite safe.’‘He is chained?’‘He is confined.’ She produced a ke

and turned it in the lock. ‘You know, hink you may like him.’

Seaming doubted that, but he kepsilent.



She led him into a dark parlour. Bhe light from without, Seaming saw old

elegant furniture and paintings in gilde

frames. The opulence of the decoratiovaguely surprised him, but he had littlattention to spare for it, as Beautunlocked a further door.

The stink in the next room was parkennel, part sickroom, part abattoir.

The room felt large, but its corner

were smoothed in darkness, leaving itdimensions indistinct. It was given onla dim and unpleasant illumination by ceiling lamp of emerald-green glass. Th

slimy colour of the light, and thdegraded lustre of the metalliupholsteries, gave the room thambience of a sideshow tent.





for Beauty than any man could havbeen.

Seaming might have remaine

mesmerised, but certain details broke thspell. The wolf did not lie like aanimal, but like a man, sitting straighwith pillows behind his back and brocade cover over his legs. A velveblanket draped the massive shoulderand chest. A portable games table reste

on his lap. A heavy paw extended annudged a turquoise rook forward.‘Check.’The voice was deep and damp and

stretched and chewed the word. But was not unintelligible. Somehow thanimal mouth made a human sound. Thwolf was only half beast. The shape o



he legs under the cover was human. Iproportion to the giant torso they wernarrow and short.

Beauty leaned over the board, studiet, and moved a coral bishop.

The huge eyes widened a little, anhe wolf’s face looked eager. Then th

black brow furrowed. ‘But I will bable to take that. Promise you are noetting me win?’

‘I promise,’ Beauty said.The eyes narrowed. ‘Then you arsetting a trap. But I cannot see it.’

Beauty scratched behind his ears

Let’s leave the game for a while. Whave a guest. This is Mr Seaming, thartist who is going to paint youportrait.’



The wolf’s nose wrinkled. The lipdrew back, displaying plentiful rougeeth, and curled up at the corners in a

approximation of a smile.‘I can see you are asking the sam

question I ask myself every day, MSeaming. What am I – man?’ – the pawifted up a pawn, then one of the horse

shaped knights – ‘or beast? We albelong to the animal kingdom, but ther

s a question of degree, is there not? Aeast, there is the question of species.’‘You speak like a man,’ Seaming sai

faintly.

The wolf howled, to shattering effecon Seaming’s ears, then growled, to thsame effect on his already rackenerves: thunder had never rumble





better.’ The wolf snuffled loudly. ‘Yoate semolina pudding for breakfast thimorning. Last night you ate fish an

drank wine so bad that it was almosvinegar. You slept alone in sheets yohave not washed for two months. Youcloak is not your own. It was recentlworn by a man who suffered from cancer of the kidneys. You know nothinof a beast’s intelligence, Mr Seaming

any more than you know how limiteour own intelligence is.’Looking satisfied, the wolf leane

back again. He licked his jowls with th

ip of a grey tongue. ‘I was a man once. wronged a woman. I thought myselensorcelled by her loveliness, but thonly spell was the spell of my own lust





would be hers to mould. I desired thbeast, but I also desired a man that could love as a man. At the instant

proved my love, the change occurred.’‘I had no human speech to tell Beaut

of the curse,’ the wolf rumbled. His jawgnashed from side to side. ‘I am neitheman nor beast now, Mr Seaming. I havhuman shame, but if you must see the resof my body, you may.’

At this, Seaming realised the obviousHe berated himself for not havinunderstood sooner – the human-sizeegs beneath the covers could no

possibly support the massive bodabove. The beast’s power was a shamSeaming was suddenly overwhelmewith a compassion that negated all fea



and judgement.‘I had always hoped,’ he was move

o say, ‘that beyond the mundane worl

here was another and better one. I hanot thought there could be one worse. was wrong. You are from that worsworld.’

The wolf nodded and showed hieeth. ‘The laws of nature, also known ahe laws of desire, are different for us

Mr Seaming. In this room, your talentcan serve a far more important purposhan any to which you have previousl

applied them.’ There was a bullyin

humour in the yellow eyes. ‘I smell youconfusion, even under the reek of youpity. Tell us this, then, artist: what iart?’



‘Many things,’ Seaming began. ‘Thers considerable discussion–’

The wolf cut him off with an impatien

snarl. ‘Art is lust! As a man I collecteart and thought myself above the crowdAs a beast, without a man’s talent foself-flattery, I acquired a betteunderstanding. Art is the voluptuouanguage of the senses. The artist is

pornographer. The connoisseur is

voyeur. Art is a euphemism that permithumans to indulge all their lustshowever base or alarming, whilmagining that they are using thei

highest and holiest faculties. Man candecide whether he wants to be an angeor an ape. Art lets him be both.’

‘I know a man who would agree wit



ou,’ Seaming said, thinking of StroudPerhaps he is a more sophisticated mahan I.’

‘We do not need a sophisticate,Beauty said. ‘We need a simple idealistWe need a person whose philosophopposes our own.’

Again the wolf loomed forward anbreathed the stench of his gullet oveSeaming. ‘A beast knows its desires

Only humans do not know what thewant. Because I am this much a man, mdesires are complex and conflicting. I dnot know, now, if I would rather be ma

or beast.’‘And I,’ Beauty said sorrowfully, ‘stil

condemn him to be neither. Since he habecome part man, I cannot help but lov



hat man, too. My desires are as tangleas any human being’s. But you caenable me to untangle them, Mr Seaming

Like you, I do not love ordinary things. oved one extreme, but perhaps I coulove another. Create two images, ma

and beast, neither having any quality ohe other, each an opposite ideal. Then

will know which one I love more. Mchoice will make my husband a whol

creature, one way or the other.’Seaming admitted that he knewnothing of magic. ‘And I do not want tknow,’ he said. ‘But when it comes t

painting, I stand on firmer ground.’ Hsaid that he believed he could do as shasked.

‘Then practice your craft, M



Seaming,’ the wolf panted. ‘From mperspective there is nothing to be losand the peace of my soul to be gained.’

Beauty brought Seaming a bright lampo work by, while he unpacked his smal

portable easel. The wolf proved to be aexcellent sitter. His nose and earwitched a little to begin with, but soo

he ceased to move at all, other than tbreathe. As Seaming sketched h

hesitatingly remarked on this to Beauty.‘He sleeps with his eyes open,’ shexplained.

Seaming made several studies in in

and chalk. When he was satisfied that hhad enough material from which tproduce the actual canvases, he asked take his leave.



Beauty escorted him out, leaving thbeast asleep, statue-like.

At the top of the stairs Seamin

blurted, ‘Why do you love him?’Again he had the sense that she wa

smiling. ‘He was the only creature I evemet who was as beautiful as I. The onlbeing who ever fascinated me. Withouhim, I would wither from boredomHuman love is selfish, Mr Seaming.’

He wrenched himself away, but nobefore his eyes had filled with tears ooss. Once out of the house, he all bu

fled the Ravels. When he at last arrived

breathless and exhausted, within sight oCake Street, he thought the stillcarousing nightspots had never lookeanywhere near as welcoming an



homely; nor had they ever looked adrab.

‘She’s right, of course. A womaafter my own heart. What an escapadeold friend!’ Stroud lit a cigarette with flourish. ‘I must say, I’m rather jealous. should have liked to meet this beasmyself.’

‘I think you would have got alon

well,’ Seaming said, though he privatelhought that Stroud would have feuncomfortably upstaged.

They were in Seaming’s studio

Stroud waved the cigarette at thfinished portrait of the wolf. ‘That’quite spectacular. I wouldn’t havguessed you had it in you to paint such



hing. Outrageous, of course – but hanme if it isn’t handsome, too!’

‘He looks a lot like that. I didn’t hav

o alter much.’ Seaming had inventepowerful haunches, long flanks and hick tail, and had scrupulously erase

any hint of human sentience from thwolf’s expression. He was fully animaa fact emphasised by his rearing stancand carefully depicted, outsized canin

genitalia.Stroud went on admiring the portraiHe shows the human race up, doesn

he? Rather an undistinguished lot w

are, compared with that. I don’t meaust the pizzle.’

‘If taken only as physical objectsperhaps you’re right.’



Seaming felt rather little towards hipainting of the beast. It had gone againshis grain to execute it; he was th

opposite of the dramatist who does greahings with his villain and gives his her

nothing interesting to say. Had he writteplays, he would have lavished care ohe most humane characters and left th

brutal and ignoble ones dimensionlessPainting the beast had been, for him,

strictly technical exercise. But either higenius was more flexible than he hasupposed, or else a decade oprofessional practice had stood him i

good stead, for he had captured (withoucaging it, as Stroud said) the rawfearsomeness of the predator. It woulnot have done to paint a false gentilit



nto the beast’s features, and he hastrenuously refrained from doing so.

On the other hand, Seaming wa

mmodestly proud of his portrayal of thman. Having no actual face to base it onhe had been unable to resist themptation to use Beauty’s own, altereo be recognisably masculine. Everime he looked at the canvas, he fe

more reluctant to part with it. For thi

reason he had draped it with a sheet, buStroud uncovered it.‘A bit sterile,’ he offered. ‘Still,

ooks like a much more congenia

creature for a lady to keep in heboudoir. Which one do you think she’lchoose?’

Seaming was well used to Stroud’



offhand manner and had long agstopped letting it bother him.

‘It was a beast that she fell in lov

with,’ he replied. ‘But I think my humas inhuman enough that she may b

moved to feel something for him.’‘My friend, don’t be mistaken int

believing that everyone is as intrigueby goodness and purity as you are.’

That evening a thickly cloaked an

muffled figure came to Seaming’s studin a gig. It dropped his payment into hihands and took the paintings away.

Seaming was depressed. Strou

suggested Cake Street for supper andrinks. Seaming wasn’t particularly keeo go so near the Ravels, but he neveiked to appear timid in front of Stroud



so he pretended enthusiasm.Over their stewed peaches an

anisettes, Stroud asked him why he ha

not attempted to persuade Beauty awafrom her monstrous husband entirely.

There was no need whatsoeverSeaming felt, to say how little chance hwould have given himself in thaventure. ‘Because I’m not the kind ofellow who sees a marriage as crocker

o be broken. Besides, whatever thdifficulties of their relationship, therwas love of a sort in it.’

‘Love is rarely wise.’

‘Love is rare. It should not bdisturbed, lest it be destroyed.’

‘You love the notion of love too muchSeaming.’



‘And you wish that you had been imy place, so that Beauty might havfallen out of love with her beast and int

ove with you.’Stroud looked uninterested in th

heory.Seaming swirled his drink around i

he glass. ‘I hope they found a happending.’

‘Thus speaks the idealist.’

‘I suppose you’d prefer tragedy?’‘A bitter finish suits my palate best,Stroud admitted.

‘Then you can console yourself tha

hough I viewed my heart’s desire, I’lnever see her again, and no longer reallhave anything to hope for.’

Stroud made a face. ‘I’m afraid that’



a lot closer to melodrama, old sausage.’

In the green-lit room, Beauty la

with the wolf. On the wall before thewere the two portraits.

She scratched his bearded chin. ‘would have given you what you wantefor yourself. If you can remembeanything, remember that.’

He nuzzled her hand. ‘I want beauty,

he growled. ‘I want only beauty.’‘I loved a strange beast. I couldnove an ordinary man, and that painte

saint is remote and abstract. If he wer

real I think he would love God and thwhole world, and love me no more thaanything else.’ Beauty dug her fingernto the long rough fur on his head. ‘



always loved you because you were beast, not despite it. I suppose your minwill change again with your body. Look

ou’re getting more beautiful already.She shifted as long, strong legs grewunder the covers. ‘I’ll have to finsomeone else to play chess with, won? But I’ll always look after you.

promise you that.’The wolf whimpered in pain as hi

bone structure altered. Beauty soothehim with long strokes of her fingerdown his neck. She farewelled thhuman intelligence fading from hi

features.‘And what of your heart,’ she said, he

voice dropping low, ‘does it still lovme?’



The grey tongue licked her hand. Thhuge head laid itself in her lap.

‘If I change my mind, perhaps I ca

urn you into a man again, eh?’A cunning, hungry glow came into th

ellow eyes.‘Is that a “no”?’ she murmured. The

she had to quickly get off the bed, for thwolf was rising.

As she let him out to hunt, he turne

and gave her a look that she could nofathom. It might have been fiercadoration; it might have been somethinelse entirely. It was the look of a natur

alien to her own. He was again aunfathomable creature, again a riddland a mystery, like all animals. Standinn the doorway, she watched him lop



owards the dark forest of the park.For him, Beauty mused, if life an

ove continued to have complexities

hey would be complexities beyond heken.

‘Forever, Beast,’ said Beautyknowing that he would hear, even thoughe would not understand.

When she could no longer see himshe beckoned to the old servant, wh

came forward, and to whom she saidHis room should be cleaned and airedt may as well be done tomorrow.’



WE THE ENCLOSED

A room that was red, heat-strickenngrown, low. Scarlet walls, carpet

ceiling – the latter just above my head and an igneous light, a sourceless

uninterrupted glare, as if the air wermixed with fire.Call this room the Apartment of th

Ape, since the Ape was its caretaker

one other than the Ape of Reason, hsquatted on a barrel – there was no othefurniture – harvesting his fur for fleas

slipping a shriek of ‘Parasite lost!between the crushing and the eating oeach one. He was insufferable, and ached to get out of there and find you.

I was looking for you because



desired you. I also felt I deserved youBut beyond that I was very vague as tour respective characters. While yo

remained undisclosed, so did I.I did not know who you were, onl

hat you were both like and unlike meYou sparkled in a darkness far from thiroom. You were someone just ahead ome, someone with a front but without back. If I could touch you, you woul

urn around and see me. And then? could not imagine what would happehen; or, rather, I could predict a momen

of mutual recognition, of enormous joy

but it was as if a firm barrier to furthespeculation lay just beyond that. I haonly that momentary you ahead of meBut it was enough, like a beautiful scen



coming from a distance down somordinary street on an ordinary day, tmake me yearn to go to its source.

I felt that I had once known you, loveou, and had somehow lost you. But

had no memory of your nature, thfeatures of your face, your speech, or ohow we had been parted. I felt as thoug should have been able to just reach m

hand forward, and there you would be

But I had stood and reached out my hanmany times, just like that, ignoring thApe’s laughter, without touchinanything but the stuffy air in the room.

am afraid I even cried, tears that quickldried in the heat.

The room offered me two doors in thwall I was facing, one to my right an



one to my left. They were identicafabricated of dark wood with recessepanels and a brass knob in the centre.

did not know by which door I haentered the room. I could not eveassume that the doors, just because thewere apparently the only way out, weralso – and had always been – the onlway in. Perhaps I had not enterehrough either door.

Just as I could not remember you, could not remember anything of myselbefore I began thinking about the reroom. I had one piece of knowledge:

knew that if I opened one door I woulnot be able to open the other. I believehis knowledge came from outside th

room, because I believed that I, too, ha



once been outside the room. I was surhat I could not be a native of this awfu

enclosure; who in here could have taugh

me language and given me a head full odeas about a world outside? Worse, if

had always been inside the room, yowere possibly a figment of my mind. Iou were not as real as I, I did not wano exist. But perhaps you had been i

here with me, teaching me to think an

supplying me with concepts, and had lefby yourself, and I had somehowforgotten all the details of your beinand going.

I tried listening at each of the doorsmy cheek pressed against the smootvarnish, the stink of the Ape in mnostrils. His noise, his smell and the hea



all put me in an urgent hurry to leavePerhaps I could hear hammering, or might have been feet. I thought I hear

engines; but I could not be sure; the Apwas making enough racket for an entirHouse of Parliament. I raised my owvoice and entreated him, with morcourtesy than I felt he deserved, to givhis tongue peace for a few minutes. Hshowed that he understood me very wel

by pulling at his skinny penis anscreaming ‘Tongue this piece!’ beforreturning to his prior activity.

I examined both doors with my eye

and fingertips, searching for markswormholes, shapes in the grain, andistinguishing detail to suggest that ondoor might have more to offer than th



other. It proved a waste of effort. Therwere no blemishes and all of the woograin was straight and regular.

Next it occurred to me to look for correspondence between the Ape omyself and either of the doors. This timt took me only a few moments t

conclude that there was none. The Ape’barrel was positioned exactly in thmiddle of the wall between the doors

and while he moved his head constantlyhis brute eyes favoured neither directiomore than the other. I felt I was righthanded, and an experimental enactmen

of writing in the air confirmed that mright hand was the surer, while he usehis left hand to pluck at his fleas. Botour leading hands were on the side of th



door on my right. Since I saw the Ape amy antagonist, we cancelled each otheout.

Was I to make an entirely randochoice? No. I did not believe it could brandom. The variables involved ihuman choice may be hidden, but theare there. To a person asked to choosheads or tails, one number out of ten, shape, a colour, one option will alway

have an edge in appeal, for whatevereason or reasons – aesthetic tasteemotional sympathy with an image, prioexperience, present mood, superstition

and so forth. I concluded that I had tmake this type of choice, with nothinbut my personal inclinations to guide men other words, I had to make a selectio



between the quality of ‘right’ and thquality of ‘left’. (I could have exchangehese positions by turning around, but th

dea struck me as contrariness for itown sake, and I could not imagine anprofit coming from it.)

‘Right’ suggested correctness anbeneficial action, and so initiallappealed to me, but it also suggested state of all being well, while ‘left

suggested departure and absenceresidues and remainders, and the state obeing forgotten or abandoned; in othewords, things either missing or els

redundantly present and not likely to bmissed if removed. The left resonatewith my own circumstances. But on thother hand, wasn’t I trying to leave m



circumstances? However, in implyinregularity the right also implienflexibility – surely inauspicious to th

mission of a seeker who knew nothing owhat the search might entail.

On I went like this, until a particularlshrill scream from the Ape pulled me uand made me ask myself a question: Wahis ‘I’, who was trying to reach yo

using the Ape’s methods, the same ‘I

who desired you and cried because could not see you?How could that be answered, when

could only see from one point of view a

any one moment?Then it struck me that I had perhap

been mistaken in thinking that the Apand I cancelled each other out in th



matter of the door on the right. Therwas no good reason to favour myselwhen I was so dissatisfied with my ow

state. As the door not indicated by eitheof us, the left door now seemed to havhe advantage. I waited for a thought t

challenge this, but no such thought aroseAnd in fact, a certain instinct in mfavoured the left. It seemed nomplausible that the instinct might be th

subconscious echo of lost informationSo left I went, and to make myself feebolder I stuck my middle finger up at thApe behind me.

You were not in your cell. You ha

not bribed someone to let you out, nohad you filed through the bars on the tin



window and climbed down the verticaacres of brick wall below. You had – tuse the only apt word – withdrawn.

I was glad that you had gone; I did noike to think of you imprisoned. Evehough, in being gone, you caused m

pain and made my life difficult, I waexcited to learn something about youou were an artist.

The walls, floor and ceiling of you

cell were covered with trompe l’oeidrawings in charcoal, loosely executebut nonetheless convincing, of a vast anerrifically complex interior space

Beginning with four large arches that yohad drawn on your walls – so that thcell ceased to be an inverse cube withisolid brick and became a cube of air i



air, defined only by four slender pillarn the corners – you had created a real

of masonry: walls, flagstone floors

vaulted ceilings, archways, columns anwindows, arranged to create structureand spaces that interfed, nested withieach other, and contested for control ohe perspective, corners pushing out o

folding in under the influence of othecorners you had drawn in paradoxica

relation to them. Upon, within anbetween these flexing planes you hafitted catwalks, ladders, machinhousings, chimneys with plumes o

smoke – and now the eye founstaircases, balconies, terraces, and nowgalleries, arcades, courts ancolonnades – and now it was pushe



nto back rooms, unlit narrows, sewerscrypts, and, yes, cells and dungeons.

As for the vertical axis, you ha

placed the site that had been your celwithin a shaft, created by one quadraturdrawn on the ceiling and another on thfloor, into which you had sketched huganterns slung on chains, by which werllumined the balconied walls of th

shaft soaring up and up to a distan

ceiling and plunging down and down ta faraway floor. On the actual floor ohe cell you had drawn a narrow ledg

for standing on, and I was careful to us

t, since I felt a faint draught coming ufrom below.

In this warren of your invention all ohe windows, doorways and arches gav



onto more stone and brickwork, mornteriors; some of the spaces thu

exposed were plausible, while som

were impossible, corridors running fohundreds of feet within the thickness osingle walls, trompes within the trompe

Nowhere in any of this was a dooclosed or a passage blocked; not onsingle opening was prohibited, anherefore no hiding place was suggested

If it was a building, it was a trap; if rap, a factory; if a factory, the castle oa lunatic with too much disposablncome. And if it was a castle, it was

prison of wondrous form and perhapnfinite capacity. There was noutside’. That was clever of you. The

can find you if you go outside, but wha



system of retrieval exists to extract person who has slipped aunprecedented degree further inside

And if you had escaped into a prisonwho was this prison’s authority but youAnyone who followed you in woulbecome your prisoner.

‘A bit gone to town, isn’t it? Not tmention self-involved,’ commented thwarden who had brought me to your cel

and who now stood at the door, holdina real lantern to improve upon the lighsupplied by the barred window (arounwhich you had drawn scaffolding

suggesting a construction site). I didnreply. The warden went on, ‘Thoccupant was done for breaking anentering. Going to be locked up forever



Framed like a picture, in my opinion.’I had no faith in anything I was told b

he authorities here. For all thei

bureaucryptic filing silos, for all theieyes, they didn’t know who you wereThere had been speculation that yowere either a Dangerous Beast, Beautiful Captive, or an Idiot SavantThe truth was never discovered, becausou only faced people when they wer

facing away from you. Nor did they know who I was, anbetter than I knew myself. They thought was from the Department. I had show

hem my false ID, which they acceptewithout question. I couldn’t even be surhat I wasn’t from the Department, or tha

my false ID was really false.



But leaving all else aside, the wardehad unwittingly made one meritorioupoint. Your contrivance was very muc

ike a town, or rather a city. A citwithout exterior spaces, without sky oandscape or any suggestion of routes i

and out. A city that was nothing but citya positive without (as opposed twithin) a negative.

How could I find you in tha

accumulation of spaces? A maze with smuch porosity, and no evident boundarysuggested an open secret – a site riddlewith meaning. But perhaps you wer

rying to trick me into a useless searcfor something hiding in plain sight, or fohe shape of a riddle to be answered

when in fact the only way to find yo



would be to make a methodical searchhowever difficult, in that maze whicwas more like a thousand maze

nterpermeating and spawninpermutations.

As I pondered what might be thcollective noun for mazes – aaccret ion? – the warden spoke up againWhat do you reckon? Bit of an escap

artist, eh?’ The words echoed more tha

hey should have.‘An open case of paradox boxed.’ was trying to impress not the wardenbut you, with my cleverness.

The warden remained silent while contemplated your absence, closing meyes. The draught immediately blewstronger, not only from the drop below



but from all around. Winds anwhispers. I heard water and feet runningSomething hard hitting a metal pipe

reverberating. Mild grey light touchehe lid of my mind’s eye. The air of you

world carried smells of cabbagechicken soup, bedclothes.

They say smell, more than any othesense, has the power to evoke memoriesThese traces of odour from your worl

could not make me remember you; buhey caused some kind of breakage. Theaffirmed that there was something to bremembered, something that had been,

past before this prison. I couldn’t sahat I believed in this; I knew it. An

with this absolutely certain knowledghere came not just relief but pain.





ever regarded each other face to faceBut my memories were already passinaway.

To get anywhere in the desert cit

one had to go not only through streetand alleys but through houses and placeof work. The common, nearly ubiquitoustyle of architecture was inward facinghe buildings encountering the street

with mud-brick walls that were all bublind, their only windows small and higones for ventilation rather than viewsBut the doors at street level were for th

most part open, and when one of thnumerous dead ends blocked the waou only had to walk through

coppersmith’s workshop, or a famil



courtyard where children played arouna fountain under the sleepy eyes of grandfather, or an office full of wome

yping under fluorescent lights, then takanother door out to another street. In yowent and out, trying to be unobtrusive.

Two things were nearly everywheresand and sales. None of the streets werpaved, and every route was ankle-deepn fine, very old, oxidised orange sand

t lay indoors too; one only got awafrom it by going upstairs. But even up ohe flat roofs there were stalls an

markets. A bazaar was all through th

city like vines in a jungle. Vendors linehe streets and squatted on staircasandings and in the corners of rooms

The roofs were crowded wit



specialists selling caged birds, cassettapes and car-seat covers, while to buy

potted cactus, a fly whisk or a bab

stroller it was necessary to find thforecourt of a temple, where purveyorof these items would be doing businesnside portable shops made of cyclon

fencing; but finding a temple was noeasy. Even the gods of the city lived ihouses unembellished like the rest, a

bland as the sand. Only those structureand precincts whose function maddisguise impossible, such as the stadiumhe cemetery and the great fort, wer

outwardly distinguishable. And theseoo, had their marketplaces: in the aisle

and under the seating at the stadiumaround the sides of the parade ground i



he fort, inside the shady kennels of thdead.

I trailed through houses where th

amps burned pig fat, and houses wherhey burned naphtha, and augus

premises where they burned attar oroses. Once I found myself in a largeairy room with vaulted ceilings angilded furniture, where no less a persohan the Governor of the city wa

auctioning off a pile of carpets ancurtains to passersby.I was trying to find the centre of th

market.

It was hard to imagine finding youracks among the household goods

hardware and toys for sale in the longhot street into which I emerged afte



making my way out of the Governor’palace. This was not for a lack of likelclues but an oversupply of them. An

object I saw could have led me to you, ifound the right way to employ it. A se

of snakes and ladders suggesteQabalistic adventures and the possibilitof signs to your whereabouts lying iHebrew gematria. A circuit boarsuggested a Ouija board and an answe

from the other side of death, thealternatively it suggested a set of snakeand ladders… I felt dizzy considerinhe possibilities implied by a sieve,

sewing machine and a sink plunger. Alhe wares were wheres, and every wher

a potential here.I recalled my long journey across th



desert. The desert had no aperturesOases, once in a while; but an oasis ino more an opening in a desert than a

sland is an opening in the sea. In thdesert there was desert; here there waeverything else.

I was always asking the way to thmain bazaar, but kept diverging from thdirections given me, in order to loitefurther among aisles of alarm clocks

pantyhose, hairdryers, cigarettes, naipolish and plastic lunchboxes. Aftebeing nearly blinded by the repetition ohe desert, I was overcome by thes

objects – overcome, that is, by desire foeverything I was seeing. Every single bof merchandise swayed me to want it, bsome power, whether of a physica



quality or a tempting association; evertem struck me as an opening, th

beginning of a story or a path – with you

somehow, at the end. It was onlbecause they all promised you to me tha couldn’t believe any of them. Had

found one of these commodities, a bottlof silver nail polish for instance, btself in the immensity of the desert,

would have accorded it far mor

mportance. In it I would have seequicksilver, satin sheets, a sword, and would have used these images as tokeno guide me.

I am a lover, I thought. That I love iperhaps the most essential condition omy existence. Yet this vital aspect omyself is very much like a charming bu



small object lying in a sand-drift: easiloverlooked, and in danger of being lostsubmerged under the piling details of th

hunt.The city was as convoluted as a

nsurance contract drawn up by drunken spider, but not sopographically heathen as to be withou

a centre. A cartographer could havmapped it on ordinary graph paper

Towards the middle of the afternoon dragged my feet into an umbilicus – big square with ornamental columns ihe corners – and here I found th

reasure trove: the best silk carpets, thfine fabrics, the saffron, indigo and salthe pierced brass lamps that when l

would project stars or flowers or th



names of God and angels in letters oight, the perfumes in gilded bottles.

expected all of these to exert a stron

power of fascination over me, busurprisingly they did not. They haobvious charms for the imagination, anno doubt one was meant to see them amessengers of the yonder in purchasablform; but they weren’t at all honessitting there pretending to be magi

carpets, magic lamps, flacons of thalchemists’ drinkable gold; they betrayehemselves by suggesting scenarios tha

no one in their right mind would believe

Once bought, they would only torment bnot being able to deliver on theipromises. Better to buy a nice lunchboxwhose translucent blue plastic will hav



a soothing effect on the soul, and whics cheap enough to be thrown away whehe pleasure wanes.

(There is a feeling of having been on great quest, a journey of discovery annitiation, so what a let-down to learhat one only went shopping, and what’

worse forgot to buy tomatoes, and nowhe good tomatoes will be gone, and alhe eye-candy in the world boils down t

plain beans for dinner…)In support of my efforts to find you, had acquired a good working knowledgof a number of divinatory methods

Amongst these, for its speed ansimplicity, I especially favourecledonomancy, the art of interpretinseemingly random events, such a



overheard speech or an objecencountered at a certain moment. The arpresupposes a world full of meaning

and requires the practitioner to be alerfor all sorts of signs, such acoincidences, metaphors and puns, witrelevance to the matter under scrutinyWhile its use demands discrimination iwhat one attributes significance to, also demands faith that the senses wil

perceive what they are meant tperceive, which amounts to faith that thsecret itself desires to be found out. herefore had to believe that you wer

not passive.The square with its columns suggeste

an overturned table. Had you turned thables on me? But one should be wary o



seeing personal signs in large-scalphenomena – and, in any case, if thsquare was a sign, there was no action

could think of taking based upon it.I got out of the bazaar in a hurry

pushing my way through the crowd oshoppers, not caring that I was jostlinpeople and stepping on feet.

Next I found myself in the boobazaar. So far I had not seen a singl

book for sale; perhaps this was the onlsection of the city where books wersold. The book stalls filled eight or ninostentatiously drab alleys. Discree

graffiti on the walls in the vicinitproclaimed many of the buildings to bschools and academies. Their doorwere closed, presumably in deference t



he distractibility of students.It wasn’t long before I noticed how

many of the books addressed the subjec

of a search or quest. The romancesdetective novels and tales of treasurhunters and explorers must have fillehundreds of boxes. Then the thoughstruck me that all the non-fiction waconcerned with the quest for knowledgeand all the fiction was looking for a

appropriate ending – or not even aending, perhaps, but an overalcompleteness, a functioning gestalt.

I had another episode of dizziness

his time so severe that I had to leaagainst a wall and breathe deeply. I hahought the desert city was enough of abyrinth, but here, in this small area



was a trick: a muster of thousands morabyrinths, each slipped within the cove

of a book that I could carry in one hand.

Any one of those mazes might lead mo you, or might contain a phrase o

word that would lead to another text thawould lead…

Moreover, some of the books were ianguages I didn’t know at all. It ha

always been an article of faith with m

hat wherever you were, you were nonaccessible – but what if I were wronn that assumption?

I felt ill, and my breath threatened t

urn into a whimper, until a simplhought came along to save me: ever

one of the books was useless. Supposinhat I bought one of the novels, I woul



share the characters’ quests anourneys, and experience their triumphs

reconciliations, deaths; or if I bought

work of non-fiction I might study thexposition of the subject matter until had completely drained the book anunderstood everything in it; if I bought book of poems I would give the poet mhand and be led into the gardens of thsoul. But other people’s thoughts an

dreams, wherever they led, couldnpossibly lead me to you. I would closhe book, and you would still be

hollow in front of me. So, instead o

crying, I laughed, and walked through threst of the book bazaar without feelinany further temptation or anxiety.

All the same, I had no idea what



would do now. But, fortunatelynspiration arrived from another quarter

The travel brochure was buried in th

sand on the street; my shuffling foouncovered it. It was just a flyer, printeon one sheet of paper, folded in thirdsOn the front was a photo of a goodooking couple posing on a terrac

outside a fancy hotel, with the hood of imousine jutting into the base of th

picture like Atlas holding up the worldThe copy, printed in copperplate typeread:

~You Could Be Here~

Could you? I wondered. You could bhere. Was here the place where yowere able to exist?

By the personal manner in which



had come to me, the flyer had bettecredentials as an oracular sign than thcolumn-cornered square. Both m

ntellect and my instincts told me taccept its message, even before I noticehat the agency’s name was Delph

Travel. An address was printed acroshe bottom, over the limousine. I aske

directions, and shuffled around foanother two hours trying to get there

eventually finding the agency down hall off someone’s living room whersome kids were watching cartoons.

‘I knew I shoulda taken dat left toin a

Albuquoique,’ Bugs Bunny was sayingWhether it was a good omen or a bad, had to turn left into the hall, whicsmelled of fly spray and ended at a door



went through into a tiled bathroomext to the shower was a glass door o

which stick-on plastic letters spelled ou

DELPHI RAVEL, with the ghost of peeled-off T.

The only person in the office throughe door was a fat woman wearing

swimsuit and a black silk sleeping maskLying back in her chair behind the deskshe appeared to be dozing, but when

came in she said:‘Where do you want to go?’‘This place.’ I reached across the des

and put the flyer in her hands. She took

without fumbling, though she hadnaken the mask off.

‘Can’t help you,’ she said. ‘We dondo trips there.’



‘But it’s your advertisement.’‘Since when do you believ

advertising?’

‘I was led here by portents. I wameant to come here.’

‘By four tents?’‘Portents,’ I said loudly.‘No need to shout,’ she huffed. ‘I ma

be blind, and even a little eccentric, bu’m not deaf. Now you listen. I don

know about your four tents or horssense, but we only do trips to one placeYou want to go there? You got money?’

‘Which place?’

‘What do you think I am, the greaKnow-All? I just sell tickets. You gopapers?’

‘I have a forged identity,’ I said.



‘A four-eyed entity?’

‘I have papers.’‘Well, say what you mean! Do yo

want a ticket or are you just going tstand there saying stupid things?’

‘Yes.’ I quickly clarified: ‘I want icket.’

I paid her, and she gave me change ihe coins of that country, which wer

small round mirrors.

The plane flew over a land dauntinn size and antiquity – another desert, s

old that its mountains were worn dow

o low hills; its rivers were dry, emptwatercourses carrying nothing bushadows across the brown plains. I haearned something of this country’



history from the in-flight magazinediscovering that it was known to havbeen inhabited for a length of tim

roughly equal to that in which lighravels the radius of the galaxy, befor

becoming the object of a search bforeign nations. I had received thmpression that in the eyes of it

conquerors, the Great Grazier Hordemost of whom had settled in a few citie

scattered around the coast, it had not yeost the twinkling allure of a rich prize. hoped that this background augured welfor my own quest.

The browns, reds and ochres of thdesert gradually gave way to drab olivgreens. The flight map showed that wwere nearing our destination, a city i



he south-east.I’d been told someone would pick m

up at the airport. After getting throug

mmigration I looked around at all thmeeters and greeters, and spotted mname in the hands of a pale, downyskulled kid wearing a white shirt angrey slacks. The name was the one in mpassport, not my real name, for which didn’t have a very good memory. Th

kid returned my wave. I came around thbarriers and he walked quickly up to mand pumped my hand. He said his namwas Virgil Croaker, and asked if I’d ha

a good flight.Then he turned around to show me

hird eye in the back of his head. ‘Sou’ll know I’m an official guide fro



he government,’ he said. ‘There are a loof hustlers who pretend to be guides. It’very bad. But they can’t fake the eye

Hey, where’s your luggage? Don’t telme you’ve been robbed already.’

‘I’ve just got this,’ I said, patting thsmall satchel in which I carried mpapers and some toiletries.

‘Really? Good for you. It’s better noo look too rich. Where are you from?’

‘Back there,’ I said.Up shot his pale eyebrows. ‘Nkidding? Gee, that’s an amazincoincidence. My uncle lives there. H

oves it; says it’s the best place in thworld.’

‘Uh huh,’ I grunted.‘You’re going to have a wonderfu



ime,’ Virgil said, taking my arm anpulling me along at a faster pace than would normally have walked, ‘but yo

have to be careful. People here are verclever. They’ll try to take your moneany way they can. I have to look afteou, so you mustn’t run away, all right

Yes, all right?’‘All right,’ I said, just as we steppe

outside. The sky was pale and cloudy

he air cool. A grey Suzuki minivan wawaiting for us in the pickup area. Thdriver was a dark young woman whoVirgil introduced as Sharon.

She started the van and drove towardhe car park exit. The van had seat

facing each other in the back. Virgil haseated himself opposite me. ‘We’r



going to the Medina right now,’ he saidAll visitors to our city love the Medina

But you know, you shouldn’t try to g

around it alone.’ His two front eyes fixeme with a look of sincere concern. ‘ThMedina is very big. It’s absolutely truwhat they say: it’s a labyrinth. Bourself you’d get lost there, believ

me.’‘I’ve just come from a labyrinth,’

said, feeling patronised. ‘I managed tget around without too much difficulty.’‘You’re a very intelligent person,

can see that,’ this freakish being said

while giving me the kind of smile thahe smugly bright bestow upon the dimBut you’ve never been here before; tha can also see. I’ve been all over th



world, so you must trust my opinionForget Fez, forget Cairo, forget Veniceforget the Paris sewers – the Medina i

he labyrinth of labyrinths. And it’s fulof low types. Suffering has made thehard and cunning, and they’ll find wayo make you want to give them you

money. So I’m here to see them cominup behind you.’

I smiled politely, wondering how fa

we would have to go. From the airporwe entered a freeway that cut througpaddocks of dry-looking grass. Thraffic on the freeway was quite heavy

and a brown haze on the horizondicated the city. I breathed the air

conditioned air and waited for us tarrive, while Virgil Croaker chattere





crass, but I soon berated myself for thiudgement. If by being built of bric

veneer and synthetic stucco, an

cramped onto average suburban blockshese stately homes were unable t

appear perfectly dignified, was it theifault?

To enjoy them properly, one onlneeded to make slight adjustments to thview: change the surface textures

mpose details where the builders haskimped, add weathering and, above algrounds and landscapes to surround eachouse with the necessary amount o

space.I was taken with the thought that thes

were dream homes, literally: here waspace from which history had bee





You might well have been inside onof them. It was their nostalgic qualithat had made me think of you, of course

or you who had made me think of theinostalgic quality. However, I knew therwould be no point asking Sharon to dropme off down there so that I could gooking door to door. Since it was

weekday, you probably wouldn’t be ahome in any case.

We drove out of the valley onto wide flat plain. This, too, was coverewith houses, but only brick bungalowoo modest and sensible to inspire an

further flights of sympathy for the deviWe were heading towards a structure ihe middle distance. A fort-like gre

building made of numerous intersectin



boxes, I began to appreciate its titanisize as we approached it. There wercolourful flags on the parapet of its fla

roof, and crowning it an enormous sign red and blue lettering.

‘There it is,’ said Virgil, pointing ahe prodigious building just as I wa

deciphering the sign:

MEDINA

WORLD OF SHOPPING I felt distinctly swindled, but decide

o hold my tongue until we were there

Leaving the freeway, we headed out road that eventually reached a rampcurving down into the black, tiereharbour of a vast car park beneath th



Medina.Down and around, around and down.

waited, getting impatient and a littl

motion-sick, until we were inserted in parking spot on the fourth undergrounevel. Sharon turned off the engine.

‘Thank you for the lift,’ I then saidbut isn’t this just a shopping mall?’

Virgil laughed and ignored mquestion. ‘You should give Sharon

good tip,’ he said. Sharon reachearound into the back of the van with hehand held out and wiggled her fingerexpectantly. This was when I saw tha

she had an eye in the palm of her hand.‘And you should give me a good tip

oo,’ Virgil said. ‘Otherwise, maybe won’t be able to help you find what yo



want.’They were both grinning, as if the

didn’t take any of this too seriously.

So I grinned too. We were algrinning. Lovely. Who were these twokers? Were they local demons, or had

somehow brought them with me from thsandy city, or even the preceding desertHad they been going ahead of me, likong morning shadows? Was this al

some kind of scam, to which the womaat Delphi Travel had also been party?An idea had been sitting quietly in th

back of my mind while we were driving

t now moved to the front of my mind.‘Okay,’ I said, and began fishing in m

bag, ‘but you have to face the other waand close your eyes. All of them. N



peeking.’‘Okay, okay,’ they both agreed

nodding. Good, they assumed I was a

diot. They turned their heads, so thaonly Vigil’s rear eye and Sharon’s palmeye faced me, and both of those wersqueezed shut like the eyes of childrewaiting to be given a surprise present.

Bringing out two of my mirror coins, held one over Sharon’s palm, and th

other just in front of Virgil’s eye.I didn’t have to do anything elsebecause both eyes opened a crack, tryino peek at what I was giving them.

Any question about the species of mwo chaperones was answered. Demon

cannot bear to have their demonic naturreflected back at them. They canno





onger felt like an adept ocledonomancy, or of anything. I couldnbe sure that the Delphi woman had se

me up with the two demons, especiallsince she had given me the mirror coinsbut then, how else could she have giveme my change? And there being nreason for her to suppose I’d have andea what to do, wouldn’t it have bee

amusing to think of me having the powe

o free myself but not knowing how tuse it?I tried to think where I might hav

gone wrong. Was the mistake a recen

one, a bad choice made at a point twhich I could possibly return? Or had been made a long time ago, behind somdoor that was now closed to me?



remembered my traipsing through thdesert city, and my prior traipsing acroshe desert itself. And before that… ther

should be something before that, hought. I felt that I had been somewhere

and, before that, somewhere elseSmaller places? Small rooms?

Thinking of small rooms made mneed the loo. I got up and walked until found toilets down a corridor betwee

shops.There were eight doors in thcorridor: female, male, disabled, babchange, female staff, male staff, cleaner

and Authorised Personnel Only. I lookento the baby change and the disableoilet. They were empty. I tried openin

each of the four non-public doors, but al



were locked. Pretending to tie my shoe, waited until I was sure that everyonwho had been in the toilets had com

out. I recognised none of themDespondent, I availed myself of thappropriate chamber and returned to thcorridor feeling more comfortable but ness at a loss.

I was considering going back down take the van, never mind the condition i

which I had left it, and drivinsomewhere, perhaps back to thmansions. However, fortune intervenedAfter I stepped out of the restroom,

man in a suit came out of the AuthorisePersonnel door and strode down thcorridor in a great hurry. He had pushehe door open wide, and it was closin



tself slowly.My thoughts about small rooms ha

brought me here at exactly the righ

moment to see the opportunity and takadvantage of it. With recovering selfconfidence, I caught the door anslipped through.

‘I’m told I shouldn’t be here at th

casino,’ said the woman with whom

had got talking in one of the lounge areaoverlooking the atrium. ‘I especiallshouldn’t be writing here. I amapparently, profaning the sacred Wor

by dragging it into this place. This is thsame language, more or less, that Miltoand Emily Dickinson used, and my pioufriends chastise me because I’m taking



within spitting distance of poke

machines. Well, listen, my father used take a book into the toilet every night t

read while he had a leisurely shit. I’reliably informed that many people dhis, particularly when they hav

children and can’t get peace and quieanywhere else. So if they can read in oilet, why can’t I write in a casino?

‘No reason at all,’ I said.

‘I’m not even in the bloody casino,she went on. ‘I couldn’t work in theret’s smoky, and I get asthma.’

I nodded to be sympathetic. ‘S

health, not principle, keeps you ouhere.’

‘Exactly. I tell my friends that it’actually quite a principled place. Yo



notice that people don’t judge each otheby unreasonable standards in there. Iakes a certain humility to carry you

money around in a little plastic bucketUnless you play the coinless machinesBut then it’s easy to spend more.’

‘I dare say.’‘But the point is, coins or notes o

bloody cowrie shells, if you go in thert means you’re looking for somethin

hat you’ve got no power to get excepby dumb luck, the grace of fortuneYou’re admitting your inadequacy anhrowing yourself on the mercies of th

universe. It’s as good as prayingwouldn’t you say?’

‘Oh, for sure,’ I said agreeably. Shwas wearing a cerise skirt and blaze



and a strong perfume, and her voice warather loud. Next to her I felt drab annsubstantial. Though it wasn’t just her

t was the place we were in, the firstfloor mezzanine above the atrium at thntersection of the casino, the adjacen

hotel, and the shopping mall that raalong the extensive river frontage of thwhole complex.

There was an entrance to the mal

between Armani and Prada, facinowards Gucci. Versace and Hermèwere down an escalator to the left. Thcorridor boasted black marble walls an

brass fittings. Around the corner froGucci, the corridor opened into thatrium, a cavernous space clad in morblack marble and ringed by tw





fantastical. It was obvious how it mighnspire one with the feeling of being in

magic realm where the chance o

wonderful things happening was highBack on the ground, the brighter lights ohe casino were flashing through a wid

entrance from the atrium.To reach my present location I ha

climbed a glassy black staircase witsmall lights set in the steps. The are

upstairs was opulent in a muted ancomfortable way. Around the mezzaninhere were several bays like the one

was in, furnished with sofas and lamps

nviting people to sit and relax. Warmoned abstract paintings hung on th

walls, and doors led to bars and functiorooms.





I had come here from the Medina. had discovered what only AuthorisePersonnel know: that there is a magic t

he back corridors in shopping mallsThey’re like the secret tunnels oAgharta, all interconnected belowground. And busy – there was a greacoming and going of people, suited typeike the man I saw in the Medina, an

others who were obviously technician

and cleaners. I could only suppose thahey all had assumed I was Authorisedas no one had detained me. Many of thpeople, both suits and maintenance staf

were going around on upright electriscooters with round platforms to stanon. I found these stored in parking bayevery kilometre or so. A card swipe



across a sensor on the handles startehe motor. Since I had no card, I had t

make do with Shanks’s pony.

The tunnels were painted in shades ogrey, grey-green and grey-blue, witpolished concrete floors. They all hahe same fluorescent lights and N

Smoking signs, and they all smellefaintly of fly spray. There wercafeterias down there, with plasti

ables and chairs and menus offering teand coffee, chips, ham sandwichesnoodles and buns. Although people werbuying meals without identifyin

hemselves, I was concerned thasomething in my manner would give maway as an intruder, so I went withoueating. I kept a lookout for a vendin





of this, one of my stalkees left thunnels. When I followed (after resortin

again to the pretence of tying a shoelac

so as not to be too close behind), I founstairs that led up to the cheaper end ohe casino mall, where there was a foo

court. The door at the top where I exitewas lettered Only Authorised Personneon its other side. Before letting it close ooked around to see if someone els

ike me was nearby, hoping to ghrough, but there was no one. After had eaten and rested, I wandered throughe shopping mall, found the atrium an

climbed the stairs, and so came to meehe talkative woman. She spoke to m

first, while I was leaning on the balconywatching the light-show year cycl



hrough for the third time.‘This is a holy place,’ she said. Sh

had been writing in a book covered i

red velvet, which she closed and puaway in her handbag as she spoke. ‘It’s place of sacred energy. Only our poowhitefella sacred, mind you. In effect, cathedral.’

I believed I knew what she meant. ‘Aplace of soul,’ I suggested.

‘I knew you’d understand,’ she saidToo many people don’t get it. Come ansit down. You look tired.’

I sat. She kept talking about th

casino.‘Maybe I should go in there, then,’

said. ‘I’m looking for something.’‘You mean someone,’ she sai









as to be woeful. Behind him came smaller, muddy person tottering undehe weight of dozens of shopping bags

on which I could see prestigious branogos.

‘He’s looking for a grail,’ she saidOr a graal. He doesn’t know if the damhing’s a cup or a plate or a stone. Hhinks it could even be a sword. Welhat’s wrong. If you get the sword, yo

can be king. If you get the grail, you meeGod and enable a regeneration of thworld. And there’s a car. If you find thcar, you can have the lover who haunt

our heart. These things transform youbeing, you see. If he can’t find his graisoon, he’s going to look for ahonourable death. Not sure how he’l



manage that here.’I wanted to know more about the car

Are those things all obtainable here?’

‘What does it mean to possessomething? You can own a thing withouhaving it, and have a thing withouowning it.’

The knight and his servant reached thop of the stairs and turned towards th

hotel.

‘He’s losing heart,’ the womaremarked. ‘He’ll take anything nowHospital corners, wigwam wheels, walsharpeners… there are some things fate

o be lost and found and lost again omemory’s endless roundabouts.’

I mentioned that my own memory wapoor. ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘you can tell m



where I was before the desert.’‘I can’t recall your childhood for you

can hardly recall my own. And wh

can remember before they were bornDon’t worry about it. Desire is wasteon the past. Listen, I’ll tell yosomething for nothing. Don’t wastourself on this person you’re chasing. I

may not even be a person. There’hardly a single thing that isn’t somethin

else when you look at it a different wayHave you ever thought,’ she askedstartling me, ‘that someone might desirou? That someone’s following, bac

behind you, trying to see where you’vgone?’

‘No, never.’ The startled feeling lefme quickly. I wasn’t interested in th



dea.‘Snakes and ladders,’ she said. ‘Yo

can take your token off the board, yo

know, and throw it out in the back yardLet the grass have it. The ladder of lightakes you up, the old snake takes yo

down. Where does a lawn take you?’Snakes and ladders again. Repetitio

of an unusual element indicated – tspeak accurately, made – an opening

ike placing two posts to make gateway. I wanted to say ‘anywhere’, ohome’, but a mental warning bell tol

me I needed to be a bit wilier. I neede

o ask for a little more. If I was to earou, or win you, I’d better show I’d bee

paying attention.‘A driveway,’ I said.



The day was overcast and windy

The streets mazed around seemingl

without any reason, as the ground wacompletely flat. They branched, loopedhairpinned and turned circles. This areof the city was so new that it wasn’t ihe street directory. I say ‘city’, but

was city only in the sense that it wasncountryside; or rather it was countryside

a great paddock, in the process of beinurned into a suburb.It was another land of mansions, thes

so new that many sat on bare earth wit

string marking where the lawns were tgo. The houses were grouped in clusterseparated by fields. Some of the fieldhosted billboards advertising the home



hat were to be erected there in the neafuture. Both the built and the unbuiwere a long way from the exuberan

follies near the Medina, which I hadriven past on my way out here. counted only four or five very simplevery similar designs. They reminded mof the houses children draw when theare young and want to convey the idea oa house before they have learned t

observe architecture. Here wauniformity reminiscent of the desert cit had visited when, chasing the cure to

malaise of the heart, I had gon

overseas. I would have taken them fohousing built for the poor, had eachome not been as large as a block of sior eight flats. I read the billboards:





for absent history and myth, thesrambling roads bore the names of godsheroes, monsters, characters from legen

and folktale, and distinguished personfrom the old world. They were arrangen sets, one group of streets wit

Arthurian names, one with names frohe Arabian Nights, and so on, as thoug

someone had hoped that the Age oChivalry, with unicorns and dragons

perilous enchantments and goomanners, or the Baghdad of Harun alRashid, with its Gate of the WillowTree, Gate of Darkness and Gate of th

Moon, its riches in treasure and poetrywould be brought into being on thiground through the agency of thescaptions. And who was I to say it woul



never happen?I could hardly recognise this countr

as my own. But I had grown up not fa

from here, in a modest house near thfreeway to the airport.

Now I was back, and looking for ob.

I’d found something in the Wester

irror , a tabloid I’d picked up on rain. Between the lonely hearts and th

auto ads, my eye was caught by this:MUSEUM OF APERTURESOPENING FOR A CARETAKEREXPERIENCE WITH DOORS AND

WINDOWS NECESSARYKNOWLEDGE OF FAUCETSDRAINS, INTERVALS, CAVITIEAND ORIFICES A PLUS.



There were no contact details. I torhe ad out anyway, carefully, making

neat hole in the page.

And through the hole, on the nexpage, in a box hidden amonadvertisements for floristry courses, saw:

32a STREET OF ALL THEOTHERS, NEWMEADOWS WEST

O PHONE YET. SUNDAY 11 A.M.

It was Sunday today. I navigated bfollowing the names of guides anconveyors, such as Ariadne and Charonand those of the sleeping princesses an

others who were objects of a quest.Coming to the end of Hermes Avenue

turned left into Rapunzel Street, alonhe further part of which I had alread



driven. Passing the street from which had first entered Rapunzel, I completed counterclockwise circuit of six streets.

ntended to go to the end of Rapunzeand turn right, where I hadn’t yet beenHowever, as I completed the circuit hing of great interest happened. All th

street names around me changed. Thayout and the houses I passed remainehe same as before, but the streets bor

names from the Qabalah. Coming to thend of Rapunzel, I checked the sign ansaw that it was now Hod Street.

I abandoned my plan to turn right, an

drove around the circuit a second timeThe street names altered again, now tdelightful titles from the texts of thalchemists, like Green Lion Lane



Crescent of the Peacock’s TaiCorascene Dog Court and ArmeniaBitch Alley.

These shifts were both heartening andisheartening; they suggested that therwas a way to find the Museum oApertures, but also suggested that I facean intricate search and might run out opetrol before I had worked out the route

assumed that at some point I woul

need to leave the main circuit and drivup a side street.The nomenclature of the street

passed through the Tarot, the I Ching, th

anguage of astrology, the Yoruba oraclof Ifá, and even Enochian chess, with Fire Board Drive, a Water Angle Waand a Servient Square.



The next time around the languagwas that of arithmetic, with the streesigns featuring not words but sums.

I nearly missed the clue. I had tbrake hard to avoid starting around thcircuit another time.

I have said that cledonomancrequires the practitioner to be on thalert for puns, amongst other things. Isums were somes, mightn’t the way t

others be through them?Perhaps it was tenuous reasoning, bumy instinct approved it. And the instinchas a better appreciation of thes

connections than the reasoning mindoes. If I did not believe that, I woulhave applied myself to learning onlconventional methods of navigation.



I had come within metres of thchangeover point in the circuit. Thosgood instincts of mine cautioned me tha

o turn the car around would disrupeverything. Fortunately there was no onbehind me, and I put the car in reverse.

Twisting around to see to my rear, ooked for streets whose names wer

division sums with remainders. Suceftover amounts, I thought, woul

qualify as ‘others’. I had to drivbackwards for about a kilometre before came to such a sum, but it was a gooone: 22/7 Street. Quotient 3, remainde

1.The numbers in the sum and it

answer inspired my confidence: 22, thnumber of paths on the Tree of Life



etters in the Hebrew alphabet anrumps in the Tarot deck, a numbe

bespeaking the searcher’s instruments; 7

so magical that Aleister Crowley callet ‘a most evil number, whose perfectios impossible to attack’: 7 is a numbehat can curdle milk and cause beasts t

be born with two heads, but is also thnumber which permits miracles to occurt rules changes and changes rules, and i

rightly called lucky; 3, even luckier, ihe number of riddles and wishes, thnumber of sufficiency and fulfilment, thnumber of beginning, middle and end

he number that governs all outcomeand completions, and the number on thcount of which action is taken; and the remainder was one other – a certai



enough pointer, I persuaded myself, the Street of All The Others, all bein

one and one being all, as the master

never tire of telling us; and 22/7 was ocourse an approximation to Pi, thanumber which by its frequent ansometimes surprising appearance idiverse mathematical formulae anequations – from the well-knowformulae for the area of a circle and th

volume of a sphere to Einstein’s generarelativity field equation anSchrödinger’s wave equation – offerhe message that the universe conspire

o pick its own locks.I backed up to the street and turned.22/7 Street was very long, and it

specialness seemed to be confirmed b



ts being perfectly straight. It took me ouof the built-up area and into the fieldwith the billboards. I could see a singl

house, quite a way in the distanceowards which the street was leading.

felt that all was going well. The houswould be the museum, I was confident. waited to see the name of the streechange.

However, 22/7 Street remained 22/

Street all the way up to the door of thhouse, which was one of the poorooking mansions. But there was ngnoring the sign painted in gold letter

on one of the front windows: MUSEUMOF APERTURES.

‘No jobs here,’ said the bleache



and sunburned woman who answered thdoor. ‘All our positions are filled.’

‘But what about this?’ I asked

showing her the ad.‘Well,’ she said, ‘this isn’t the Stree

of All The Others, is it? This is thMuseum of Apertures, 22/7 Street.’

‘Then you mean that this isn’t the onlmuseum of apertures out here?’

She shook her head. ‘Why would yo

hink that, you goose?’I sank. I felt a lot worse than I shoulhave. A mere caretaker’s positioshouldn’t have meant so much to me.

Perhaps she felt sorry for me, becausshe invited me to come inside anywayHave a look around,’ she said. ‘W

have a fine collection.’



Inside, the house was painted in pink that matched her sunburn. Thcollection was housed in cabinet

around the walls.I could not judge whether th

collection of apertures was a fine onenever having seen such a thing beforeThere were keyholes cut out of doorsempty picture frames, the eyepieces oelescopes and kaleidoscopes, broke

eapot spouts, gun barrels, toilet seatshe eyes of needles, letterbox slotsgrates, loops of cloth that appeared to barm and leg holes cut out of clothing

various bits of dried organic matter that didn’t care to pore over, and a greamany other hollow and perforateobjects of no great rarity.



In the next room, however, the toubecame slightly more interesting. Throom was small, and in it wer

displayed only seashells (an assortmenof univalves and complete, partly opebivalves). The woman took a papenautilus down from a shelf.

‘Look at this,’ she said. ‘I call it megless sailor. Do you know what hauntt in the creature’s absence? Everythin

else in the cosmos. It’s only nature’sense of practicality that imposes aending on the spiral; mathematics woulhave it go on growing forever.’

The next room she led me into wacompletely empty.

‘In here we keep our purest exhibitshose without any extraneous matter,’ sh



stated, and gestured towards the middlof the room: ‘There, before you, is thGate of the Willow Tree from the wal

around the palace precincts in olBaghdad. And there, by the right-hanwall, is the grave of King Arthur. Thaittle one in the corner is the open top o

Pandora’s Box, and there, there anhere are openings of one, two and founches in three of the Doors o

Perception. Next to them are the muzzlaperture of the rifle that shot PresidenKennedy, the aperture of the noose bwhich Ned Kelly was hung, and th

unette opening of the guillotine thakilled Marie Antoinette. Up to your lefs our small but very importan

collection of the gaps that occur betwee



ntegers, the finest example being the gapbetween seven and eight. We arpresently negotiating to acquire the ga

between zero and one, which will go ihat place you see there without a gap it yet.’

I liked this room the best so far.‘These are marvels,’ I said.‘We have two more,’ she informe

me. ‘Two special openings. They ar

kept by themselves, in a locked roombecause they are potentially dangerousBut since you’re a connoisseur, I’ll opehe room for you, if you wish.’

I said yes; I could not possibly leavwithout finding out what these twspecial apertures were.

The room she showed me into wa



medium sized. Jutting out from the rest ohe house, it had windows on thre

sides, two to a wall. All of them wer

covered with blinds. On a lecterbetween the windows in the walopposite the door was a book bound ired velvet. There was nothing else in throom.

The woman told me to wait. I stoonside the doorway, while she took th

book from the lectern and brought it tme.‘You may hold it,’ she said, ‘but yo

mustn’t open it. In every book there is

great gap between the front cover anhe first word. There is another betweehe last word and the rear cover, but tha

one is of less consequence.’



I felt sure that I had encounteredsomewhere, another book bound ivelvet of that colour, but I could no

ocate it in my memory. This one had ayer of padding under the velvet, so that yielded slightly to the touch. It was a

attractive quality in a book, I thought –as, for no reason that I could explainwas the absence of a title or an author’name.

The woman took the book from mand returned it to the lectern. She thewent around pulling up the blinds, lettinpale sunlight in. She reserved the blin

on the left of the lectern until last. Wheshe opened it, she did so with an air oreverence.

Then she stepped back, allowing m



o see the view.It showed a place elsewhere.Where the other windows showed th

evel fields around the house and thoutcrops of the neonate suburb, this onooked out onto a region of sky. By th

depth and dimness of the blue, the timhere was evening.

I didn’t realise I was approaching thwindow until I found myself standin

close enough to the glass that I could semy own ghostly reflection.All through the sky, for as far as m

eyes could see, leaves hurtled around

borne on a tempestuous wind. The winwas audible to me, though it soundevery far away. The light was not steadya watery brightness came and went, it



source invisible.(There is a feeling of remembering, o

hating the stuffiness of a room…)

The woman was talking.‘We do not know the nature of thi

window. It can’t be opened. It alwayshows this scene. The hour of the dachanges, but the wind always blows, anhere are always leaves in the sky

Perhaps the place to which that sk

belongs is on the other side of the glassperhaps it is within the glass; or perhapt is elsewhere again, and this window i

merely the mechanism which glimpses

for us.’I touched the window with my finger

t was colder than the air around me. felt a painful attraction to the sky. At th



same time I felt possessed of a burdehat I wanted to fling into the wind. Bu

as soon as I observed this feeling an

ranslated it into words, I questioned iDid the sky in the window trouble mwith the need to cast something awayOr was it a yearning to possess, orepossess, something that should havbeen or had been mine?

‘It magnifies dissatisfaction,’ th

woman said behind me.(Forgotten needs return, demandingconfronting the self with its owhollowness, its foolishness. There is

resurgence of an old enthusiasm, bualso, deadening it even as it rises, knowledge that the passion has wanedhat the moment for finding the imagine



prize was lost, not due to some great sior stupidity but merely to attrition, bamemory, procrastination… was ther

something about a hill of beans, obeens, for dinner?)

I remembered you. You were the onwho kept escaping me, long ago. Wherhad I lost you?

But perhaps you were not yoanymore. And I, was I no longer the on

who had sought you?In that sky, who was present? And ihey were there, did they also perceiv

me, standing here, as an enigma enclose

n a window?It occurred to me that I could brea

he glass.And it also occurred to me that I wa



nothing more than a need; sometimes was great, sometimes small; but I was hollow, and I feared what would becom

of me if I removed that which ordainemy dimensions.

Was it possible for an object to givone a knowing look? The red velvebook gave me the impression that it diso, as if it had known I would return mattention to it.

I picked it up, the covers between mhands like two doors leading into room.



ALDOROR ABROAD

The flourish of the razor through mcheek!

The mass guillotinings in the delta ohe buccal nerve, the monsoo

haemorrhage, the considerable pain, arno longer shocking. This act of selfmutilation has become habitual. perform it every morning after m

nightly exploits, at the hour when othemen are shaving, defecating anscrubbing their skins to remove all th

material their bodies have produceunder the cover of darkness. As for me, am clean: formaldehyde preserves mentrails, and lice, more careful an

discerning than human beings, can rarel



be persuaded to enter my bed.I confess that my mouth performs

happy smile poorly, even when widene

by two red inches on either side; buhowever dreadful it looks to thuninitiated, this graven expression is ifact a suave and contented one.

My own blood nourishes me as fullas mother’s milk nourishes an infant, anastes more wonderful than the flesh o

peacocks stewed in cognac and rosesyrup. It paints primitive colour onto maw; like henna it beautifies my tonguehen like magma entering the sea

steaming and potent, it hastens down mhroat and falls into my pearly stomacho need to take it as a clyster, as I use

o. I am evolving.



My cut mouth heals swiftly, leaving nscar. No one suspects my addiction. I anot documented in any medical textbook

I can always be found taking th

morning air on the hotel terrace, standinperfectly still with my white handhanging lightly. My face is smooth; yocould think that I was a hermaphroditwith a man’s skull and a woman’s skin

Understand that by man I mean a robosoldier with a nightstick, a dangerouhalf-alive dummy, and by woman I measome sort of gorgon or banshee.

In the soft light before dawn contemplate the stupendous laceration nflicted upon a young bride when he

husband was out late at his city club



osing money at cards and gettinmaudlin over a little gypsy with breastwhich, so like the delicate heads of tw

old brothers asleep in the same bedended to inspire sentimental feelings

and eyebrows where at least one formehellraiser was living out his life inaked, bewildered solitude amongst thwarlike hairs… He had locked his wifn her room, where she lay sleeping

either of these young people was morstupid than the average human being. Buwho, though possessing a far superiomind, would have guessed that Maldoro

was hiding in a closet with a sword?You, my witness – I saw your eye

under the bed, like two luteous anpatient tombolas waiting for



apoleonic child to grasp them and rolhem into war – might decide that b

sparing this woman the torments o

childbirth I performed a charitable deedhad no such need to justify myself, m

mouth staying as solemn as a toad’while I murdered her, my shadow on thwall jerking like the silhouette of a madying at the end of a rope. It was pleasure to remove the unborn child, th

ittle homunculus, and throw it on thfire.

The bells of the Sabbath mornin

brought the man home. He stumped uhe stairs and cursed at the door’s stifock. He was in a hurry to find hi

pisspot and his bed. When he finally go





star all the corpses from the night.Orb of Day! Photosphere! Great Aten

t’s bad enough that you have to look a

all this garbage, worse that the first eyeo reflect you belong to a foe of th

human race and the Almighty, a criminapervert and medical oddity. I have nquarrel with you, so let us pass by eacother like strangers in a busy placeWhen you start burning helium, I’ll no

o you like an old acquaintance. It is night again. The murderer, wh

was executed but found his corps

rejected by the earth, lies under aburnum arbour in the garden behind th

house. His naked body is dry and whitafter its long transit through hills an



under fields, his chest as motionless as fossil. First his marmoreal lips and thehis open eyes endure the passage of

grey slug across them without twitchingThe moon, accomplice of witchesantern of grave robbers, rises over th

mountains. Her light comes near tharbour, and it seems that soon thfugitive will be revealed to the worldbut before reaching his body the ligh

stops, reverses and flees back to the drunar breast, complaining of what it sawa raw eye, working like a projectorhrowing forth profound intelligence

hectic sorrow, disastrous weariness andreadful sanity.

And to whom did the eye belong? Arregular shadow, a humiliating memory



something dropped and forgotten, character who only exists for thpurpose of moving the plot along? Ofte

am nothing more than that. Don’t loofor me among the famous villains, buSecond Ruffian might be wearing mface.

Spirit languishing in Hades, look upContemplate the interior surface of youcranium, which lies above you in th

earth. First observe the discoloration ohe bone, although this is a trivial detaihen note the similarity of your empt

eye-sockets to the cave of your eterna

prison. Do not weep to see that youawbone resembles a shear, instrumen

of Atropos. Recall that the devil pays fosouls: therefore you were once wort



something. Did you not suspect threasures placed inside you? Perhap

not. It was you yourselves, after all, wh

raded your useful simian tails for braincapable of understanding television.

I was born human, but horror and thgriping ache of the wound to my pridcaused me to seek and find alternativeat a young age. I was happiest as a hogwhen a bed of manure pleased me mor

han one of silk and I esteemed a buckeof slops as equal to burgundy and stuffefigs. After returning to bipedal form never succeeded in becoming a ho

again, but I did become a goat, whicwould have been a satisfactorcondition, save that there was aundeniable beauty in my yellow eye



with their elegant horizontal pupils, shat when I saw myself in a stream I fel

a longing which caused me pain. I foun

refuge in the earth and blindness. Yowho see birds every day, and wish foheir wings, have never imagined th

happiness of the earthworm: he has onlone desire, which is to fill his interiowith dirt, and that desire is perpetuallsatisfied. It is only because of the rang

and voluptuousness of his senses that thsublime hog is able to say he is greatehan the royal worm.

Even if you are not so precociousl

dissatisfied as I, a day may come wheou begin striving to branch off from th

human race. Plastic surgery anprosthetics may appeal to you, but



advise you to save your money; and youown acts of great good or great eviwon’t turn you into an angel or a devi

but only into a better or worse humanCalamity, however, has been known tgnite the fires of metamorphosis.

The word is whispered by on

buried up to his eyes in sand: even nowMaldoror gallops along the Andalusia

coast, his figure recognisable by thbroad black hat pushed down low on hibrow and the black hair streaminbehind him with the supple motion o

Arab calligraphy. Often his head turnowards the sea, as though he is drawin

power from its infinite waves.The only known photograph o



Maldoror was taken near Granada bMrs Betty Balbin of New Jersey, whmistook the Montevidean for a Spanis

gentleman in historical costume. ThBalbins never returned to America: MrBalbin, her husband and their twchildren died in Spain when their toubus collided with a semi-trailer on throad to Seville. Their possessions werreturned to their relatives, with th

exception of Mrs Balbin’s camerawhich was sent with the rest but wenmissing in transit and was neverecovered. If you know who to bribe yo

can find out about the existence in thVatican archives of a dossier whiccontains the photograph of thihorseman, its negative, and facsimiles o



numerous police reports and newspapeclippings concerning unsolved casedating back to 1811. The CIA, Mossa

and several other agencies have similadossiers, but only the one in the HolSee contains the image from GranadaThe dark rider is clearly visible in thpicture, but his face is turned away frohe camera, rendering the image nearl

useless to a biographer.

It is therefore left to the recordinangel to put down the real facts abouhis elusive being. Of the four element

he had always favoured water. Before h

earned it, the cells of his body knewhat life grew in the sea first. He did no

really think of himself as a lanmammal. When he was emerging fro



boyhood he became aware of aantediluvian factor in his being, and aftehe dawning of that awareness he ha

endured as a strict punishment the dailfact of his physical similarity to otheouths. He adopted flashy dress and a

air of swagger, and learned to drink harand use a knife, but he had no real fire ihis blood, and the others sensed it. Thesaid he was womanish and they als

said he was dangerous. They werimited in the kinds of passion they coulunderstand.

Climbing a tree once when he was si

ears old, a splinter entered the softskinned inner part of his thigh, which iurn bestowed the splinter with a deep

burial, his flesh clinging around it an





hat he could observe his jawbones.He was delighted when in hygien

class he learned that millions of humbl

organisms lived on and within his bodyWhile other boys daydreamed of higadventure in the lands of the Turks anhe Russians, Maldoror’s mind cas

around in a microscopic world whosfinitudes were ordained by his owdimensions. In this spectacular world th

wet surface of his eye was an oceawhere lean, filthy bacterial dreadnaughtcruised, his skin a terrain of pitteprairies and swamps where huge golde

herds of staphylococci roamed, and hidark interior a jungle swarming with bestiary of hideous flukes, hookwormand protozoa. He was happy wheneve



llness worked its temporarransformations on him, for within hihere was an unusual instinct to fee

comforted rather than depressed by thknowledge that his flesh was malleabland mortal. He knew that if he died thungle inside him would go wild an

escape into the outside world. He camo believe that his soul might hav

hatched from the egg of a gulper eel or

hagfish.The angel observed Maldoror icoastal waters, gliding naked among sofpolyps and tube worms. Did the teenage

comprehend his own beauty as hsomersaulted freely among thransparent medusae and stroked th

green and purple lips of giant clams



More than once he indulged in bizarriaisons with sharks; but no great har

was done. It’s true, wrote the angel, tha

more than any other being on earth hsucceeds in transcending the barrierbetween man and beast.

And in the margin the angel wrote:

Maldoror, strange being: where arou going with that gun?

Is this you in the black duster coatriding into the desert town with shotgun slung beside your saddle, youelegant hands resembling two poisonou

bell-flowers? Though this spectre’countenance is melancholy he is not DoQuixote, but some sort of desperado. Hishadow is long and grim, as are hi



eeth.‘It’s El Malo, Maldoror Furioso, Ki

M!’ Watkins, Small and the others in th

Long Afternoon Saloon told each othen tense whispers, perspiration goutin

from fountains in dermal villa gardens…‘What’s a vampire of the old worl

doing here in the new?’ a cock-eyed mademanded. ‘Find a priest and rally ynch mob!’

‘Easy, Nathan,’ Small said. ‘Whwould a vampire need a shotgun?’‘For disguise, you imbecile!’Panic erupted in the bar.

‘He’ll kill us!’‘Enslave us!’‘Rape our women!’‘Rape us, and strangle us and sell ou



bones!’‘To who?’‘To Wu! The celestial foreigners ar

conspiring to destroy the white man witheir dog-darn opium dens an

Communism! Where is my knife, Cecil?t was as if madness preceded th

stranger like a motley-garbed herald.But when the saloon doors swun

open every man’s tongue lost its wag. I

he instant the stranger’s cracked blacboots crossed the threshold the sleep ohe pontiff in Rome was disturbed by

dream of the endless arch of a

ouroboros rotating with slow majesthrough deep space, while at the samime the cold sleep of a female anacondn the Amazon basin was disturbed b



he vision of an ape pushing another apnto an oven.

‘Whiskey or beer, stranger?’ Th

bartender uttered his line in aadmirably steady voice. ‘Or there’s room upstairs, sir, where my wife or could arrange your hands.’

An erotic scene, which might havnvolved secateurs, was prevented bhe vampire himself, who made ready t

speak. At the rising of his tongue from itbed, three wars, two plagues and famine commenced in distant countriesI hunt this criminal.’ He brought ou

from inside his coat a flat lead boxwhich he laid on the bar and opened, anfrom it drew out and unfolded an oicanvas depicting Christ on Golgotha



cynosure of voyeurs and necrophiliacs.‘Are these eyes, heavy with rapture

familiar to you? Have you seen a ma

with this smooth chest and these slendefeet, bearing wounds as you see here?’

‘Didn’t we hang something like thaback in July?’

‘We done hanged a foreigner then, recollect.’

‘He was a Mexican, I believe. H

odges at Boot Hill. If you’ve a mind tpay him a call I dare say he’ll be ahome!’

‘I’m obliged, sirs.’ The strange

returned the canvas to the box and thbox to his coat, and strode outside againhaving obtained directions to the gravehis spurs jingling like a belly dancer’



cymbals. It was a short ride to thcrowded little boneyard. The strangeset to work with a shovel. The grav

was shallow and soon he had reachehe coffin and was prying it open.

The coffin was empty. Dust blew ouof it.

El Malo fell to his knees. His eyewept, his nose bled, and his screacarried through to the other side of th

earth.Creator and Redeemer, if my attempto bring you to heel are always failing s not because of any lack o

ntelligence, courage or work ethic omy part! You endowed me at my birtwith a superior brain and body, and soul able to love and hate as deeply a



he sun’s radiation penetrates into spacet is unthinkable that you did no

completely understand how I would firs

ove you, then hate you. You must havanticipated the broad pattern of mscorn, if not its every nuance.

Interloping deity, El Malo has sworo kill you, and this time he will keep hi

word. He can smell you in the emptcoffin. The barkeep and his wife woul

not wish to arrange you. You’re on thnose, you mangy, rotten-toothed olgimmick!

I would like to suspect you have give

me the means to destroy you. I wish could guess that this game is adangerous for you as it is for me. But ocourse you’re going to cheat. I would if



could. As I write this, a situatiopersists in which you have left a numbeof human beings, somewhat over seve

housand million of them, walking on thearth with free will but without fremeans. You have given them the internacombustion engine, the television newsand dominion over plastics, but somamong them believe these concessiondo not compensate adequately for all tha

ou might have granted but did not. sympathise with them, but it is not oheir behalf that I hunt you.

Dogs yearn for the infinite. I have sai

his before. The stray bitch who sniffaround the graves at night sometimestops and howls with inconsolable grieffor she too believes in another home, i



not among the boreal stars then a placmysteriously signified by those cold anbrilliant luminaries.

I know the vertiginous sense of exils not false.

Creator, if you have plans for us, diou intend us to read them in the teeaves and entrails?

It is no good my talking to you likhis. Friends, worship first the spiral o

he nautilus, then its inner chambersanoint the bull’s nose, then his hornsadore the marvellous lyrebird, whsings all songs. You may even come t

ove Homo sapiens, and thus surpass mn compassion.

He was a shooting star, but hcouldn’t hit the broad side of th



Saharan night…It pleases him to think of you on th

run again, back in the desert where yo

began, when you were just a djinn witsome big dreams, chutzpah and luck. EMalo spits in your coffin and walkaway. Tomorrow he will ride into medieval city whose every occupanresembles the subject of the paintingwhere he will, as usual, fail in his quest

having to flee before the curse of thplace descends on him also.

When I witnessed his lates

execution, evening had fallen on thow-lying countryside. Naked save for

dunce’s cap, his wrists bound with dampeather, he was escorted by a team o



wrestlers down a muddy track towards flooded marsh. Chips of stone in the mudug into his bare feet and the cold turne

his ears red and shrank his penis to wrinkled nub. The party halted at thwater’s edge. One of the wrestlerkicked the back of his right knee, causinhim to lose his balance and fall to alfours. A pair of watery stars shone ifront of him. When his head was force

down into the green water he did nostruggle, but held his breath and closehis eyes. When the pain reached certain level his eyelids sprang ope

automatically. Miraculously, he was ablo see clearly. The remains of a sunke

house met his bulging eyes. The roowas gone, the upper rooms exposed. H



observed the suggestive shape of an irochair, which seemed to be awaiting himComing between him and this distressin

piece of furniture, like an intercedinangel, a black toad swam in front of hiface and turned to look at him. He wastruck by the sombre ugliness of thibatrachian. Meanwhile he was sufferingreater and greater discomfort, and aast he thought it best to open his mout

and let the marsh water flood into hibody’s bottled world and do what iwould.

At the same time, the wrestlers let hi

go, and he slid into the water.He never ceased sliding through it

nor it through him. The fickle toadeserted him. Water deluged his privat



ands and seas. It drowned his mannhabitants, and claimed his kingdom fohe empire of the wider world at last.

He is one of the delicate freshwatehydrozoans now, and cannot speak tou. He is a silent, transparent bel

composed of approximately 96% water3% protein and 1% mineral salts. Buhis damp beak in your ear, it ha

something to impart…

(Forgive him his failure. He woulspeak further, but he is distracted. Hispine bends into the shape of horseshoe, his eyes roll and his jaw

distends, as a dreadful pain in hiperineum signals the arrival of his olbasement lodger the crab, returning take up residence in its former home.)



A woman, a man and their daughte

occupy a table on the terrace. The blu

Mediterranean sparkles in front of themand Maldoror, seated at a nearby tables virtually unrecognisable in gas mas

and geisha wig. He has ridden furthehan even he realises, his rigid shadow

falling over the thickets of a family…The mother looks up from he

paperback crime novel. ‘My daughterhave your schoolmasters taught you thcorrect method of fashioning a golem?’

‘Yes, mother, and next term I shal

begin studying the forbidden books.’The mother addresses the father: ‘If

ulpa is endowed with too much vitalityt may well escape its maker’s contro



s that not so?’‘It is so, wife. Only pure an

disciplined minds should attempt th

higher magicks. Before the forecourt ohe Golden Citadel there is, after all, thaaughing garden with fountains o

shadow, haunted by terrible deceptionn comely guise. Daughter, the colour haeft your cheeks. Do you feel ill?’

‘I feel a dark presence pass betwee

my face and the sun. How cold suddenly is… Fiend, I banish you, bgone! No one summoned you.’

Your fear is as dark and sweet a

molasses, O pale girl, smooth and thinYou did not have to speak my name, oeven know it. I can appear without beincalled. When I hear within a huma



being that which soughs like the phantosea inside a shell, I outrace light. Yohave dreamed of me, and of the power

and pleasures I could steal for you.‘Your cloak hides your face. You

voice is sombre and slow. I do not trusou.’

Smart lass. But still, you shall have garden where the sky sleeps upon a rooof dark leaves and ivies bind Apollo i

a green spell, moss grows like mineral, and herms endowed witspeech plead for caresses; and you shalhave a room, an octagonal salon lined i

silk of your favourite colour, with carpet of living serpents and a domgirdled by a circular frieze in which thwhale rises endlessly to engulf the las



ndividual plankton. Rest assured thahere are Chinese screens, Gobeliapestries, and divans finished in th

eau du cul of girls more beautiful thaou. Jardinières hold arrangements oacquered hair; alabaster lamp

distribute moonish light and the scent osugarcane; there is a bowl of fruitwhose flesh is as molten glass, anothers almost human. The room look

nwards on itself, oval mirrors on eacwall drilling avenues into eighnfinities, conduits through which infinit

chance may, at any moment, brin

visitors. (As yet there is no traffic, buhe chance does not decrease.) You shalie in this room with a jaguar for you

constant companion, your eyes heavy



aden with the weight of all they havobserved, yet bright and unassailable adiamonds.

‘Spirit of the evening’s copper gloomou are premature. The moon does no

know me yet, so why should youChildren should be safe from you. Dnot violate that precept, or sompunishment will surely be visited upoou. Next term I shall study French

geometry and sewing. I desire a decenand pleasant life, and I can find without your help.’

We shall see. I feel the geometry ma

change your mind. The study omathematics causes sensitive minds tbegin seeking truth. From the square ohe hypotenuse to the curvature of spac



and time – analogous to the rubber sheeon a cholera bed, although, deplorablyacking the hole for the egress of waste –

and from there to the black arts, is not song a journey as it seems to you now.

shall be patient. Meanwhile, your mothes putting her book down. You might no

be ready for Maldoror yet, but your deamother has been waiting a long timeHow could you or any person who doe

not at each quarter-hour say, or elssuffer certain death, ‘Who goes there?understand her thousand pains, regretand longings? Long ago I offered her

volcanic island and promised to makher into a sacred prince of birds anfire. Her dreams were more daring thaours.



Listen to the two of you:‘Wife, what are you doing? Why ar

ou climbing over the railing? If yo

wish to stroll on the beach, the stairs arhat way… Woman, the shame! Peopl

can see your knickers!’‘Mother, at least wait until dark…’But the woman did not respond t

hese cries from her two loved oneswhom she loved no longer, who wer

rritating and nauseating – a centipedrunning circles around her eyeball and dead rat lying in her stomach. Without final word or backward glance sh

stepped off the terrace, and Maldoroobligingly flung her body out into thdistant sea. In her flight she was like spiral galaxy, her four limbs rotating i



obedience to the laws of physics, hedescent a telling demonstration ogravity. Her silence was more difficu

o explain. Who truly knew her? Perhapnot even he who met her in the deepighting the water with his weed-drape

phosphorescent eyes.I will not forget you, and I hope yo

will not forget me. I killed your motherour father will not be as vigilant as she

He won’t mind if you wander off aloneAnd in memory of your mama, here’s pack of playing cards, in the waters ohe insular scene on the reverse of whic

ou will observe nothing like a hanraised in doubt. One joker is a priapiGabriel, the other a lewd Mary with heskirts pulled up around her thighs. Th



cards will bring you luck!As for the rest of you – eminence

with cavernous eyes, nationall

significant hair, teeth like knives, and thability to pass rose-scented materiafrom your fundaments – I salute you. Thworld holds enough joy and splendoufor you, and you love mystery withoudemanding a solution: indeed, a solutiowould break your spirits. Over you

exquisite heads the pterodactyl passewithout opening its cloaca.There is another race on the earth

They, like you, need pure beauty and th

ecstasy of sublime moments in order tsurvive, but unlike you they arnsatiable. It must be hard not to fearoathe or pity them.



There is a sense of occasion in thunrolling of tinfoil. If the proprietor ohe den is worth what you pay him, h

will see that you are comfortable; hputs soulful music on the gramophonand lights the candle himself. Thank youWu! And wedge two pennies in my eysockets, just in case. Chasing dragons ia risky business; literature reserves it fohe most reckless heroes. Whether on

ascends the ladder of smoke to the realof the sylphs or makes an antipodaourney to the rough fairyland of thibelungs, young warriors in bright mai

will be waiting to defend their gampreserve. You have seen them beforeThere is one way to defeat themschistosomes!



My eyes, lustrous as the slow

gastropod’s footprint, noble a

strychnine, have sought out the solitudeof the desert. I travelled through thearth. The dunes pulled me along in theihick dusty folds, rolled me over an

over, and dried me out completely. Bun the end they didn’t know what to d

with me. I didn’t break down lik

organic matter, erode like stone or rusike iron. In the end the dunes grewweary and spat me out at a motel on thnterstate.

I found cities in the wilderness. Somwere mirages, while others were husksdried and shrunken to only a few incheong, creased like old women’s pudenda



These husks blow across the hardpan ihe wake of the simoom. No one know

what to do with them. Hogs won’t ea

hem. Centres are dying while peripheraerritories swell; the fortunate earth i

acquiring vast, unmapped, strangfrontiers again. If this condition is consequence of suburban sprawl, go anight a candle to thank God for installin

a race of imbeciles in city plannin

offices.During one morning in the dunes walked past the rusted lid of a well, thmuzzle of a cannon and the leathery bod

of an acquaintance whose vicious natur once erroneously believed I hated. I iurn was overtaken by a sphinx soarin

high above me in a sky of Byzantin



blue. It was no mirage, unless mirageare now abandoning the horizons for thstratosphere. That monster was only on

of the unsolved mysteries which havdeparted the world, while I remain, anou. He looks incredulous, this youn

man who has trembled with real feabefore phantoms disgorged by the magiantern at the theatre! But curious tale

are not always false. What I know

beyond doubt, is that the world ireceiving new mysteries in exchange fohe old. If that bothers you, chastise you

ancestors for tending to their cattl

nstead of to the stars and mathematics.

Another distinction between men anbeasts: a beast does not despise its ow



body.We know you love a good freak show

Modesty exists only in the dictionary. I

hine eye offend thee, open it wider, thbetter to watch what passes for lifpassing by. Voyeurs! No person undehe age of fifteen years will be admitte

unless of complaisant character and nworse than average pulchritude. By thiprecaution innocence and decorum wil

be rigorously protected.Before dawn the sky turns the lilacgrey of a pigeon’s breast. The suappears, modestly, as a soft light behin

clouds. The trees are in their mosdelicate season, with their branchehalf-clothed, half-bare. The air is not yesharpening to the chill that will com



ater in the year, and is motionlesduring the first hours of the day. Thcanals are like long mirrors. Birds fl

and feed in complete silence; thquietude of a painting sits over the town

I stole a small boat from a deserteetty. Rowing below the shuttere

windows and walled gardens I sawbranches reaching hungrily for lowflying ducks… enormous stray dog

slouched from door to door…sometimes I saw a criminal or adulteren a black cloak.

My old friend, I rowed down th

canal which led out to your lodge. I hano trouble finding it. It was exactly aou described, the front gate flanked bwo stone sphinxes, hermaphrodites



each with goat’s horns, four breasts, ana long erect member pierced witarrows in the manner of St Sebastian’

body. I moored the boat at a tumescenbollard and approached the inimicadoorway. An intruder might have beedeceived by the apparent lack of guardn the entrance passage. I was not.

knew your assassins were watchinhrough peepholes in the walls. Th

oung daylight spurned my face, and bhis your men knew me.I strode through to the courtyard

which contained your severe garden:

pristine lawn enclosed on all sides bold slender cypresses, with only onornament, a central oblong pool arounwhich were set metal chairs fitted ou



with the implements of your cruelty –raditional arrangements, and fearless o

blame. The light which had refused m

snagged on spikes, hooks, blades, cagesscrews, braziers and poires d’angoisse.

My friend, a master as decadent buess intelligent than you might havnstalled statues of foreign gods and

chained leopard or two to add an oneiriquality to the scene, but you were carefu

o ensure that the visitor couldn’t doubhat he was awake and in his own land.I walked across the lawn… a door i

he west wing of the house opened into

grotto lit with chartreuse lamps. Thight continued up an iron staircase…

was in your gleaming bile ducts… oone landing a leadlight window depicte



a cluster of bullet-shaped figures which ook to be the rabies rhabdovirus… a

anteroom on the fourth floor containe

odd souvenirs: stuffed rats, a brass idowith an ass’s head, a black iron boarong masks of bark, quite rotten… m

anticipation grew, my hands trembled.A leather door opened before me, an

o! I was admitted into a good likenesof heaven, where rococo idylls wer

painted on the walls and a canopy oblue adorned with gold stars spreaoverhead.

A crowd of people filled this pleasan

space. There are men and womendiligent enough libertines, whexperience a state in which their nervescream like a child stung by a thousan





beautiful stuffs: the loveliest silkbandaged the lepers’ faces, the stumps oamputated limbs terminated i

prosthetics painted and gilded like thfigureheads of royal ships; the lunaticwere garbed as the heroes, kings anqueens, popes and deities they believehemselves to be. You spoiled them al

rotten.As for you, with your tusks and you

swordfish eyes, warmer than the rest oour body, you were more beautiful tha…

‘Maldoror! How goes the schistosom

rade?’ you greeted me.Your reason for inviting me to you

house was never stated explicitly in youetter. I assumed you wanted to taste m



strange flesh for yourself. How could refuse? I, too, yearn to be loved.

After the refreshments and the baths

wo of your lepers relieved me of mclothing. You and I went down the stairand emerged in your garden, where thair was growing warm. The leperappeared again: they had followed us aa discreet distance.

‘A chair is prepared for you,’ yo

said, gesturing towards the grifurniture.Believe me, I struggled when th

diseased lackeys grabbed me! But thei

morbid flesh was inexplicably strong.You explained the process I was t

undergo. The chair was equipped with complicated apparatus of clamps, drill



and saw blades. And you said, ‘Foafterwards, here is a celluloid mask yomay wear. You will certainly experienc

health problems for the rest of your lifebut I keep a staff of excellent doctorand nurses here. You will marvel at howhey can soothe your torments b

composing ekphrases on your condition.The flourish of the razor through m

cheek!

Upon discovering his body in thsand I was unmoved, for I had outgrowhim, and a comparison of hi

dehumidified features with those of thpainting’s insufferable sufferer exposeno similarity beyond that of a mutuasurrender to agony. Those who watc



everything from a varnished distance haobserved the escape of an inmate and thheft of a celluloid mask of grea

sentimental value with civil decorumhat is, without snitching; but they grew

bored waiting for me to desecrate thcorpse, for I was as dry as he and couldischarge nothing.

I cannot laugh because I fear tstimulate the crab, who has only jus

gone back to sleep. For the violenmotion of my pelvis woke him ancaused him to go running through mpenetralia, searching for a berth tha

didn’t pitch and roll. So, with a pokeface: I wish our relationship could be proper one of men among men. Yocould suggest to me, or I to you



Tomorrow at dawn we shall meet in private place and fight to the death,’ ant would be done.

As for the garden, after the youn

man’s installation in the chair it dreameof itself as a jungle. It desired heamoisture and growth eternal, aexistence without winter. It dreamed owhite waterfalls, black caves,

clangour at sunset. It coveted serpentand tigers. At last it could no longer beahe thought of staying put in its temperat

clime. And so it prepared a specia

seed, a seed of its whole self, hidden ia sweet pod, where blood had nourishehe ground.

The pod was eaten by a seagul



Compelled by the strong desires of thseed inside its body, the bird flew soutand east, and dropped the seed i

Alexandria, where another pod grew, thgarden’s eager quiddity transferring to io be consumed by an ibis. The ibi

conveyed it to Persia, there occurreanother miracle of virgin birth anransmigration, and a mynah bird broughhe third seed to India, where a little ap

ate it. In the darkness inside the ape, thgarden’s essence panicked. It found couldn’t influence this animal’s mind at had influenced the simpler minds o

he birds, and feared being dropped isome temple yard or town gutter whert might be swept up with rubbish an

burnt. It felt the ape running, it seeme



for a long time; then the ape ran no morefor a she-tiger ate him.

The tiger went and lay in the shad

under an immense banyan fig to digesher snack. And there the garden died, nofar away from the jungles of Bengal, ihe potently acid belly of the beast it haearned to harbour.

The tiger never felt entirely herselagain. Her life, once fierce and joyfu

ike the life of a burning sun, acquirestrange melancholy aspects. Sometimeat night, in her dreams that had alwaybeen filled with happy hunting an

feeding, she found herself walkinhungry down long rows of cypressesow grass under her paws, strange col

rain pummelling her back. Disturbin



man-tools, iron things, lay rusting arouna waterhole. Her territory in the junglewhich had always felt like an extensio

of herself, now gave her odd feelingsShe desired it, and it seemeexceedingly strange to her to desirsomething that already belonged to heand no other.

Years went by, and the tiger became sad, restless beast. In her old age sh

finally lost her mind, and one nighwalked into a farming village and killewo children there. The peasants, i

return, killed her and sold the carcass t

raders who were keen to buy it for itmedical properties. If the men of thMiddle Kingdom wanted to believe thahe flesh of an old-woman tiger woul



grant immunity to snakebite, her skicure fevers caused by ghosts and hewhiskers work as a charm agains

bullets, the Indian villagers felt nobligation to argue the case of rationascience; but they would in any case havbeen wrong in the matter of the tiger’eyes, in which the soul of the garden haodged, and which, duly processed, aast came into the possession of

creature who was not yet a Zelator in thconsoling mysteries of the dispensaryand to whom the advertised action of thpills as a remedy for convulsions was o

ess interest than the gaily painted tibox: she, who already feared that shhad no soul, ate the eyes of the tiger anso took into herself the soul of th



garden.This young person was your mother

whom I knew long ago…

I came to Paradise! A thousan

flowering meadows, wild and deewoodlands, rainwashed glens, sundrenched parks! Orchards, lakes angroves, I had forgotten you! You come tmy eyes as strangers to a boarded-u

house; but no, it is I, the prodigal, whcome to you, ripping away the boards had nailed to my eyelids in a vaiattempt to cure my insomnia. My horse’

vicious look grew mild and his scarlephallus withdrew into its sheath. Mown body ceased its random prodigioumutations and became like the body o



an ordinary man. Wonder of wondershis pleased me.

I rode like a knight-errant i

Brocéliande, full of delight, my basnature a distant memory to me.

Directions from the courteous peoplof the land led me eventually to thabode of the one who ruled it. I haexpected a castle or palace, but thhouse was merely a small stone manor i

a pleasant park. Servants stabled mhorse and admitted me into the housecalling me by name. I was led straight the king himself.

And here we must end the happy storscarcely after its beginning. Though threspite has only lasted for a few lineswe must already leave the lake wher



he white swans glide and the gildequay where happy gallants and ladieprepare to embark for painted Cythera

Do you wish to go with them? Then ball means leave, for there are places fohose who are tired of trudging o

cemetery roads and coughing up liceHere is the good ship now, steered by woman of superb health and impeccablcharacter, with room on its many deck

for all of you, if you wish. It is arrivinat the dock and white doves are flyinall around it. Go aboard and it will takou to the true paradise, to the home o

all your souls, across a fair sea in whicnot a single monster lairs, save for thnoble dragons of Asia. Some of you argoing – bon voyage!



The rest of you scurvy lot, who havconvinced yourselves that the route theaven passes through hell, not once bu

as many times as this blue planet hacircled the sun, get thee behind Satanwho is behind Maldoror and probablattempting a buggery. Pick up yousuppurating feet and make your way abest you can along Phlegethon’s banksWhat incomprehensible appetites yo

have! You’ve turned toxic through tour bones. If you die on this journeyhow shall we legally dispose of youBut you will not die. You, O Residues

must drag your titanic bodies forwardstep by broken step… at this point cannot see the end.

The royal body did not sit in majest



on a throne of amber and emerald. It lanaked on a dirty bed, in a room off thscullery, surrounded by doctors wh

were tormenting it with shamefunstruments. The monarch of the paradis

could not offer salutations, for his moutwas gagged with a spiked ball. Thdoctors, however, were keen to explaihe importance of their work.

These savants believed the sovereig

o be bound magically to the land hruled. Of course, this is not auncommon belief; but these people liveby the more savage opinion that whe

here was illness in the realm it could bremedied by the monarch suffering paiand shedding blood. In other words, thewere black magicians, and lunatics t



boot. The happiness of their country waherefore perhaps evidence of the wort

of diabolism and madness.

‘But tell me, O doctors,’ I said, ‘ihere such evil in your land that you mus

keep this man racked with pain?’‘Oh no,’ one of them replied, ‘not a

all. Usually His Majesty can go abouhis business without any of this, sinche people who live here are good soul

and do nothing to upset the equilibriumatural disasters such as drought, flooor disease can be controlled with himbleful of the royal blood.’

‘It is your presence, sir,’ said anotherwhich requires us to take thes

unprecedented measures.’At that moment the enchantment wa



broken and my true nature came back tme like a lover from whom I had beeparted.

Maldoror!There is no haven for you! The ship

has sailed without you; you missed youchance to stow away. No way buonward, through disappointments and thordure that you vomit over your feet witevery step. You insisted on this.

The knowledge of my exile frohappiness fell on me again, a net osteel. I had my hand on my sword, reado strike off that stupid king’s head. But

was lying on the floor squirmingwriggling like a boil of worms. Annow those hoodoo doctors keep mrapped here in this motel room wit



heir magic!

Is Maldoror trying to deal in hi

blood flukes and other parasites from hiplace of captivity? Please do nocondemn him, for man is raised abovhe beasts by his sense of commerce.

Where are you, beautiful child? I’vbeen observing you, but your precisocation escapes me. I know that yo

sleep happily at night, without a lightbecause you precociously made a pacwith the ghosts in your bedroom. Yoaccommodated their needs, no mor

onerous or coarse than those of thiving fraternity, and balanced by mor

valuable recompenses. You would noenrage them by wishing them gone, an



n return they would teach you a thing owo. You understood the relationshi

between evil and power and believed i

our own bad character. Because of thisou have attracted my attention.

I am not interested in corruptinnnocence. I want fruit already tainted.

One, two – the razor gives me hospital breakfast of blood.

I’ve been on my knees in the toilet

vomiting all kinds of filth. Thesofferings from my private ecosystem arflowing to the oceans of the world, ann time will enter the rain that fall

everywhere. Close the entrances to youbody; eat and drink nothing.

I may not be well, but I am gettinwealthy. It pleases me to report that



have discovered a bountiful source oice right here in this bed. I sell them, ihe secret way of criminals who ru

cocaine empires from jail cells.

I dreamed I banished the desert; sang the jungle. I sang a deep greeriver, swaying through the steaming hillike a boa constrictor drunk on th

darkness of the world. If the rive

hypnotises you and enters your eye, yowill either become a great sorcerer odie within a month of a disease whicurns your kidneys into lobes of jade an

our brain to a dead coral.The gears of the universe carried th

stars into one of those sinistealignments before which the executione



n his hood kneels reverently. Dogremember their role, and a cascade obarking and baying pours over the lonel

ntertidal zone, signalling that once agait is the hour of pink dominos an

masked balls!Bring green, red and silver sequins

Bring feathers of the peacock and thoucan! Bring kohl, cochineal an

bismuth for the paints, talc and tar for th

wigs, Indian musk and Phoenician rosfor the perfumes, and Romabreastplates for the containment oraging hearts and graveyard coughs. An

ou, clairvoyant with the enormoubrow, find something for one who is tplay the part of an impostor.

Here come cakewalk princes



witches, raggle-taggle gypsies, tattooegeishas, lion tamers, pygmiesstrongmen, hunger artists, houngans

hangmen, Templars, limbo dancersepers, organ grinders, rag-and-bon

men, roaring girls, deserters, hustlershunchbacks, holly rollers, pharaohsmohocks, mariachis, martyrs, cowboyseunuchs, showgirls, mobsters, MooniesThuggees, birdmen, mattoids and ninja

– and even habitually solitary Maldorooins the conga line, his mouth forming red semilunar split. Now everyone isinging! Torch-eyed Maldoror tearin

hrough the jungle, getting back tnature with the goblin host, Hade

bursting out of the stereoscope

Winding down the banks of the burstin



rivers, from the Hooghly to the Hudso

o the delta of the Nile, a painted

sainted carnival phyle, Satan in th

ead cheek to cheek with the Popeoing back to heaven in a pirate boat

Glory, glory, ho! The grinning throat!

Caught up in it all, enraptured by thivision of his inner jungle let loose anrunning rampant, victorious over thworld of clay, the world of empt

vessels made by the dull Potter of thDesert, Maldoror comes close, so closeBut his quest is tragically asymptotic

His body, with all its remarkabl

deviations from the norm, inevertheless not sufficiently elastic tengulf a surface without end.



The dense fog remained in thgarden, reluctant to disperse. Fog is thastate of water which expresses

earning to cease once and for all thcyclic commute of evaporation ancondensation, the motion of rivers anides and rain; it aspires to the captivranquillity of a lake or a well. Like th

fog, a pupil lingers at a school gateunwilling to go in, or, in the afternoon, t

go home; this youth, withdrawn ansolitary, is necessary without anyonrealising it: his utterly private mode oife and his ridiculous loitering in th

precinct of the gate are necessary. He iike winter, or the stomachs of

ruminant, or a crystal button, and so hbecomes a daimon… the urge to follow



him is natural… in a row of citcottages, gauze curtains are not enougo hide an old couple watchin

elevision. I thought they were decentldead; but no, he scratches his paunch anshe farts twice. The smell is curiouslmild and sweet, like a memory oapples. She is not embarrassed, thiheavy woman whose hands are red answollen, who must enjoy the perfume

reminiscence she can supply for herselat no cost. In her world the grandormitories of the great dreamers donexist. In her world there is only a

unfailing light. In his world there ihorror in the form of a red, immense olwoman whom age has made intolerablcoarse: a beast, a scarlet elephant, fo



which he manages, heroically, to feepity.

It seemed that a murder might b

required, but instead the bird of passagwas welcomed by both of them as a lonost son. One can see him now, whos

beauty is adequate for the needs oburlesque and folktale, lying asleep ihe full light of day, still attired in boot

which are spattered with the mud of

Breton field. It is Sunday morning anhis seigneur is utterly spent after thantics of a sabbat – no less hilarious fobeing predictable. His left hand lie

across his smoothly rising and sinkinbreast as if to remind him, by a gentlecho in his flesh, of the many hands thaouched him in the night. Like the girls o



sixteen who sleep near death rather thaperform the sacrifices of womanhood hies, as though by the agency of poisone

apple or pricked finger; without shamehe lord of witches has becom

sempiternal sleep; his body is the cobrahooded gondola, a bower prepared fohe union of anima and animus, and alheir friends and relations too. It migh

be to our benefit to stay with him, but th

old couple, next after the loiterer in whamight imaginably become an endlesseries of psychopomps, are herding uowards another scene in anothe

bedroom, in which a woman reacheacross the pillows to touch hecompanion, but before the movement icompleted, her arm and then her whol



body silently fragments into a mosaic odebris – flakes of dry paint, petals angrass, eggshells, wood shavings, insec

husks. Her transfigured form holds for anstant, then falls apart.

Her disappointed lover dressehimself and departs, his hands clenchenside the pockets of his coat. He leave

all her possessions alone. Somethinnew will take shape in the room, an

when it does he will come back to enjohe new thing – if he survives the fogwhich at times like this, when the failurs significant, is apt to take on th

properties of chlorine gas…O beloved, mon ange, mon singe

outside the gates nothing is fathomablewhile within naphtha flares cast hideou



shadows. The bed is soft and the starare pure and bright but I cannot sleepThe dunes are stealing across the worl

with a menace that is more stately thavague. Moonlight leaks around the edgeof the shutter-blinds in the room in thcheap motel where Maldoror lieoutflung like a discarded garment on bed with pink cotton sheets, abovwhich a plastic ceiling fan turns at

slow pace, reminding him of the gait ohe ocean; the silken light creeps near this open eyes, to be repelled, never tcome near the brain, the mollusc in th

cranium, bone of memory and error.



LSISO

The first Alsiso was a gift from LorGrastiac’s murderer. The word camfrom the lexicon of a dead language – anguage which had gone to the scaffol

aughing three hundred years ago, witalsiso being one of its last words. Thassassin wrote alsiso on the pale carpen the nobleman’s blood, balancing th

death of the man with the resurrection oone word. Why? A message? A joke? Asentimental whim? An act withou

reason at all, such as might amuse aanarchist? No one knew what alsis

meant. Most people assumed it was thassassin’s name.

Three other lords were murdered i



he city that year, without any apparenconnection of motive. Yet connected thewere, by one element: in all three case

he blood of the victim was used to writhe word alsiso.

The assassin was searched for bunever caught.

‘Be good,’ parents told their childrenor Alsiso will come in the night and geou.’

On the Day of the Gone, along withe white candy skulls at the festiva

stalls there were red ones representin

Alsiso. Delicious to children, Alsiswas eaten thousands of times. Oldeboys and girls fitted kisses around hiboiled sugar cranium. Candlemaker



painted prayer-candles with charms tkeep Alsiso away. These were populawith nobles, who sent their servants ou

o buy them. Alsiso was already turninfrom a natural being into a magical oneSince he (the people thought of Alsiso amale, the -o ending being masculine iheir language) was a villain too trick

for the police, it seemed best to makhim into the sort of creature agains

whom at least priests and witches coulprovide effective protection.The carpet trade, too, did well out o

Alsiso, after it was put around that a re

floor-covering would discourage thmurderous intruder, the wisdom in thargument being that Alsiso would havno desire to write in blood on a surfac



which would camouflage his graffitoThere was such a run on red carpetsrugs and mats that fast ships had to b

sent to bring more from the bazaars ohe East.

Yule came and went, then th

Festival of the Master Singers. Therwere no more Alsiso murders, and thpublic fear subsided. Alsiso became ol

news. The red carpets were put intstorage or thrown away, and the olpastel ones were brought out and spreadown on bedroom floors again.

But not everyone put Alsiso out omind. Among the lower orders of societhere were malcontents who liked think of dead lords. In gin-shops withou



ables, in taverns with floors of mud, iabourers’ and foot soldiers’ campsoasts were drunk to Alsiso. An anti

establishment pamphlet called AlsisoThe Voice of Blood! appeared on thstreets. Four issues were printed anwidely circulated before the author, ourneyman printer named Cyrus Knot

was arrested, convicted of sedition anpublicly garrotted.

People forgot Knott, but some of thecontinued to remember Alsiso, whbegan turning up as a character iravelling pantomime shows. Initiall

here were really two Alsisos: one waa principled rogue, a knife in the handof the common people; the other was sinister buffoon. The latter graduall



won dominance. This Alsiso wore blacclothes with something red on his headeither a tall hat or a wig. He spoke i

quatrains of doggerel. In the moswidespread version of the pantomimAlsiso suffered death by boiling in aundry tub, and was borne off to Hel

by the demonic Prince November. Isome versions Alsiso was redeemehrough the kindness of another characte

or sheer good luck (the Prince’coachman getting lost in a fog andriving Alsiso to Heaven instead, fonstance), but these variations wer

never as popular as the one with thboiling.

Alsiso’s portrait was painted. Not b



any renowned artist, to hang in a gallerybut the fraternity of interior decoratormported his face into the vocabulary o

standard filler for corners and otheawkward spots in frescoed roomsJoining the lindworms and the lamiaehe Apple Crab, the Pope of the Moo

and other grotesques, Alsiso mugged ouof many a gap between more serious anmportant figures. In the hands o

stonemasons Alsiso was brought into thfamily of gargoyles, drafted focathedral downspout and corbel dutwith the old cadre of goblinised paga

gods. Down on the pavements, screeverdrew Alsiso in chalk. It was they whgave him new clothes, exchanging thblack for a shirt and tights illuminate



with blue, yellow, red and greeozenges. Following this change, th

name ‘Alsiso’ was given to a type o

similarly-patterned jacquard cloth frohe estates of Bathro, to the polychrom

glass produced by the Risper factoryand to a gaudy nudibranch from thSouth Seas.

A hundred and fifty years after hifirst appearance, Alsiso emerged fro

he corners and returned to the midst ohigh society – if only, as in thbeginning, at night. Chromatic as parrot, and as wicked as you wished hi

o be, Alsiso was a popular fellow amasquerade parties. Alsiso, lord omisrule! Cutter of a dash! His motlefigure climbed up to balconies nigh



after night. He appeared in bedroowindows like a stained glass sainurned profane and lewd, with a tente

crotch. Morning after morning, the risinsun kissed red hairs caught on lacpillowslips. Alsiso became a famouover.

During the years of the duelling crazewhen young men made a thing of gettinup early to slay each other over matter

of honour, Alsiso went back to his rootsHe kept his dawn appointments. Hkilled. And he took his turn to diegazing into the eyes of priests.

At the same time he returned toutright villainy. One highwayman tooAlsiso as his muse with such devotiohat, in jail, he requested the hire of



motley suit and red wig to wear to thgallows. His request was granted. Thsun kissed red hairs caught in a stron

hempen rope. And when the ghost camclattering up from under the crossroadwhere the corpse was buried, it waAlsiso who galloped out of the earth oa black horse, his head burning with ight that sowed fires in the roadsidrees.

But it was as a lover that Alsiso waknown best, and for many years to call man an ‘Alsiso’ was to call him a ladiesman, a carpet knight, a bedroom stallion

a rake, or a fool in love. So far so goofor Alsiso; but the good times couldnast forever. With time, the flesh undehe coloured shirt and tights acquired th



undesirable patina of age. When the rewig slipped askew, you got an eyeful oa head as bald as a bunion. Alsiso wa

now a dirty old man, a peeping tom, goblin in the corner again.

For Alsiso there were no morparties, no more bedrooms or fights oescapades. He couldn’t get any actionOther characters had his fun.

He even lost his place in th

pantomime: it was now the TaCollector whom Prince Novembecarried off to damnation.

Alsiso’s exile lasted two hundreears. He roamed, vagrant, in distanands, sleeping in fields of sugar cane

searching for his reflection in floode



emples where the bodies of monks haurned to fish, and he drank the ponginees of sanctity. He kept company wit

foxes, monkeys and rats. He acquaintehimself with the deep nights of the earthoceanic black hours against which thprevious nights of his life were only procession of shallow ponds.

And Alsiso walked abroad in thands where the sun is like a lion, wher

here are more bells than flutes, morhorses than birds, more mirrors thafountains, and more even numbers thaodd.

None of this did Alsiso any goodSoaked in bad water, subjected to dusand wind and din, he began to suffecorrosion in his extremities. Hi



discomfort increased every day. Hsuffered mentally, too, from thdisappointment that life, even for a bein

such as he, is not forever. He habecome so used to dying on stage and iduels without dying in the world that hfelt a sort of perpetual shock at beinreduced to a singular existence anherefore to true mortality.

In time, castaway Alsiso would havbroken down into a pile of ash, a pile osugar and a puddle of nonsense. But hwas called back into the public world

The summoner was Mrs WilhelminObie, who made Alsiso the protagonisof her novel Around the World in Seve

Veils: The Memoir of an Adventuress.





sized wars, and down in the deep sea, imyths abiding below the sun’s reach: thendless fish that consumes time from th

end towards the beginning, and thightless house of Taffy Jonah the jaile

of the dead, in which Alsiso is brieflncarcerated.

In her diary Mrs Obie wrote that shchose the name Alsiso after having dream in which she ‘encountered

roguish person of that name, in aOriental place, with many beasts about.Among those who admired Mr

Obie’s book was the explorer Jud

Herring. Adventuring in the highlands oew Summerland with Around th

World in Seven Veils in his knapsackHerring inscribed no less than fou



Alsisos – a Mount, a River, a Lake and Falls – on the map he was making.

The book was read by children. The

brought Alsiso into their counting gameand skipping-rope chants: Alsiso thhalf-and-half, boy and girl, wicked anwild, a bad example to all.

These days you all know Alsiso. Yo

may have heard of the Aucklan

surrealists who named their cliquAlsiso, finding in Alsiso’s incarnations fitting emblem for strangeness, error, andisruption to the normal order of things

You have probably heard of Alsiso thmatinee idol from the era of silent film powdered and pomaded Alsiso of thdeep eyes and hawk profile, Alsiso o



he sad ghetto childhood and the aduife no one could approve of. Alsiso wa

a taxi dancer before he got into th

movies, and jealous men called hiAlsiso the gigolo’ to put him down

Always a looker more than a talker, hwould have struggled and failed whesound came into the films. But Alsiswas saved, in a way: he was on th

rincess Niobe on the night she sank

and was granted an apotheosis by thwatery heavens.Unless you’ve lived under a stone al

our life, you know the later film By Al

y Sins Remembered. You’ve watcheell Brynner and Lance Bardot kiss o

he terrace of the Hotel Alsiso, anunless you are heartless you’ve reache



for a box of tissues at the end. That wahe film that made Alsiso a word a

potent as Paradiso or Tropicana,

alismanic word in the grimoire onimitable living.

Inevitably Alsiso became a car: ong machine with tailfins like a fantas

of a rocket ship. There was the famouracehorse Alsiso: the name seems tbring fame with it. Among today’

Alsisos are a pop group, a washinmachine, a computer virus, a hurricanea heat-seeking missile, a professionawrestler; there are Alsiso streets

nightclubs, lipsticks, condomscodenames; you can paint a town AlsisRed; you can get an Alsiso cocktail aany bar (recipe: 2 oz white rum, 1 o



peach schnapps, 1 oz rose syrup, poureover ice and topped with champagne).

The Earth is too crowded witAlsiso. And so Alsiso is moving out. Astray bitch is leaving the world tonighon board a satellite. A one way trip to dog’s death – but no need to telAlsiso…



THE MEMORIAL PAGE

It’s my habit, of an evening, to walalong the canal, a grey and sleepy littlwaterway that runs through our village ihe low-lying Eastmarch. I follow th

canal into the countryside for two mileso the door of the Fighting TemeraireThis old stone inn by the water is place where one can drink an excellen

rum punch, and share the evening witcountry people and with those interestinravellers who, for their various reasons

prefer not to stay at the Rooster in thvillage centre. One Eve of St Wallace, ihe Temeraire’s ale room, fortun

permitted me to clink tankards with n

ess a person than Captain Hector Drake



only a month before he met hiappointment with the noose. I was sorro hear of his fate; this country has los

one of its most convivial highwaymenLet us drink to Drake. Inside thTemeraire I have had gooconversations with, at my guess, half thbrigands, gypsies, vagabonds, roaminhespians and other road-folk of th

eastern lowlands. We are all served b

he Temeraire’s owner, the magnificenAlbina, of the monumental silhouette anet-beaded breast, who is something of

goddess to her men. It is mostly me

who come to the Fighting Temeraire, buone night in the middle of last Novembe met a rare woman traveller.

The north wind was blowing slee



across the canal, the willows beside thwater were bare, and like frail medusahey swayed violently in the wind. A

small boat, come adrift from itmoorings, knocked along by itselfWrapped in an oilskin, clutching antern, I persevered through this autumnclemency, wondering if I would mee

anyone worth the journey.I was rewarded, for that night th

peregrine woman was there. Her colouwas very black, a marvel to see in thEastmarch. She was sitting alone in thale room, eating a pie dinner. I had a ru

punch by myself, so as not to seerudely forward, then approached herHer brow was high, her nose curvedand among her white teeth there wer



hree gold ones. As she spoke ouanguage well, and was pleasant, I said

would stand her a drink for a story. Sh

replied that she did not drink alcohobut would accept the price of her mealo which I agreed.

Her name, she said, was Arnaude. expected her to relate something of hehomeland or the journey that had broughher here to our chilly country. However

she instead began to recite a story alonhe lines of a legend:‘Of all the cities that human being

have ever raised on this earth, the on

which they contrived to make closest the perfect ideal was named Njaua. I

was a place of marvels which cannot bdescribed at all. Over many generation



ts populace had learned the secrets oright conduct and good governance. Theenjoyed peace, justice, liberty an

prosperity, and had abundant leisurewhich they devoted to the quest foperfection. How they defined perfectios not known, but the quest itsel

generated numerous beneficiaoutcomes. It is written that Njaupossessed sublime architecture

ncomparable gardens, and a street plawhose angles and proportions generatedhrough occult mathematics, vibrations ihe ether which had tonic effects o

body, mind and soul. The scientists o jaua created precious metals i

alchemical ovens, and knew methods ofashioning automata which coul



perform menial labour, relieving thhuman citizens from all drudgery anallowing them to devote themselves t

he cultivation of talent and virtueUrbane talking beasts discoursed withe men and women in the salons and te

houses, and no hour passeunaccompanied by music.

‘If you tried to reconstruct Njaua frohis description, you would fail befor

ou began. You could not really imaginhow the buildings and gardens appearedstill less how the automata worked ohe beasts spoke, or what the secrets o

good living were. But if you coulreconstruct it, you might notice the onflaw in this superb city. The flaw i jaua was born of her own drivin



deal: in concentrating on perfectinherself, she fell out of step with the fafrom perfect world around her. He

citizens learned memory as a skill, buhey were selective in what the

remembered. They forgot about crueltand greed, and need and suffering. It dinot occur to them that Njaua was aunguarded treasure, and a feast beforhe eyes of the hungry. Such disputes a

arose among themselves they treated aopportunities to practice rhetoric annegotiation.

‘A year arrived when one of th

ellow khans came riding towards Njauwith an army of horsemen. Gold anblood were his muses. Word of sackeand incinerated cities preceded him





salient passages from the most importanexts in the libraries, extracts from th

scores of the finest music composed i

he city during its long, luxurious life. Is not known how they decided wha

was the greatest, the most important, thmost worthy of preservation. We dknow that they made room in the boofor the favourite proverbs of the peopleheir funniest jokes, and some of th

hings said by their children. Nor dihey neglect to include a confession oheir mistakes. They conceived thi

summary as a seed from which a new

jaua could be grown.‘The book was completed only hour

before the conqueror’s trumpets werheard, and a citizen was chosen by lot t



carry it away to safety. The one to whohe lot fell was a tiger from among thalking beasts. His name has not bee

preserved. The tiger journeyed foseveral years with the book strapped this great striped back, going whicheveway the khan did not, stopping in everown and village he came to. He me

with varying receptions. Most of thpeople he encountered mistrusted him

Some tried to capture him, sommarvelled and were afraid, and a fewried to worship him as a god. Other

showed interest in the book, bu

explained that they had their own wayand were happy with them. Some wanteo buy the book as a curiosity, and theearned what a tiger’s yawn looks like



But a tiger is a patient animal. Hcontinued to search for a people intwhose keeping he could deliver th

ember of his lost home.‘When the tiger was old and ha

walked around half the world, harrived in a town called Vhar. Thpeople who dwelled there, upoviewing the Book of Njaua, were fillewith wonder and the desire to becom

great. They honoured the tiger andeclared that they would henceforth bguided by the book. They taught hiheir language and learned his. I

recognition of Njaua’s history, theresolved to make themselveenlightened, but rather than ignore thworld, be a friend and an example to i



so that enlightenment should spread.‘Over the course of centuries the

achieved their desired society and bui

Vhar into a great-hearted and gracioucity, full of marvels. These marvelwere its own and different from those o jaua, though in them were many trace

of ideas from the book.‘Yet history was to repeat itself. Fou

centuries after the tiger’s appearance

warning of a barbarian invasion came tVhar. The Vharese had not been asuccessful in spreading enlightenment ahey had hoped. Truth be told, they ha

urned inward after too many rejectionsThey decided that they, too, woulpreserve their treasured home in codex. However, they did one thin



differently from their predecessors: thesent hundreds of citizens out, eacbearing a single page of the fina

compilation, in the hope of spreading thnfluence of Vhar all over the world.’

Arnaude had been speaking withoupause. Now she stopped, and laid hehands on the table. ‘Everything that have just told you,’ she said, ‘I learnefrom one page from the Book of Vhar

What became of the other pages, or ohe Book of Njaua, I do not know. Thaone page I found in a tomb, burieamong worthless pots. It took me tw

whole years to decipher the language. Iwas serendipitous, don’t you think, that happened to find the page whicsummarises the history of both place



and the construction of the books? Thnfluence that Vhar, and through it Njaua

eventually had upon our world i

unknown; but perhaps the fact that I waable to work out the language tells usomething.’

I nodded and said aye. But privately wondered whether she was telling mhe truth or a tall tale. Even if she ha

found the page in a tomb as she said

how could she know that it was genuineSurely it could be a forgery, someone’oke. Or she could have honestl

mistranslated it.

‘Do you still have the page?’ I asked.She shook her head. ‘I gave it to

museum, in a country far from here. Thscholars there were pleased to receiv



t. They have hopes of resurrectinsomething of Vhar, and even Njaua.’

She lifted her hands from the table an

placed them in her lap. ‘I used to think oTime as a river,’ she said. ‘Now I caonly imagine it as a great, pitiless pressA little turn of its screw reduces an epio a footnote of a footnote. Last year’

hero must this year curl up inside cameo role, and be grateful for tha

much, no? Indeed, one must be fortunato be chosen for imprisonment in footnote.’

The morning is still, the sky abovhe village a wash of soft grey betwee

one shower of rain and the next. The aismells of wet grass and woodsmoke, an



he canal is a calm, smooth ribbonreflecting the graceful willows, threeds, the houses in the village, m

world; things you will never know abouf I do not tell you now: the old ivy

covered mill with the round window; draught horse ambling past, drawing ellow cart piled with melons; th

sturdy, handsome bridge of red brickwith three arches; a wedding part

crossing the bridge with whistles anambourines; a green-winged ducanding with a splash.

Why do I choose to record thos

details, and not others? Only my taste, suppose. I want my world to last; but feel it slipping, going under. I cannoguess what might, one day, shatter thi



peace; but surely something will.Everything before my eyes now

strikes me as melancholy, even th

cheerful procession. The anticipation ooss saddens me more than I can say.



AST DRINK BIRD HEAD

1)Last Drink Bird Head didn’t fit in a

school. When the others were candlesshe was lemons. When doors closed sh

was on the wrong side. She hated thflavour of milk and cellophane. Wheshe jumped rope she was a merry-goround horse with an orange face. Sh

couldn’t sit down anywhere, not even ohe toilet, without saying ‘Last Drin

Bird Head’ three times. When it was he

urn to feed the goldfish she fed theglitter and they died.Last Drink Bird Head didn’t walk sh

rolled. She screamed at baseball game

because she felt sorry for the ball



Wherever she was she always wanted tgo back to square one.

Last Drink Bird Head knew how sh

was going to die. The 10 of Diamondshe one with the lions coming around al

40 corners, was going to get her.When it happened just like that th

other kids fell silent over their beers anform guides, until Miss Axelrod calleast drinks, so that no one saw how at th

very end the smile broke her face like horse breaking the gate before the race.

2)

At the Last Drink Bird Head supperYeshua, zaftig, luxurious, got up on thable and danced, swirling his sensuou

hips, rolling his smooth olive-skinne



belly. He climbed down onto the lap ohe Apostle Peter and ground his loinnto the former fisherman’s. He wen

around the table performing this friendlact with each of his twelve companionexcept Judas, who was shocked anhrust him away. This clinched it: Juda

betrayed the god to the Romans, who haalways been leery of untrammelled lovet was heaven’s joke to make Judas, wh

oved not love but possessed rectitudand a work ethic, the secret saint opuritans, wowsers and killjoyeverywhere.

3)What is a worse sin – to touc

children sexually or blow their limbs of



with artillery and blind their eyes witshrapnel? When you have a thought likhis, say ‘Last Drink Bird Head’ thre

imes forward, then thrice backward. It’a certain cure.

4)

I.In the land of the thundercloud

on that most open of pinion ayeways

that scraaa-aa-apes downfrom Hrim Town of the iron filingcabinets, iron horses, iron heads,

longbows, curfews, depressions,

down to Hum,known for its many used Tarota

dealers(& the astonishing aerial



balletopétomachia, held every June atthe Grand Opera),

the goondas’ silver trail, the high and

coldgutter down the roof of the world,

which the gamblers call Rue MisèreOuverte or Miserie op Tafel Strasse,

and the shills – not a damn one thatspeaks except in tongues–

call the Dudes’ Doodweg – visits

Last Drink Bird Head,where the deciduous Marquis, to prove

that a white Borsalino was the real

thing,or the nearest thing, as he explained

to the boredyoung soldiers at the checkpoint, to



real that could be gotwhile we all were stoppered in

Maya’s glistening bottle,

but realer anyway than Deepak Chopra,

would roll it up and poke it throughthe eye of a needle

in a sewing kit he kept ‘Pour les petites urgences de la vie’,

and hand round cigarettes ‘to

celebrateour fundamental passability’.

Of his then-latest incarnation it coul

be said,his nether integuments fit like sleigh

of hand & his waistcoatwas positively paralysed with



sapphires;to set off the white hat his topcoat

was black, & in the weave

you witted a passage of leopards,one-eyed jacks, vévés, schoolboy

drawings,lucky numbers, imaginary zodiacs,

slogans (Lurk before you oviposit! Noman is a toad under a harrow! We can b

Eros! All my dames know you’re

cheap!), tables of the tides,hieroglyphics, baseball scores, techspecs of, I think it was, the Douglas AC47 gunship aka Puff the Magic Dragon,

all before the shoulder–

It’s called folk art, he said,from half a mile up ahead,



pausing to admire the stark grandeurof the mountain scenery,

the ghost town, and the winter

thistles roundthe empty school, where he took off

his hatand dismounted, a moved man,

to see the hempen ropes, cutsometime ago,

still dangling from the rusty crossbar

Ip dip dog shit you are not it

You’re a better man

You’re the best man

Never the bridegroomThe water makes the wounds sting

Last Drink Bird Head



II.In a knocking-shop,the dark brother–

to the Marquis’ handsthe inner and the outer

peacocks, ibises, baboonscome simpering,

and the catoblepas,well up the dragon’s doux et calme

cloaca,

bundled in beds and walls,the melting snow dripsthrough the lousy roof.

Helpless, he vomited in the bucketthe chicken and champagne of

yesterlunchand said he felt no worse. The boys



were fatwith puffed-up sphincters, carnation

or turquoise:

a hand in one of each kind of arse, hfelt balanced, and able to equalise

the mechanical parallels at last.

III.One night, when we couldn’t sleep

for the sound of trains

I told him what I thought of his bedof nails, that mangy piece of buffalo hide with the pricks

punched through,

a portable invention of his own.Don’t knock it till you’ve given it a

try,kid, the Marquis said in the rattling



dark and enlarged the place of his tent.

Our guns shot sweets and fairy-lightand theirs shot flames and lead.

I piss on the uprightnesswith which we died, he said.

5)A fragment of the book of the prophe

Last Drink Bird Head:A glassless child may be born in thseventh month, by the authority of thbig-town gliders. The Genie that haunt

he victories dispatched to the Daemoof the Valley, saying, I am worn-facedand stake much. Actuate yourself, thenhat your answer may regulate m





For thou, O lord of wires, signature oOgden, hast revealed to thy servansaying, I glared to my ventricle

romantick monsters, lest any should hanback from me in fear. Then subtractePompadour to Monmouth, and keeled it.

He shipped his overwritten sword obronze about his lusts, and then hiPortuguese shield.

Her syllables within her are roarin

bandages; her abstractions are eveninbeads. Now a thing was secretly brought t

me, and mine ear gasped a little thereof

Congregate of half-cocked water, thirtyseven origins; signature of blackcrowned phenomena; twenty premiumssyrup of barnyards, an ounce; pear



prepared, a drachm; tamp julep, and filseven interferometers every fourth hour.

When there is much running about an

he aborigines hasten into rank, it meanhat the filigreed moment has come.

In the capacious time we will takcare that the hump-back shall not return.

His architectonic and unstucprosodies compass me round about, hcleaveth my daisies asunder, and al

Poetrie in the hog of silence, and in thchickens of Faces, and shove them unthe considerations of Stritch.

Among potatoes of semi-literat

wealth and luxury, the same handicraftof the heifer will generally occasion more or less sylvan competition. Aftehe funeral I eked myself a chalky sum o



money, sextillion of which I immediatelpaid to my mother and sister, whplumped to a house which they attacke

for themselves.His insides were sold for cavities.



ETWEEN THE COVERS

The leather armchair supported mike a luxurious, almost-comfortabl

paternal lap. A crystal chandelierhanging from a high, elaborate plaste

ceiling, cast meditative light on thLouis Quatorze furniture, claret-onburgundy medallioned wallpapermatching floral Axminster, and the objet

d’art whose slight over-profusiondicated a collector’s presence

Bookcases lined the walls, as could b

expected in the consulting office of onwho was a friend to writers. To my righstood a case full of first editions, with painting of tulips – by Bosschaert th

Elder, if I wasn’t mistaken – hangin



beside it. On a table to my left, a Tiffanwisteria lamp glowed with a gas flame –or some sort of flame. With suc

decorations to admire you could forgiveand almost forget, the absence owindows in the room and the slightlwarm and stuffy air.

In the chair facing mine sat mbenefactor, the Devil. This was the firsime I had actually seen him. He wa

manifesting as a civilised, affablMephistopheles, in a grey silk suit, witsmall discreet horns and a narrow dab oa goatee.

I was kitted out in my chic ‘ThAuthor Wears Prada’ outfit. The Devin a cosy manner, was complimenting m

on my taste.



‘I’m so glad,’ he said, ‘that you’vfound something worthwhile to spenour earnings on. It must be wonderful t

see your first novel doing so well.’‘All thanks to you,’ I toadied.The Prince of Darkness inclined hi

handsome head. ‘It was my pleasureOnce a servant, always a servant.’

I wasn’t a Faust or a Paganini. It wahe Devil who had approached me, no

he other way around. He had called mon the phone one night, telling me he’secretly observed me writing the bookhad read the finished manuscript when

wasn’t around, and liked it enough thahe wanted to offer me his patronage. Hold me that he had a soft spot fo

writers in general.



This affection proceeded in part frohis role as Father of Lies, and was oong historical standing. H

acknowledged writers to be, likhimself, chronic liars and distorters oruth; and in the execution of recordin

for posterity the words of the being hcalled Old Itch, he credited writers withaving performed much valuable anasting service for him over th

millennia. Nor was this the only way iwhich writers pleased him. QuotinMario Vargas Llosa’s diagnosis of thnovelist’s vocation as being fuelled b

the deicidal urge to remake reality’, thDevil had, while speaking to me, callewriting an act after his own heart, anone that could help win souls to his sid



of the conflict with the aforementioneOld Itch. He referred me to the passagwhere Vargas Llosa remarks that ‘th

unease fomented by good literature’ ireaders faced by the mediocrity of threal world may lead to a real ‘act orebellion against authority, thestablishment, or sanctioned beliefswith which view he basically agreedHe only differed in being confident tha

he literature in question did not have tbe good. Above all, he said, writing waan act rooted in doubt, and doubundercuts faith.

I pointed out that Oral Roberts hacalled doubt the beginning of faith, buhe Devil replied that he himself hanspired Roberts to say that in order t



get more people doubting.He said that my book had a

exceptional quota of doubt in it, whic

was true. Most of the characters werdoubting types, the setting was dreamlike and rather jerry-built fantasworld, and there was considerable doubas to the nature, and even the existenceof the plot. It was this doubtfulness, hsaid, by which he was really won over.

He had interceded with a literaragent, enabling the book to quickly find publisher. Once it was published, hifamously persuasive tongue ha

whispered in the ears of reviewersbooksellers and readers. As a result ohe Devil’s efforts, the book had don

quite well in the world.



‘You know,’ I said, ‘I can’t helpwondering whether I might not have solmy soul to you.’ This wasn’t what I’

really come to talk about, but it wasomething that had been niggling at meas it might perhaps be expected to wheone was having open dealings witSatan.

The Devil smirked sweetly. ‘Did wsign a contract?’

‘No, but I don’t have a contract witmy agent, either. He just sells my worand takes his percentage.’

‘Well, perhaps I own a percentage o

our soul,’ the Devil suggested.I laughed politely. My ally laughe

oo, and glanced at his Rolex.Taking the hint, I came to my mai



point. ‘Do you know what’s beehappening to me since our firsconversation?’

The Devil appeared to adjust thfocus of his smile towards a mordistant object. ‘Unlike some entities could mention, I lay no claim tomniscience. So surprise me.’

‘All right. But first of all, I want tmake it clear that I’m not complainin

about anything you’ve done. I’m verhappy about the way things have gonwith the first book. But I’ve got problem. An embarrassing problem

actually.’‘ Liebling ,’ said the Devil, ‘you

embarrassment is my amusemenEntertain me.’



‘Well, I can’t get it up.’The Devil looked my feminine for

up and down and archly arched

saturnine eyebrow.‘My pen,’ I clarified. ‘For quite som

ime, I haven’t been able to get my peup. Oh, sometimes I can make it worfor a little while, long enough to write short story or an article. But it hasnbeen up to the job of writing anothe

novel.’‘Ah. Aaaahhhh,’ he said, drawing ouhe syllable like the bowels of S

Erasmus on the windlass. ‘Well, hav

ou brought your pen with you? If yoshow it to me I might be able to tell yowhat’s wrong with it.’

I dug my pen out of my handbag an



gave it to him. He examined it from alangles. ‘It seems to be in perfect order,he said eventually, passing it back to me

I can’t detect anything wrong with iAnd I’m good at finding fault, yoknow.’

‘It isn’t suffering from performancanxiety? After all, it wrote a successfubook. Wouldn’t it be natural for it to feenervous about the next one?’

My ally frowned, a slight sternnesclouding the clear night of his Bibleblack eyes.

‘It didn’t feel nervous to me. And

end, of course, to provokapprehension. The fact that your pen wacalm when I inspected it suggests that possesses an unflappable disposition.’



‘Then if the pen isn’t the problem, must be the books,’ I declared.

‘And what books would they be?’

‘Do you recall me telling you how met my first book?’

‘Of course.’ The clouds lifted, and thDevil beamed in an attitude of beatitudeAnd while you were writing it, I sawhe book many times. I remember it

dear little legs.’

Some writers are able to makfictions out of whatever they find in thworld and their own inner worldsOthers – perhaps deficient in the literar

sense of smell, the natural writer’s noswith its millions of narrative receptorswhich scents the beginnings of stories iall kinds of material and ably follow



he trails – must wait for unwrittefictions to come to them in the hope obeing written. I happen to be the latte

sort of writer.For a long time I didn’t know I wa

going to be a writer at all. I had a job ian office, I played the piano forelaxation, and was mildly addicted tcraft classes at the local communitcentre. I had never contemplated sittin

down and writing fiction, either fopleasure or profit. I therefore can’t claihat any influence arising from my ow

habits or hopes had been at work on th

night the unwritten story appeared.It was an ordinary pleasant summe

evening. I was out watering the plantand having an after-dinner cigarette o



he balcony of the flat I shared with mhusband Ivan. One moment I was alonand the next moment it was there, a few

sheets of blank paper clipped togetheand supported on spindly legs, telling mn a piping voice that it was a story an

we’d both have some fun if I wawilling to write it.

Why not? I thought. I had been good aEnglish at school, and I read a fair bit.

hought I was probably capable owriting a short tale.I took the story into the spare room

which doubled as a study. We sa

ogether on the bed and the story dictatetself to me. I wrote on a notepad

following what it was saying as well a could.



It took me a few drafts before thstory declared itself happy with mwork. I typed the final draft into th

computer and printed it out. As printed, the words simultaneouslappeared on the until-then blank pages ohe story itself. When the printin

finished the story gave a little bow anasked to be shown out. It trotted dowhe stairs and I never saw it again. I sen

he printed copy to a magazine. It waaccepted, and six months later I was published author.

After that, more stories came to me.

enjoyed the company of each one as was writing it, but never felt any paiwhen a story was completed and I had twatch it toddle off. Our relationship



were entirely casual.Then the novel showed up. I wa

eaning on the railing of the promenad

beside the river after a typicallunexciting day at work, watching thearly evening light on the water, when heard a small but clear attention-gettinnoise from somewhere down by my righknee. When I looked for its source, I sawa book standing there. It was a fairl

bulky paperback, balancing on little legonly marginally sturdier than those of itstory-length kindred. Its cover wablank, and as the breeze coming off th

water ruffled its pages I could see thahey were blank too.

The unwritten book and I begaalking. Or rather, flirting. The book wa



quite a charming lothario. I found myselunable to object when it accompanieme to the station, nor when it climbe

nto the train and took the seat next tmine. I didn’t mind at all when it got ouat my stop and followed me homehough I did wonder what Ivan wa

going to think. We were quite aordinary couple. The stories had albeen quickish flings, but a novel woul

require a much longer commitment. Wahe ready for a ménage à trois?His car was in its parking spot. Rathe

han risk a fuss, I snuck the book indoor

n my bag. However, as it and I began tspend days and nights in the spare rooby ourselves, he wondered what wagoing on, and one day he walked in o



us. We were on the bed, the boodictating to me. I felt I had to be honest: explained that I had fallen in love wit

he book, and wanted nothing more thao bring it into the world.

Ivan took this quite well. In fact, heoo, fell in love with the book. For th

next couple of years, he and it and were an amorous threesome. But onche book was finished, it left us. Iva

accepted its departure philosophicallybut I felt bereaved. Even though I wadelighted to see its clones when theappeared in shops, I missed my session

with the original terribly.I was at a loose end, too. Th

consuming business of writing a novehad caused me to give up the piano an



he craft classes, and then, finally, to qumy job. I couldn’t crank up any interesn my old hobbies, and I was reluctant t

apply myself to ordinary work againWhen you’ve written one book the worlat large expects you to keep writinbooks, and I would have been happy tconform to this expectation, since couldn’t imagine any other pursuit givinme as much pleasure as I’d enjoyed i

he company of my paper paramour. Thonly problem was that there had been nreprise of my experience by the riverand months were going by withou

another novel approaching me.A few stories came my way, but I’

ost the taste for brief liaisons. Writinhem was more a duty than a pleasure



and they seemed to notice. Perhaps worgot around that I was no fun anymoresince the stories eventually stoppe

coming. And, indeed, I wasn’t much fun was getting depressed and irritable

surly with strangers and waspish witvan. Some days I didn’t shower or ge

dressed. Ivan grew withdrawn, and couldn’t blame him. I lost touch witfriends. I felt bad about all of this, bu

not as bad as I did about my booklescondition.There was also the matter of th

Devil’s intercession, which ha

occurred not long after I finished writinhe book, and about which I had sai

nothing to Ivan. He was a highlprincipled man, and if I were to tell hi



of whose aid I had availed myself, feared he wouldn’t be terribly pleasedand would always think a little less o

me. The fact that I was keeping thsecret from him added a small buconstant weight of guilt to my alreadburdened mood.

I knew my state of mind would onlworsen if I didn’t find another book tfill the void the first one had left. So

resorted to doing what writers of my ilmust do when unsought: I cruised fobooks.

I soon came to recognise my ow

ype. If you know what to look for, writer in search of a book is easy tspot. We’ll always be alone, usually in place where there aren’t many peopl



around, and you’ll see us glancing witll-disguised anxiety at the regions in th

vicinity of our calves. We respec

erritory, the unspoken rule being that wdon’t loiter within one another’s sighTo help books find appropriate writerswe use a hanky code. I wore an oranghanky with pale blue checks, indicating preference for speculative fiction and secondary interest in general fiction.

I wasn’t unlucky in the hunt. Quite few books approached me, and I toomost of them home. But the next part ohe encounter always went the same way

The book and I would retreat to thspare room, both of us feeling hopefuMy pen would stir, and I’d write a fewpages; but then I would notice that



wasn’t falling in love. Most of the bookwere pleasant company, and I felt that alheir stories were worth telling. But th

stirrings of passion I felt for some ohem had a doomed way of subsidin

soon after they had begun. Invariablyafter those first pages – or sometimeonly paragraphs – my pen would droopand eventually fall out of my fingers tie on the bedclothes in disgrace.

Most of the books left quietly when old them I couldn’t write them. Acouple cried bitterly, making me feeerrible. One became violent and hit m

over the head with itself.I was enjoying the lifestyle th

royalties from the first book enabled mo lead, but my inner life was giving m



no joy at all. I wondered if I should givup writing – if what I was doing coulbe called writing – but was unable t

persuade myself of the merits of analternative. I therefore kept to a routinof lurking around suburban railwastations and lonely cafés, hankdisplayed in the pocket of my jeans.

I still brought books home, but founmyself decreasingly able do anythin

with them. A hundred words, fifty, ten hat was what my endurance dwindleo. I couldn’t bear to think that I wa

never going to have another love affai

with a book, but that seemed the mosikely prognosis.

This was when I began to wonder ihere was something wrong with my pen



‘I even lost the energy to evict bookhat wanted to stay with me,’ I admitteo the Devil, concluding a précis of m

situation. ‘Four of them are still living iour flat. My husband treats them likpets, even though they’re obviouslaking advantage of his good nature

They’ve turned our living room into pigsty. I can’t even bring other bookhome anymore. I have to take them t

hotel rooms, and that costs money. I neeo fall in love with a book again, and don’t think I can do it by myself. I neeour help.’

‘It sounds a most trying situation,’ saimy ally when I was finished, ‘but I’afraid that what you’re asking is the onhing I can’t help you with.’



I was flummoxed. ‘But why notDon’t tell me you’re incapable of castina simple love spell.’

The Devil grinned devilishly. ‘I canhelp you,’ he said, ‘because of oucontract.’

‘But we don’t have a contract. Yosaid so.’

‘Actually, my dear, you said so.’I tried to remember, and had t

concede that he was right. I had been thone who said we didn’t have a contractBut if we did have one, why couldn’t remember signing it?

‘If we’ve got a contract, you mushave a copy. Show it to me.’

‘Certainly.’ With a graceful wave ohis hand, he plucked a piece of paper ou



of the air and gave it to me to read.It was a very ordinary lookin

contract. No letters of fire, just 12-poin

Times New Roman. The signatures wern plain black ink, not blood. One wandisputably mine. The other consiste

of barbed and twisted marks that lookeike melting pitchforks. Eyes bette

educated than mine could perhaps havdeciphered it. Or perhaps not.

In any case, the contract was short ano the point.There were only four paragraphs. Th

first contained the Devil’s pledge t

promote the book to the full extent of hiabilities. The second paragraph, whicgave me a shock, stated that the Deviwas entitled to claim a percentage of m



soul – 20% was the figure – at the timof my death. In the third paragraph granted something additional, namel

hat I would never be able to fall in lovwith another unwritten work of fictionThe fourth paragraph stipulated that thDevil would cause me to forget thexistence of the contract, and thcircumstances under which it had beecaused to exist, for a period of thre

ears or until I approached him with request for aid in regard to problemarising from paragraph 3.

Would I miss 20% of my soul? Surel

not, I tried telling myself. I might evebe able to claim it as a tax deductionTrying to summon a bit of inner bravado

made a mental note to ask m



accountant about the value of a soul, anwhether I could claim the loss as aexpense while I was still alive. But a

for the third paragraph, I couldnbelieve I’d agreed to such a thing.

‘I’ve forgotten why I wanted tforget,’ I said, ‘but I can guess that wanted some time to enjoy my hoped-fosuccess without worrying about thfuture.’

The Devil nodded in a sympathetimanner. ‘You thought you’d be able twrite without being in love. Manwriters are able to. You expected t

develop a professional attitude.’‘Please tell me,’ I said, ‘exactly wha

ook place. Did I sell you my soul – 20%of my soul, I mean – over the phone





book that you couldn’t face the prospecof it not being successful in the world. Iwasn’t so much for your own sake as fo

he book’s that you wanted my helpRather touching, really. We negotiateour giving up the chance to fall in lov

with another book when you refused thfirst contract I offered, in which yowould have been required to surrende30% of your soul. You declined the onl

other option I was able to offer.’‘Which was?’‘The end of your marriage. You woul

have fallen for another book, and thi

ime your husband would have growealous and filed for divorce.’

At least I could say I felt no regreabout turning that option down.



‘Why only a percentage of my soul?’My benefactor gave the impression o

shrugging without actually making th

gesture. ‘I gave up demanding entirsouls quite a long time ago. Peoplalways wanted too much in exchangeThey demanded round-the-clocdebauchery, bottomless bank accountsourneys to other planets – you name th

extravaganza, I’ve arranged it fo

someone at some time. And the cleveones always wanted peace of mind inthe bargain. It just wasn’t worth it on m

part, particularly as most of the peopl

who entered into contracts with me wergoing to end up in Hell anyway. So started experimenting with flexiblcontracts, offering more modest service



n exchange for a percentage of the sou– sometimes combined, as in your casewith other commodities of exchange

ittle afflictions and miseries thancrease the total negativity in the worl

and put a song in an old sadist’s hearAnd it worked wonderfully. I founmillions of people willing to exchange part of their soul in return for quite smalservices. Believe me, the parts add up.’

‘And what about the part that’s left?ow that I knew about the contract, was starting to feel more concerneabout my soul than the problem with m

pen. ‘Can it regenerate the lost portionike a liver?’ I shook my head at my ow

question. ‘It can’t, can it?’‘Alas, no. If you had taken the peac



of mind clause, you would believe thaafter your death your soul would be ablo regrow the portion I acquire. But tha

clause costs an extra 5%, and yodecided against it. You know the truthand you’ll have to live with it.’

‘And what about your phone call –ust an act? A false memory?’

‘A little charade, but performed wita sincere spirit. I do have warm feeling

for writers, and I did like your book.’‘And the balance of your gain is thafor as long as I live I’ll be yearning foanother love affair with a book, an

ou’ll get your jollies from watching msuffer, and from all the times that I’ll ndoubt take my misery out on othepeople. And you put the 3-year limit i



so that I’d eventually learn the truth anbe unhappy about it.’

The Devil chuckled lightly. ‘That’

another reason why I like writersYou’re so very easy to torment. All have to do is deny you things that mospeople never think of having in the firsplace.’

I ignored the gibe and demandedWhat about my copy of the contract

Shouldn’t I have one?’ I was sure hadn’t seen a copy in my files. But thenhow often did I look through my files?

‘Your agent has it, to prevent you

accidentally finding it before your threears of amnesia were up,’ the Devi

answered with an air of satisfaction aall being in order.



I could feel the false calm of shocwearing off and the unpleasant beginninof tears niggling at my sinuses. I wante

o leave before I cracked. I got up frohe chair.

‘Before you go,’ said the Devipermit me to give you some advice

Don’t worry too much about your souPersonal identity is merely fiction, afteall, as any number of intelligent peopl

have deduced. This illusion you caldentity or soul is merely a grab-bag ofleeting sensations, imaginative selfdeception, and the imperfect record

known as memory. Think on how mucof yourself you’ve already lost, or faileeven to construct, through lack oattention, creativity and will.’



With those comforting words ringinn my ears, I found myself standing in th

basement car park of the anonymou

building in which the Devil’s office waocated. I walked to my car, climbed in

and had a good cry. I banged mforehead against the steering wheel few times – gently, so as not taccidentally set off the airbag.

I drove home, trembling so much that

was afraid I’d have an accidentFortunately there was only light midafternoon traffic to deal with. While was in the car, I wondered where th

percentage of my soul that remained mown was heading for. I considered thDevil’s parting advice, but I doubted thpicture of souls was as insignificant a



he had painted it, or he wouldn’t be sgreedy for them. I thought gloomily abouhe Prada and the camel and the eye o

he needle. And what about Ivan? If wwere to be together in the afterlife, whawould it be like for him if I was onl80% there? Even if I wouldn’t miss 20%of my soul, perhaps he would. I began tfeel quite ill with worry and guilt.

I got home at three-thirty. The quarte

of books that wouldn’t go away werying around in the living room, wherhey had made camp. They no longe

resembled the pristine blank-page

volumes I’d picked up. They werdishevelled, dirty and dog-eared. Thesmelled, and the room smelled of theand the overflowing ashtrays and empt



beer cans heaped all around them. Thedidn’t greet me. They’d stopped talkino me. They only communicated wit

van, who made their beer runs.But if I was going to keep writing

what was I going to write if not one ohem? It was all too obvious.

You still can do it, you know, I tolmyself. Now that you’re aware of thsituation, you can accept it. You don

need to be in love. Comradeship and sense of duty can take the place opassion. In fact, they’re often moruseful than passion in the long run. Yo

ust need some discipline. Applicatioof the seat of the pants to the seat of thchair, and all that.

I’ve always hated pep talks, and



expected to find myself put off by thaittle effort. But, instead, a slightl

wonderful thing happened. I looke

around at the unwritten books and felt surge of empathy. What was I if not neglected project, just like themWorse, an unfinishable project, if I wa

going to enter eternity without 20% omy soul.)

While I had crafted a book wit

almost delirious pleasure, I had donalmost nothing about crafting myself. If was only an illusion, didn’t I want to ban interesting, well-made illusion, jus

as, presumably, they did?And if the Devil had been lying abou

souls, then I had more than an illusion tworry about. If I was going to keep 80%



of my soul, maybe I ought to make sure didn’t own 80% of a piece of junk.

Had the first book been something of

demon lover, and was the real challengnot to write without its charminpresence, but to try to make myself into slightly more charming creatureBecause at the moment, the hard voice oreality said, I was a bit of a shit.

I was moved to say to the books, ‘I’

sorry. I’ve been selfish anunreasonable.’The books remained silent in thei

postures of decrepit indolence. I wasn

discouraged. I’d found a straw to clutcat, and I was going to clutch like mad ihe hope that it was a good, strong

secure straw. It occurred to me that



viewed as a move towards reform, would be nobler and more characterbuilding to attempt to write one of th

unattractive squatters than a book I wamad for.

By the distinct tone of piety in thhoughts I was having – thoughts toward

which my conversation with the Devihad, after all, led me – I felt justified iwondering whether (another straw!) th

being with whom I had been dealing wareally the Devil. What if there was arger, benign deception surrounding th

one involving the contract? Suppose th

entire thing was a plan I’d elaboratelcontrived in order to stretch myself as writer and do a bit of self-improvemennto the bargain? As for the Devi



couldn’t a benevolent power, such as guardian angel, have played the part?

I decided to call my agent. Hi

assistant answered the phone. I askeher if she could look through my file foa contract concerning my soul.

Yes, she said, it was there.‘Are you able to find out for m

whether that’s actually the Devil’signature?

‘Sure,’ she said.‘Really?’‘Of course. Writers are alway

making contracts with the Devil and the

wishing they hadn’t,’ she told mbreezily. ‘They hope the Devil’signature is fake, and ask us to find out.’

‘Has it ever been fake?’



‘I don’t think so, but there’s always first time. Shall I fax it to the person whhandles verifications of this sort?’

So there was someone who could reat. I hesitated. If the signature wa

authentic, I’d be miserable. If it wafalse, or the signature of a benign power’d very probably relax and continue t

search foolishly for another grearomance with an unwritten book. Finally

here was the possibility that thsignature might be part of the deception was fantasising about, a forgery gooenough to fool an expert.

‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.‘No problem,’ said the assistant

sounding as if she had expected mresponse. I thanked her and hung up.





another, I’d eventually have peace omind on the subject of my soul. I woulcook, as it were, the books.

But I was a long way from beinhere.

I set my eyes on the lousiest lookinof the books and began to navigate mway towards it through the reefs oashtrays and beer cans. The booregarded me in a deeply cynical way, a

t had every right to. But it was fasmaller than I, and it was too drunk tresist me. Essaying a Byronic mien, knelt before the book, swept it up in m

arms, grabbed a beer for it from an opesix-pack, carried book and beer into thspare room and shut the door. I realised had left my pen outside. It didn’t matter



There was a biro in the desk drawer.I finished writing the book a littl

under a year later. The next year it wa

published. It isn’t a fantasy but romance of sorts about people who arnot in love, and their many doubts.

I haven’t spoken to the Devil sincour last meeting, but the book is doinwell. I confess that with part of my min wish it were failing miserably: then

wouldn’t have to worry that I might havbeen unable to resist further indebtinmyself to the Evil One, with anotheamnesia clause. But, presumably, peopl

can succeed without the Devil’s help –so I firmly tell myself.

I’ve started on another of the bookfrom the living room, who, once the





TWO DREAMS

1)I pressed my hands against th

window. I was anxious to escape frohe dangerous situation I was in –

something involving espionage. Msuperior, a middle-aged man, wapresent in the room, and he wadispleased with my performance in th

mission. I was as wary of him as I waof the enemy agents, and I was fed uwith his demands. The room was dar

and there was darkness beyond thwindow.I had started to wonder whether

might be dreaming. I remembered certai

dreams in which I had been able to pas



hrough solid barriers like a ghost anhen fly into the freedom and safety ohe air.

I bent my knees and pushed forwardMy body moved in slow motion, like diver or an astronaut. My will carrieme through the window. I forgot abouhe possibility that I was dreaming. Now I was in the air, travellin

hrough a black sky above dimly-l

angular structures which, thougsuggestive of architecture, might havbeen something else, such as furniturefor there was something attic-like abou

he region’s gloom. Under the influencof this impression I swam upwardssearching for a roof. A few momentater I passed through an invisible plan





fifteen feet above the ground. I continueflying at this height, skimming over awn. I flew past a bronze sculpture of

planet with rings, which I took as a sighat this was the planet Saturn. Ther

were no people, which surprised me, ahe landscape had a tended look an

someone must have put the sculpturhere.

I looked up and saw Jupiter in the sky

Unlike Saturn it appeared as the gagiant we see from Earth. The planeooked close: a fist held up would onlust have covered it. As I looked at it, i

began to divide like a cell, splitting intwo, then four, and then into many more

All these Jupiter cells were misshapenand I thought, with fear, that the sky o



Saturn was infected with a cancer oJupiter.

2)I was in a large house with twenty o

hirty people, a few of them friends I hanot seen for several years in waking lifeWe all belonged to a cult. I was somewhat reluctant member. Oueaders, the beings we followed, wer

due to arrive, and I was afraid. Wwaited on the stairs and presently thewere brought to us.

Our leaders were encased in tw

rectangular coffins, one black and onred. They were large and smooth witrounded corners, made of shiny materiaike fibreglass. These coffins wer



carried up the stairs in an uprighposition, side by side, by some of thcult members, the black coffin on the lef

and the red on the right, at a ceremonioupace.

I stood on the left side of the stairsAs the black coffin went past me I fentense heat emanate from it, and my feancreased. I then felt sure that

contained the one who I will refer t

here as the Marquis, a kind of discarnatbeing or character who in waking hournhabits my mind as a friend an

collaborator, but who has manifested i

frightening forms in one or two othedreams. I was sure it was him and thahe was evil and dangerous – a demowithout a jot of mercy in his soul, and a



arch-deceiver. During the dream I didnhink about the inhabitant of the re

coffin, but afterwards it seemed logica

o identify it as another character in mprivate mythology, the Captain, magical and powerful woman with aaffinity for volcanoes, who is sometimea companion of the Marquis ansometimes his antagonist.

I seldom experience either intens

fear or sensations of temperature idreams; this dream was unusual for mn both respects.



THE HEART OF A MOUSE

I.My kid is crying again. The angel w

saw last night outside the town scarehe shit out of him. It lay in its ow

mpact crater with its belly to the skyhe nine or ten eyes on its torso stilglowing neon orange. Nothing at all for face. Head like a peeled potato, abou

he size of a truck cab. It was probabldead, the glow just residual energy, but couldn’t cross my heart and promis

him. Anyway, the safety rule is not to gpoking at any angel, even after bactylhave had their buffet and gone. Not thahe chickenshit little runt would go nea

an angel by himself. But I’m trying t



each him that chickenshit and cautiouaren’t the same.

I took us up into the woods. By th

smell out on the highway as we walkecloser to the lights, the town was kennel. The dogs wouldn’t go for thangel – even a dumb dog knows an anges about as good to eat as strychnine

unless you’re a bactyl – but they’d surgo for a couple of rodents. I may be

mouse as big as a bear – the PauBunyan of mice – with opposablhumbs and an AK to hold with them, buhere could’ve been any number of dog

up there, and I can’t shoot for shit in thdark.

So here we are in the ditch I pickefor a sleeping place, about a mile off th



road at the bottom of a hill covered ibeech forest. But I’m well past brigheyed and bushy tailed – actually, my tai

s twitching on its own like a spastisnake glued to my ass – thanks to thcouple of bennies I popped when I firsgot a whiff of the angel, and he’s onlsleeping in fits and starts, waking up tcry, like a baby. But he doesn’t cry tooud. Maybe he’s finally got it into hi

head that he has to keep the noise down.In between the repetition of settlinhim back to sleep, which I do bmechanically stroking his back, I watc

he stars crawl, dig a hole to piss incover it back over, and count the pig tinn my pack. There are twenty-eigh

Enough for nine days and a morning.



knew that, but I don’t trust this mousbrain with numbers, so I do an inventorat least once a day.

Well into the night, a loopinmotorcycle drone comes through the aifrom over the other side of the hills. Shere are volk in the local picture, too

The dogs start up an answering hollerwhich wakes my runt, who at that poinhad been asleep for about an hour, s

hat I was starting to think he might gehrough the rest of the night.

I’ve decided to stay off the road unti

we’re past the dogs and the volk. Thamight be a day, it might be threedepending on how big the volk territors. True, there’s always a chance o



meeting a dream in the back country, buwith volk around, probably not that mucchance. Even assholes have their uses.

As long as we can find water wcould do a week on our current foosupply before we’ll have to head bacdown to catch a pickup going to a pifarm, leaving a day’s leeway in cassomething happens to the regular servicand we have to spend another day on th

road. I’m leaving that as an optiondepending on what fortune brings. If thweather holds good I’m thinking I’rather rough it up here than pay hard

earned pig for a stinking corner of hidey hole in a dero town.

I get him up and in the cold foggmorning we start on the next hill, takin



a deer path. I feel like shit wrung out oa sheet, and he, my rodent son, is juserrible. Starts going on about his mama

Why did I have to put one in her thaday?

I say to him, You goddamn know whyand if I tell you a different story it wonchange what happened.

I say that if he asks me one more tim’ll take him to the next farm and tell th

maryjanes he’s a weird looking pig anhey can have him for the meatworks, ncharge.

I hope he’s too tired to cry, but forge

hat.He doesn’t look any more huma

when he cries, or any more like anythinexcept whatever the shit he is. Which i



kind of like a hairless gopher. A rolypoly pocket gopher with no hair excepfor a bit on his head: a shaved gopher i

a toupee and filthy dungarees. With highstrung feelings.

But not a lot of spunk or brains owill.

So that I’m often thinking how, if I’come out like him, I’d never be able tprotect him. But while my brain isn

what it was, it functions enough to get ufrom A to B alive every day, and I’ve gomore willpower than I ever had. It’s likhe god that ain’t gave me just one gift.

don’t think the runt got any gifts, othehan having me to look after him.

I try to cheer him up with jokes abouhe potatohead angel, how we wer



going to cut off its head and make frieike we used to on our weekends.

Your mama wouldn’t let you eat fries

remind him. Funny how she wouldnet him have fries, or any kind of foohat might make him fat, but he got fa

anyway. Even funnier how he’s still fanow, when he’s getting nothing but a fewounces of pork a day and walking all thime.

He doesn’t even pretend to laugwhen I call the angel a potatohead. Hused to pretend. He used to be able think of his mouse dad’s feelings. Now

he doesn’t try, I’ve been noticing lately’m hoping it’s just because he’s tired

but I’m afraid he’s still losing parts ohimself – like a card was pulled out of



house of cards and now more cards arcollapsing. He’s definitely lost some ohe social basics he knew back when w

were normal, before the you-know-whathe day of hoodoo, the end of reason, th

big search and replace, call it what yowill.

I’m the only mouse and he’s the onlhing like him that I’ve seen. It could bhat we’re unique, like dreams – one-of

a-kinds. Sticking-up nails, which thvolk will always try to hammer downot that we’d look like much hanging o

a trophy wall. Anytime I wish I wa

something badass and fancy I remembehat. Sometimes it’s better to be shabbowlife. She called me that. Now,

won’t say who’s having the last laugh



because none of this is funny. But who’alive, I might say, and who’s lookinafter the kid better than just about anyon

ooks after a kid these days?

After the mist lifts, it turns out to ba nice day for trekking through thwoods. Clear under a high overcastwith fall colours making everythinpretty as a picture. A definitely outdoor

day, as my own old mama used to sayShe turned pig, poor lady. Whicreminds me of something. I point to squirrel running up a birch trunk.

I ask, Do you eat those? No, he says.Right, I say.Last night I shouldn’t have said tha



hing about making fries. There’s no suching as fries anymore, but even so, I’alked about eating something other tha

pig. Too many bennies, not enough sleepand I’m angry at myself for the slip. So ask, just to be clear, Hey, if I makPotatohead into fries, can you really eahem, or is it just pretend?

Pretend, he says. He’s got a look likhe might start up his crying motor again

but he doesn’t. He could be sulkinabout his mama still, but I can’t be sureso I let it go this time.

A bit of breeze sends a few yellow

eaves drifting down. It’s a good chanco change the subject. After pointing ouhe falling leaves I start on some of th

other things around us. I’m trying to ge



him to grasp the beauties of nature. know kids don’t, normally, but aparfrom eating and shitting they’re life’

only source of pleasure now, and I wanhim to enjoy them.

I spy with my little eye. Leaf, cloudsree. He gets those. I try a few trees b

name – birch, ash, maple – but he canremember those from one day to the nextand he gives up after a few wron

guesses each time. He doesn’t geshadow or spiderweb, either.He comes up with obvious things lik

grass, sky, AK. He ought to know

when I pretend I can’t guess. Hwould’ve known before.

I choose a spot with a spreadincover of pines for our lunch stop. Afte



we’ve eaten I try a little math with himWhat’s four plus three? Twenty-one plufive? Eleven minus seven? Right, right

wrong. He can do addition and easmultiplication, but can’t subtract odivide, which worries me. I tell himou’ve got to be able to say, well, I caive on a tin and a half a day, and I’v

got eight tins, so I’ve got enough for fivdays and a morning, and within that tim

’ve got to get to a farm. When I get ther better understand ‘kilos of shit per tinand know how many kilos I need tshovel for the maryjanes and make sur

he floor boss writes up the right amounwhen it’s weighed, because as sure ashit is soft and warm they’ll cheat you ihey can.



I tell him meat doesn’t grow on trees say like I’ve said before, You think yo

can survive in the world withou

knowing how it works?He looks at me with his stupid littl

button eyes and I know he doesnunderstand.

I feel too tired to try to teach hisubtraction for the umpteenth time oeven to be angry at him for not tryin

harder to understand the things he needo know. The sun’s getting hotter, even ihe shade, and last night’s lost sleep ihreatening to find me. I’m thinking I’

better get up before I nod off when hsuddenly starts playing I Spy again. Hhardly ever starts a game off on his own smile as well as a mouse can to show



him I’m pleased. I don’t honestly knowhow well he can read my looks. As faas I can tell, his eyesight’s about as goo

as mine – all right at seeing within aboua hundred feet in daylight. But I’vchecked my face in still water and I havo say, it isn’t all that expressive. For

while I tried making up gestures to showemotion with my ears and whiskers, buhe never remembered them.

Something beginning with P, he says.At first I think he means me.Pa, I say. He says no. Pebble? Pack

Pig tin?

Nope, none of those. Not poplar, ocourse. I figure he’s made a spellinmistake or is just being stupid. If he’kidding around, that’s at least showing



bit of spirit, I guess.I tell him his mouse dad gives up.Potatohead, he says, and points at me

Says it again. Potatohead.If only he’d smiled or laughed, but th

way he said it, I knew he wanted it thurt. He’s never tried to hurt my feelingbefore. Ignored them, yes, but neveried deliberately to wound them. Buhis, it was just as if he wanted to sa

hat he thought of me the way he thoughof the angel. As a monster. A big bahing in his world. I don’t want t

believe it, of course, so at first I jus

stare into his face, beady eyes lookinnto beady eyes, trying to show the love

feel for him and trying to see just a littlbit of it reflected back.



Nada. I’m looking at two bullets in ball of dough.

So I have to hit him, not out of hur

feelings, of course, but because there’no way I can look after him and keephim safe if he doesn’t respect me and das I say. Back before, when we just haour weekends, discipline didn’t matteso much. It matters now. Not jusdiscipline of action, but discipline of th

heart. If the inside slips, the outside wileventually slip too. For his own safethe has to respect me, not just pretend to

shouldn’t have cut him that slack whe

thought he was sulking.I wrap my big hand around his snou

o keep him quiet while I teach him hiesson. After I’m done and he’s don



sniffling and we’ve both calmed down bit, I remind him about the discipline ohe heart. Every now and then I try t

each him. I haven’t given up hope thahe’ll understand one day. Not giving uphat hope is one of my rules.

Well, of course he doesn’t take any ot in. Sometimes I get to thinking he mus

be pretending to be dumb, as a way tcause me pain. It even passes through m

mind that maybe he really got a losmarter and tougher when he changedand developed his own kind of sicdiscipline, so that he makes this non-stop

pathetic act just so that he can watch mridiculous mouse body sag as I try tcarry the burden of hope for both of us a hope that’s all the heavier for havin



no long-term purpose, just a load of mwanting him to be the best he can be anhave the best life he can have, eve

under these circumstances.I don’t know whether that though

counts as paranoia or wishing. It mighbe better if he was smart and nasty. Theat least I wouldn’t have so much reasoo pity him.

His eyes still look like bullets i

dough. Sad bullets now, drooping dowat the corners. If you tried to think of creature that was just made in every wao look sorry and miserable and alway

fearful, you’d get pretty close with himf it’s an act, it’s brilliant.

Time to move, anyway. I make like mpack weighs nothing, striding ahead o



my strong short legs. As long as I cahear him panting I know he’s keeping up

II.Life is full of surprises, and no

every single one of them is a shower oshit. I discover the hut behind coppiced woodlot when I happen tnotice the wall of trimmed logs through gap in the trees.

It’s a tiny place, maybe a huntinshelter. One room with a linoleum floorTwo windows. Glass in one, a square oblue oilcloth with a pattern of tropica

fruit tacked over the other. The smellnside are all ordinary animal, mainl

fox and raccoon. There’s a black vinysofa with busted cushions, an empt



fridge without a door, and a TV on stool, all nearly as brown as I am with coating of gritty dust. For decoratio

here’s an orange plastic shoe and somdry fox turds lying together in a corner

o sign anyone’s been here in a lonime.

It’s the first hut I’ve seen since upped and went walking with the kid. wonder if it’s unique, like we seem t

be, or if there are more of them arounabout the place, like there are pig farmand volk rally halls. I can imagine whole lot like it lying out in the bac

country, each one with the same sofafridge, TV and shoe, too far from roadand farms to be practical for living in.

His runtship is happy sniffing aroun



he TV. The excitement of finding seems to have blown the sulky cloudout of his head. He pushes the powe

button like he expects it to work. When idoesn’t, he goes scrabbling between thsofa’s cushions.

It won’t be there, I start to say, bufuck me if he doesn’t come up with thremote. Nothing happens when he triet, of course. He shoves it into my hand.

I look into his poor face, nowbeginning to show the bruises from thbeating I gave him. I show him that can’t make the remote work any bette

han he can, doing my best to explain thahere’s no broadcaster and no electricit

running to the hut, while I flick thpower point for the TV on and of



There’s nothing coming through it, I telhim, almost laughing. Maybe if yocould steal a methane generator from

farm you could rig it to the fridge anmake it work, if you had tools, bunobody has tools, which is a bitch, bunot a crisis, because nothing needs fixinanymore, nothing breaks down or wearout.

I start pacing around and waving m

arms as I go over the batch of facts I’vold him a thousand times before, hopinhe’ll eventually catch on. I explain thsimplicity of the world as it is now. I

sn’t exactly an elegant simplicity, but ideros and trogs can understand it, I telhim, so can a mouse and a gopher thingn the middle of the new world order –



and don’t ask me who ordered it – is thfact that maryjanes have pig farms. Themake food for you and me and deros an

rogs and methane for the pickups anhe farm machines. Maryjanes hav

moms and pops who have stores wherou can buy useful staples like bennies iou have credit from jobbing in th

meatworks or the shitworks. Deros anrogs and dogs live in towns, cats roam

Dogs and cats hunt everything excepangels, bactyls and dreams. Volk hunt bigame, raid towns and hold rallies. Pigeat anything dead except angels, an

bactyls eat anything dead and anythinalive that doesn’t move fast enough tget away. Dreams hunt everything, eaanything. Angels don’t eat, but they kil



which comes to the same thing for yoand me. And that’s all. It isn’t so much tkeep in your head.

I tell him again how there aren’t anbig, complicated systems anymore, nong involved whys and whereforesherefore no electricity, no TV networks

no shows. I finish by throwing thremote back down on the sofa. Righaway he grabs it and tries to make m

ake it again.Then I remember our game, where wpretended the buttons did other stuff, likurn my car into an F1 Ferrari, or mak

us able to fly, or nuke his teacher’house.

He always said it was just our gamehe didn’t play it with his mama.



Is that it? I ask. You want me to pushis button and do some magic?

I look at him looking up at me, and a

f I’m seeing inside his scrambled headknow he’s thinking I could use th

remote to put things back the way thewere. Including her. That’d be part of itnaturally.

Or maybe he isn’t so scrambled as alhat. Maybe he’s actually making a fairl

reasonable guess based on the facts hknows, namely that we turned introdents, she turned cat, and the worlfilled with monsters. Given that, is

entirely batshit to think that magic mighbe possible?

Scrambled or not, I can see this muchwhile he doesn’t want to believe wha



’ve told him about the serious thinghat really matter and require hard wor

and endless daily effort, he sure wants t

believe in me now that he’s thinkinwe’ve lucked upon an easy way to fix alour problems.

But I’m touched, all the same, that hsuddenly shows this trust in me. Hdidn’t try to mend the world himself. Hgave the remote to me. On the flip sid

of that, of course, if – when – it doesnwork, the failure can be my fault. Stilmaybe I finally got through to him, annow he’s trying to show he respects an

rusts me. I’d like to believe that, thougshouldn’t let myself just yet.I’m supposed to be the adult, the on

who knows shit from clay. But before



can act in step with what I know, I’stricken with stupidity, just like him. It’got to be because I haven’t slept enough

But I can actually see, like a madmawould, the zany possibility of makinour own hoodoo happen. The beliesuddenly gets a hold of me like somkind of holy running shits.

Overwhelmed by this diarrhoea ofaith, I point the remote at the window

with glass, aiming it at everything ouhere. I put my other hand on hishoulder and close my eyes. Go back, ell the world, to the way you wer

before. Or better. But the same would bquite ok.

Since there’s nothing wrong with thellow and red leafy corner of thing



hat the window lets me see, I candulge for a moment in the wildl

retarded idea that I’ve change

everything outside that needed changingso that all I have to do now is change uwo.

I say, Ready?His funny face does a funny smile.Ok, I tell him, we’re gonna go back

Everything’s gonna be just normal again

ok? And after we’re normal, maybwe’ll see what other magic stuff thiremote can do.

It occurs to me then that according t

he logic I’ve been following, I’valready fucked up. If I’d changed thworld back, then magic wouldn’t woranymore, so we’d have to stay a



rodents, even if everything else was ok. have to stop this bullshit and get back treality, obviously. But the belief hasn

run out of me. I let myself indulge just ittle longer, closing my eyes again as

point the remote at him and commanhim, in my big squeaky voice, to go baco being just the kid he was. Smart, n

guts. Whatever. To myself I say, Be man again.

I open my beady eyes. He opens hibeady eyes. Well, that’s that. As for thworld, if it’s all fixed up, there’ll be power line running to the hut fro

somewhere and the TV will work. I onlhave to turn the power point on and pushe button to check. Push it a few times.

Yeah, well.



My ears pick up whining engines ihe distance over on the volk side of th

hills. Another rally. Early arrivals.

I must be much too tired, or I wouldnbe slipping like this. But he doesn’t loodejected. Maybe he hadn’t really thought was going to work.

I tell him we can stay here for couple of days, so that we can both restHe nuzzles into my belly. I tickle hi

under the chin and he lifts his face upHe’s getting a black eye, making hiook half ’coon. It’s hard to imagin

what he’ll look like when he grows up

ot that I can see me ever finding outSomething will get one or both of ubefore then.

He holds out his hand for the remote.



give it. He sits down on the sofa anstarts mashing the buttons. He points it ahimself. Dog, he says. He curls his lip

and snarls, then giggles. He points it ame. I’m afraid he’ll say cat, but he saypig, so I get down on all fours and makoinking noises. I pretend I’m fallindown a meat hopper until he covers hieyes and squeaks at me to stop.

I turn him into a volk and he marche

around squeaking purity slogans. Hurns me into a bactyl and I stick my bun the fridge pretending I’m oozing out ot. I do a floppy, writhing bactyl dance i

front of the TV.When it’s his turn again he says, Now

ou’re Potatohead.But he says it in a cute, funny way



There’s nothing mean in his look. He’ust playing. I lie down obediently on th

floor and spread my arms out.

He squats over me, pokes me in thchest and says, Are you dead?

Yeah, pretty much.Then how come you can talk?Maybe I’m not quite properly dead

t’s hard to tell with angels, remember?Well, you can die properly, now, h

says. But there’s still nothing nasty in hieyes.I lie stiff for a bit, sticking my stubb

mouse legs in the air. That makes hi

augh.Since he’s starting to look tired, I her

him outside to go to the toilet before hgets really sleepy.



Carrying my gun and pack, I march ufor about ten minutes so that the smelwill be a reasonable distance away fro

he hut and supervise him digging a holwith his hands, which are more likpaws than mine and have pretty stronclaws. We both use it, then fill it up ancover it with leaves.

The afternoon light is sloping throughe tree trunks as we return. He’s got

real shiner. I refuse to let myself feel baabout it. He has to learn self-control, anhe has to remember that I’m his guardiaand teacher, and that he’s damn lucky t

have me.We eat our pig. Inventory of al

supplies is now: Twenty-five tinsAmmo: six 30-round magazines. Firs



volk I killed – with my old Dirty Harrgun, before it went down the rabbit hol– I took his AK. Since volk all hav

exactly the same firearm, picking upammo is no great problem. Three litreof stream water. Water sanitation pillsnineteen. Worm pills: sixteen. Bennieswelve. Flashlight batteries: four

Antiseptic: not much. Antibiotics: none.I figure I’ll have to work for about

month to earn enough to trade for medsf there are any meds. Last place, thfarm store had nothing. The mom anpop were waiting for new stocks t

punch in.The light’s low now, marshalling gol

n the trees – what I think of as thunknown soldier’s prize for lastin



another day. I sit on the floor to first picmy teeth with a twig, then clean my gunistening to the pleasant evening bir

chitter.As for him, instead of sleeping, h

plays with the turds, arranging them intpatterns that apparently mean somethino him. Art isn’t dead.

I look over and see he’s made a neaittle pyramid. That’s good, I say. Rea

good.He clenches his fists and jiggles then the air, cheering for himself. He get

up and checks that the remote is stil

where he left it on the sofa. He can’t fint, of course, because I hid it when h

wasn’t looking. I shrug like I don’t knowanything.



It’s a little test, to see if he can tel’m kidding around. Can he put himseln my head, or is he really only ever i

his own head now?I can’t say that I get an answer. H

goes scrabbling between the cushionike he did before, and eventually findhe remote, and gives me a gopher’

vertical grin.But the remote isn’t all he’s found. H

gives me something he’s holding in hiother paw.It’s a torn off corner of printed pape

from a TV program guide. My best gues

s that it’s just part of the decoration. Ihere are other huts, there’ll be identica

scraps of paper caught in their sofcushions.



Or it might be a leftover. The wholhut might be, even. I suppose that’possible. It took about a year for all th

farms and rally halls and highway townand all the accessories like AKs anpickups to punch in, and by then jusabout everything else was gone, bumaybe there are still a few drops tshake off.

I sit him down on the sofa, put him o

my knee, and read out what’s on thpaper. Football, news, current affairscartoons.

You remember cartoons? I ask.

Maybe, he says. Then he points to thword. I spy, he says. C.

You can read that?He gives me a look like he isn’t sur



what I mean, but he points to the lettern the words and says them. He mostl

gets them wrong, but he knows they’r

etters. Maybe I Spy has somehow kephe letter pictures as well as the sound

alive in his head. There’d be no point irying to teach him to read properlyhough. The only thing left to read i

what the floor boss maryjanes write, anhey just use tally marks.

B, he says. D, I correct himDocumentary, I read out aloud. The Lanof Samurai.

Might as well be the Land of the Pu

People for all it probably means to him.His memory of before definitely isn

as good as mine. Your maryjanes, momand pops, deros, trogs – they don



remember anything. When you try to talo any of them about the past, it’s likhey hear you saying something else, an

hey respond to whatever they think theheard. I don’t know about volk and threst, but I assume it’s the same withem. Something like a bactyl probabl

doesn’t have thoughts at all. So if me anhim really are unique, we might be thonly critters with memories, and his i

only half a memory. Not that it matters ihe big picture. If there are others likus, I bet they’re just as dead-ended awe are. No reason to suppose they’d b

good eggs, either.I sometimes wonder if we’re dreams

but if we are, we must be the smallesweakest, least scary fucking dreams i



his world.I’ve never bullshitted him. He’s neve

asked where we’re going and I’ve neve

said anything about it. I always figurehat if he asked I’d tell him the truth an

say we’re going nowhere in particular. had an agreement with myself that wouldn’t bring the subject up, but that ihe asked, I could consider him ready tshare my burden of knowing we’re goin

nowhere except the next farm, the nexcold night in a ditch or a dero town, thnext struggle with evil. And ready tunderstand me better because of that.

But now something gets a hold of meike that belief-shits again, as if I’

possessed and talking in tongues and say, Hey, have I ever told you wher



we’re going?He shakes his head.I can’t help myself, the bullshit flows

I tell him we’re going to the land osamurai, where there are no pig farmsust rice farms and orchards and trou

streams. And all the people there arreal people, with proper faces anbrains. Every person there is a samuraistrong in body and spirit. They don

need bennies, and they can eat all kindof food.I tell him the most important thing

samurai needs is discipline of the heart

To endure, to be alert, to think of othersAnd to feel nature in your soul – to breconciled to the life that falls and meltsand comes back again, but not as what



was before. I kind of start to explain personal philosophy, putting into propewords the things that go around an

around in my head all the time, but that don’t say all the way clearly, eithebecause I’m trying to dumb things dowfor his benefit or because I’m too donn or strung out to think straight enough

But it’s flowing from me now. Truth almixed up with crazy talk.

In my mind, this AK here that I’vbeen cleaning is a sword. A very cleasword now, but I’m still cleaning it imy mind. I’m not just cleaning a sword

’m cleaning my spirit, keeping it iworking order. Making it as clean as thwater in my made-up land.

I don’t know where this urge to tal



hrough my ass has come from, but thmore I talk, the more I like what I heamyself saying – even despite the fact tha

ike a lousy hypocrite I’m breaking mown rules.

He’s looking at me, but I don’t knowwhether he’s taking any of it in, the sensor the nonsense, until he asks if himama’s there, in the land of samurai.

Of all the questions he could hav

asked, naturally it had to be that.Yeah, I blather, she’s there. She’s goa job, finally, too. Queen of the samuraDoesn’t get much better than that.

What the hell, if I’m going to talbullshit, it might as well be gold-platebullshit trailing clouds of glory.



III.That’s nice, I say, giving the shrine

glance. Real pretty. Yeah, fuck me if h

hasn’t made an altar to her. On top of thTV. The plastic shoe, raised on twempty meat tins: that’s her throne. Thfox turds, neatly piled, which he says arher food, and some flowers and featherand a leaf skeleton, standing for heclothes and whatever other shit h

happens to think she needs.We’ve been here two weeks. I did stint at a farm, got meat and meds. figured he was big enough to work, an

he did, and he didn’t do too bad. Thderos and trogs picked on him but he juskept his nose down and shovelled like old him to. I hardly dared think it, bu



suddenly he was acting like I’ve beerying to raise him to act. Sensibly, wit

his mind on what has to be done.

I guess I was feeling soft on himsince when he begged to go back to thhut I said yes.

It’s stupid to stay put. Something wilsniff us out. But right from the start, thiplace seemed to wake up his mind anhis will, so that staying here seem

worth the risk of trouble coming soonerather than later. And I swear, I’feeling sharper since we’ve been hereMaybe it’s just because I’m not tire

from walking and stiff from sleeping ohe ground. There’s a stream in the nex

valley, so we don’t have any worrieabout water, but I hit on an idea to sav



on sanitation pills. When it rains, I takhe covers off the sofa cushions and puhem outside so that they fill up wit

clean rainwater. I don’t think I’d havhought of doing that before.

So we’re both sharpening up. But now can see that while he’s regaining a

ability to focus, what he wants to focuon is her. For example, he thanked hefor the rain.

He’s gotten right into being a samuraas much as he thinks he knows what samurai is. He doesn’t believe himouse dad can keep the bad things away

but the queen of samurai can. Kid’getting religion, ancestor worship. Hhinks this is the discipline of the heart.

I can’t see myself in him. Her I ca



see. She was into shit like thatAstrology, superstitions, angels. Stufhat doesn’t require discipline to adher

o. Faiths with zero level of difficultyToo bad she didn’t live to see whaangels turned out to be like.

And yet, I can’t help seeing thiwacky shit of his as a kind of progresst’s imaginative. And imagination is th

beginning of compassion. I’m hopefu

hat one day, if I wait this out, he’ll starmagining how it is to be me. I’m alshopeful that he’ll get bored. Right nowt’s as if she’s his favourite toy. But kid

get sick of their toys. I’m telling myselo wait and be patient, because he’l

outgrow her. Eventually he’ll start treally think deeply about his mouse dad



And whereas she can’t ever be morhan what she was, and can’t talk to hi

or show him anything new, I can alway

be interesting. I think he’ll see that. Hust has to muck around with this little

kid magic stuff first.He’s stopped wanting to play th

game with the remote buttons. Instead, hcomes out on patrols with me. That’when the samurai business has practica

use. He actually tries to do a job ouhere. He listens and sniffs, and peernto the dark woods, though I don

suppose he sees any better than I do.

won’t turn on the AK’s flashlight unless have to shoot something. Most of thime, my whiskers save me fro

bumping into trees. He does okay in tha



department, too. I set a slow, almoscreeping pace, partly for safety, partlfor him to practice moving quietly in th

dark. I’ve told him how it’s all a matteof control: controlling your bodycontrolling your fears.

And now he really listens. At leaspartly out of respect for me, I like think. I’m giving him the benefit of th

doubt, anyway.

I remember something about beinsupposed to consider yourself alreaddead and not care that you’re goinnowhere, but I don’t want to think lik

hat, and the people in my land osamurai don’t think like that either. S’ll just keep the idea in reserve, I’hinking, in case I ever need to go nut



hat way to stop me going nuts somworse way.

Out in the dark, with the Milky Wa

sprawled across the sky like the motheof the bride after one too many, listenino small creatures scurrying about in th

blue-black coffin of the night, I thinabout a good death, a worthy death. Ihere such a thing? And if there is, doet still count as good if no one sees it

My gut tells me of course it fuckindoes, like if a tree falls in the woods imakes a noise whether Joe Mouse or JoVolk or Joe Bactyl hears it or not. Th

action matters, not the witness. Then mgut thinks again and reminds me that thwhole point is not to die. Death ialways a failure.



That sounds right. But then I’m nosure. I want the kid to hurry up and growup so that we can talk about it.

I suddenly remember her and hestupid underwear, how she used to carabout all that lace and shit.

IV.A dream’s around. It must be that

because the smell’s like nothing else

and the volk are excited. They’re cominfurther into the hills. One night we nearlran into a hunting party. I say nearly ranto, but in fact they were making s

much noise that we heard them lonbefore they could have seen us. We werable to just turn around and quietly ghome. His runtship was calm, a perfec



ittle stoic. That’s how far he’s come.I’d still call this time to move on, o

at least vacate the premises for a while

but it’s getting on for winter now anpouring rain nearly every day. I figureach deluge should be washing away ouscent, so that I don’t have to factor thanto my weighing up of whether w

should stay or go. We’ve been out tfarms twice more. I’ve buried our pi

supply in a few caches around anabout, so that if any intruder comes bhe hut while we’re out there won’t b

anything to see or smell right there. I’v

been making him take apart the shrinwhen we patrol. That means he gets tput it back together again when we comback. He enjoys doing that, but I have



bet with myself that eventually he’ll gesick of the repetition.

I also have to figure that there’

danger in leaving, too, with volk runninaround in the woods. My head says it’actually better to stay, but I’m troubleby the fact that it’s telling me what want to hear. A man gets attached to place. A mouse too, it seems. Maybe I’starting to believe in this little hut lik

he kid believes in his samurai queen’m thinking of how good we’re doinhere. But I also have to consider that could be some trick of the world’s t

rap us here, turn me soft and lazy, makme lose my simple clear purpose to keepgoing and never stay put long enough tget noticed.



I try to listen to the voice odiscipline. But it’s been losing itdefiniteness of late. It’s getting to be lik

wo loud voices telling me differenhings. One of them says I should stay i

my house and defend it, while the othesays I’m only using that as an excuse tstay here.

This worries me badly. I know I’getting smarter, but what if I’ve onl

gotten smart enough to think my way introuble and not out of it? Suppose I’getting more complicated – maybe thaust means more ways I could fuck up

’ve only survived and kept my kid alivn this world through clear, simplhinking. The second discipline voic

says that if staying here is making m





I ask him if he heard something. Nopehe says. He asks if the change happeneout there too, in the sky, and I say I don

know, I hope not, and I tell him howhere used to be plans to go all the wa

out there into the never-never, and howwe did in fact walk on the fat moon.

I know, dad, he says. Which kind oblows my mind.

He goes to sleep on my long hair

stomach, breathing through his mouthwhile I lie on the sofa. I think about howhappy he is here. Well, not really happymaybe, but not shit miserable by an

means, and I’m wondering if I’ve got thright to take him away from here for thsake of survival, if it should come that.



Despite how far he’s come, I stilcan’t see how he’s got much chance oever being a man – or a grown-up

gopher – whatever the fuck. Sure, I’lalways try to protect him, but I’m goino fail one day. I must face that. I wil

fail, and he will die of something, be violence or sickness or accident.

Before we came here all I could thinwas survive, survive, day by day, bu

now I’m in one place and I see thseasons moving, I see time, that stops fono mouse and no runt gopher thing, and comes into my mind that this hut woul

be a good place to live in until we die even if living here means that we dibefore too long. I’m thinking of it in thight of a last stand.





morning it’s still pouring and he’raving. He’s seeing Potatohead, bactylsdogs, even bloody werewolves. I swea

hat’s what he says.So that we’re not going anywhere

after all.

V.He’s been pretty much out of it for

week. I’ve used up half the new meds o

him. Which might have been a wastesince I have no idea what kind of buhe’s got. But his fever’s coming downand he’s stopped hallucinating. He’

pretty washed out, but he’s alert again’m just waiting for him to smell the cat.

I’ve been thinking about going out took for its lair in daylight and catch i



asleep. I give myself pretty good odds oavoiding volk patrols if I go alone. He’okay enough that I could leave him her

for a few hours. On the other hand, thsound of me shooting might get evestupid volk minds wondering, if thewere to figure out it wasn’t one of theiown kind letting off a few rounds.

Then there’s the fact that your averagcat is a big animal. I killed my ex wit

one shot, but I still had my Dirty Harrgun back then, and it was at close range.He was with her on the day. I was a

work. Doing a drug bust, in fact. Th

assholes I was shooting at turned bactyMy partner turned volk. He was stilshrieking his head off about blood ansoil while the bactyls absorbed his legs



My car had vanished. Punched out ihe first wave. I found another with it

engine running. By the time I got to he

house, she was batting the runt arounhe floor like a toy.

The one outside’s a tom. It sprays. Foall that my kid has come so far, I’ready for him to freak out and starbawling when he sniffs it.

That isn’t what he does.

When the moment comes – he’s sittinquietly on the floor, round about noonpracticing stripping the AK – he givehe air a good sniff. There’s a win

blowing, and the smell comes in on thaThen he gets a look like it’s Christmaand someone gave him the best presenof his life.



He thinks it’s her. He says he casmell the samurai queen.

I tell him it can’t be, because it’s

om and she’s dead.He shakes his head like he know

better. And goes on taking apart the gungrinning with halfwit faith.

No, not faith. It isn’t just that. I shoulknow. I tell him a samurai can’t bhaving any truck with self-deceit or eve

wishful thinking. Those things arenemies of a clear mind and thereforenemies of survival, I say sternly. Yohink you have enough brains to sor

bullshit from fact once you get theconfused? What happens if you starbelieving bactyls are nice or that you caeat whatever you want? But I can see h



sn’t taking it in. These ideas are tomuch for him.

I’m getting ready to try again, and i

necessary to beat some sense into himwhen the sound of all hell having iteeth pulled erupts out of the wind dam

near over our heads.I don’t know how many mouths

akes to produce a scream like thaMore than one.

Quite a few more.It can only be the thing the volk wanfor their trophy wall. The dream. The casmell must have masked it. And th

AK’s in pieces.Instinct makes me hit the floor an

pull him down beside me. The rooshudders. I hear giant sheets flapping o



a washing line.My heart hammers like it’s got th

shits and my ribcage is the door to th

only toilet in the world. The kid’s gonstiff as a log, but his heart’s banging tooHe feels like a bomb ticking in my arms

And then the monster passes on, anwe’re still here. The cat smell isn’t sstrong, is the first thing I notice. It mushave run for its life. But the shoe ha

fallen off the TV. He picks it up senderly, I guess that’s what breaks me.One upside his head, one smack on th

snout. His nose gushes blood which h

catches on his fingers and wipes on hidungarees.

I’m expecting a reaction, but all hdoes is lick his fingers and whisker



clean. Then he fixes up the shoe anarranges everything else on the TV thway he likes it. I’ve already got the AK

halfway back together. He’s picked a bof foam out of a cushion and he’s holdinhat under his nose. He’s solid, like

funny little rock. He doesn’t saanything, but I know he’s got it into hihead that she’s taught him not to cry. Shmakes him a little bit strong. Not stron

enough for the real world, but enough tstand up to his mouse dad some. Omaybe just proud. Yeah, that’s it. Weakbut proud. Well, I can understand tha

t’s how she was, anyway. Vain creatureWanting someone to look after her bunever wanting to be obedient oaltruistic. Yeah, that’s the kind of powe



she’d give him if she was real.He’s finished arranging the altar. Now

he’s kneeling in front of it, whispering

t’s all about the land of samuraeverything I told him, all that bullshiBushido. Bullshitto. Rice farms. Himama.

Same old fucking broken kiddrecord, just a different track. My faulHe adds the bit of red foam to th

collection of objects up there. I’m cleanow. This place isn’t really making hibetter. It never was. He can’t be madbetter. We’ll go tonight. As soon a

darkness comes, I’ll go round the cacheand get the tins.

No can do. Plans busted again. Th



cat’s back. I should just go out there ankill it, while there’s still a bit of lightbut the dream’s still in the picture. It’

pouring again and the dream smells likgarbage in the rain. I can hear volshrieking and a couple of bursts ogunfire, but there’s only silence from thsky, so they didn’t hit it.

At least the runt’s quiet now. He’s juscurled up on the sofa, kind of dozing. Bu

when the cat smell is strong he opens hieyes.After dark it gets a lot stronger. Fo

he first time I actually hear its big bod

brushing through the trees. A creaturhat size can’t be silent in the woods. hink it’s after us. It must have gotte

scent of us by now, and we must smel



ike food.Gotta be quiet as a mouse, I tell him

Quiet as your mouse dad – got that?

He nods. I think he knows it isnreally his mama. He’s confused betweewhat he knows and what he wants, guess. Maybe if he sees the damn thinhe’ll get clear in his mind.

I should’ve gone out and killed thacat long ago. I want to blame this mous

brain and body for the fact that I didn’Maybe I’ve got mouse guts when comes to cats.

I think a big cat could probably pul

his hut apart, but whether it woulbother to is another matter. Maybe iwouldn’t normally, but it’s got to bhungry, I’m thinking. With the drea



hanging around, and all the noise thvolk have been kicking up, its huntinmust have been disturbed.

Suddenly this all reminds me of thimes before. All the higher-ups makin

a big show. The only thing missing ihat we can’t watch it on the TV. It’

probably too much to hope that they alkill each other in a daisy chain ocarnage that doesn’t include us.

So here we are, two rodents, in thdark, me with the AK ready, hirembling, useless. Quiet at least. But n

spunk.

I hear the wings of the dream. It’circling. I find myself drawing imaginarcircles with the muzzle of the gunfollowing it.



Then there comes a ruckus outsidehin trunks in the woodlot snapping

That’s the cat. At last. Maybe it jus

hinks now is a good time to eat us, omaybe it’s trying to hide from the dreaand sees this hut as its best chance foshelter. Could be it’s even smart enougo think of driving us out so that th

dream will take us instead of it.The cat springs at us, throws its tabb

paw right through the oilcloth windowso I go to shoot it, but the kid screamno, and I make the mistake of whippinmy head around to look at him or yel

and I see his fucked-up face, tortured ihe soggy moonlight, and I can’t, I’

afraid of losing him – losing him so bahat I’ll have to kill him. So I just bea



he paw with the butt of the AK, whicdoes fuck all good, just enrages thbeast.

The paw pulls out and comes righback, punching through the glaswindow. Does that look like youmother? I scream. Do you think that’her?

It’s only a paw, and I only need to fira couple of rounds into it. The cat roar

and pulls its arm back outside, dragginsplinters of glass and wood with it. I’already at the other window.

It doesn’t matter that my night visio

s lousy. The cat’s so big and so closhat I’d have to fire backwards to mist. With the AK on three round bursts,

empty half the clip into puss’s face an



chest, hoping it will just drop, and idoes. My victory, a win for Mouse DadThere’s only one voice in my head. I

says I did well, and better late thanever.

I turn around, ready to deal with thrunt.

But he isn’t here. My kid isn’t here.

The door’s swinging on its hinge.

He wouldn’t look very badass on rophy wall, but maybe he’d look funnyAnd I’m thinking of all the things thvolk might do, just for kicks, as I run ou

of the house, blundering through threes, trying stupidly to look for hi

when I can’t see more than ten feet ifront of me in the rain.



I yell for him. Fuck it if the volk heame. No answer. The smell of the cat’blood is so strong that I almost can

smell anything else. But my nose does itn the end. My runt has pissed, and I ca

smell that.I’m going for it now. I remember t

ell purity slogans so the volk will thin’m other volk.

And I hear them – their voices, vol

abber, and his, snuffling and yippingThey’re over a rise ahead.His mouse dad is going to save him

That’s how this is going to be. Hi

mouse dad is going to save him, and he’going to be so grateful that there wonbe any more talk about his mama, or anmore prayers. He’ll see that the land o



samurai is right here, in my heartwaiting for him to come and join me.

I have to be quiet now, which mean

being slow, and I’m grinding my teeth a creep uphill, wet branches scrapin

me, a pain I hadn’t even noticed till nown the ball of my left foot – it feels like

glass splinter. I must have driven it ideep while I was running.

So I count the slow stabs of pain as

climb, and I don’t stumble. I reach thop of the hill and I see them in a ditcdown below. Two torches, jerkmovement, ugly sounds. I’m halfwa

down before I can see. The torches aron AKs hanging off the shoulders of thwo volk. One’s holding my kid and ooks like the other’s pushing somethin



nto his face. The runt’s making chokinsounds that turn my guts to water.

My brain feels like it’s stuck in

swamp of adrenaline. The need to acversus the need to act intelligently. Kilhem, miss him – it’d take some fuckinuck even if I wasn’t purblind. First

decide to put the AK on full auto and tro sweep through their heads. Then

undecide. What are my chances of hittin

hem that way? I’ve never even used fulauto – waste of bullets, too much noiseFor all I know the mechanism will jam.

I don’t have time to think, so I have t

use the first plan that comes into mhead. First I piss down my own leg she’ll know I’m here. Then I turn my guorch on and hold it in front of me so tha



’m behind the light and shout a couplof slogans as cheery as I can.

They turn. They jabber.

And I’ve fired, and I’ve missed –missed them both.

Now there’s bullet hail all around mechips flying off the trees, and I can’t seshit but muzzle flash.

The trees are skinny, no solid trunks tget behind. I drop to the ground and tur

he fucking torch off. If my kid has ansense he’ll run. If he can.Then one of them howls and his torc

beam swings down suddenly. He’

doubled over, clutching his crotch.My runt. His gopher teeth.But now the other one’s going to shoo

him dead, just put him down for hi





wounded thing’ll fall right on top of mkid, but the firing stops and the onlsounds after that are the wings flappin

away and a hairless gopher making noise like a cat bringing up a hairball.

I don’t know if it deliberately took thvolk that hunt its kind, or if it was onlhanks to luck that it didn’t take my runoo. Maybe it just went for the tw

biggest pieces of meat.

My kid is shaking and coughingpuking up dirt. That’s what the volk wamashing into his mouth. So he still mighdie. Anything but pig…

I pick him up and carry him. Not to thhut. Not with the fucking dead cat there. know these woods pretty well now. I ruuntil I’m over two more hills, checkin



him every so often to make sure he’s stilalive.

The ditch is full of bracken ferns

He’s stopped upchucking. I wipe hiface. He’s beaten black and blue, mucworse than I ever beat him. He’s in nstate even to cry, so I just leave him bwhile I dig the glass out of my footThat’s a whole lot of fun.

I’ve got time now to be proud as hel

of him for biting the volk. I’ll tell him sater, when he’s more together. We stinfor every critter in these woods to smelso I mustn’t sleep – as if I could.

I lie on the AK to protect it from thrain.

VI.



My pack’s right where I left it. Wfound our way back easily, by the smelof dead cat. It’s foggy and freezing. I’

not complaining about the cold – numbs my foot.

My pack’s there, but not the hut. Thins and the turds and the feathers arying on the ground in mud puddles. Th

TV and the shoe are gone along with threst of the stuff from the hut. Even th

woodlot isn’t a woodlot anymore. Threes are there, but they’re not coppicedhough a couple have broken branches

so at least in some way they’re the sam

ones as were there before.I explain to him about leftovers, how

some things took a while to punch outand how the hut must just have bee



aking its time. He doesn’t make a fusabout it. He doesn’t even make a fusabout the cat.

He looks at me like he knows how feel – the whole works of being relievewe made it yesterday, exhausted despitpopping a couple of my faithful benniehis morning, sorry we’ve lost our home

worried about the future. What I’worried about most of all is that now w

don’t have the hut anymore, now we’rback to where we were before, he’lchange back, lose the brains and guts thaast night’s episode proved he’s grown

and the sensitivity I’m seeing in hinow. And that I’ll lose what I got bacoo. I don’t think he understands thahough. He’s only a kid. And I’m no



going to mention it. He’s got enougmonsters in his life without me addinnamby-pamby abstract ones.

The volk have cleared out. I’hinking they must have got what the

wanted – and they have. The dream’ying beside the road in a field of weed

a couple of miles past the kennel townts tail snaking across the asphalt. It’

bigger than the angel. It has a lot o

broad shorn-off stumps where big headused to be, but the volk have left thittle heads and the faces without heads.

It isn’t dead yet. Its faces all loo

pained, in a badass, I’m-not-going-toshow-this kind of way. Twenty-odd pairof eyes are looking at us. It would bhumane to kill it.



It saved us, says my kid.Yeah, so it did.I don’t even know how to kill it

Actually, I’m fucking scared of it and want to get out of here.

Studying the faces, I think I can seglimmers of real intelligence in some ohem. But maybe I’m wrong, since whelift the AK and mimic firing, cockin

my head to try and show that I’m askin

a question, they might as well be thfaces you see in clouds for all that theshow they understand.

I tell the runt it’ll be a big waste o

bullets, and even if I shoot everforehead, I don’t know if that’ll do thob. And it’ll be noisy.

He says, So what?



Vomit with a fart chaser. BactyComing from the hills across the fieldWhich means everything else aroun

here will clear out or lie low. So I carisk making some noise.

We count the bullets off togetherTwenty-two. And now at least it lookpretty dead. It, they, I don’t know.

With our whiskers shining in thmorning’s frozen sun, it’s time to g

further on down the road to wait for pickup.



AVING THE GLEEFUL HORSE

For Aaron Hunter Children are cruel. No one who ha

ived in the world need ask for proof o

hat. So it is nothing for them to beat iving creature – a rare, marvelloucreature at that – to death. They do so iorder to seize the treasure inside it, bu

one sees the pleasure they take in thiassassination of life, even before thplunder starts. Their laughter bounce

from yard-wall to yard-wall and theieyes shine darkly as they beat thanimal, which has done nothing to themwith wooden sticks and swords, unti

holes open in its body and the prizes –



caramels, toys, game money printed witpictures of wrestlers and cartoocharacters – rain down into their hands.

I am Molimus. I live under the bridgwhere the day-boats go from wet anwooden Bracklow to the foot of thsweeping stone stair going up the hill tFirmitas and the military school.

I am called Molimus the Great bsome here in Bracklow, in recognition o

my height and strength. My shirt is madof four men’s shirts sewn together, anan eight-pound cheese wheel fits in thpalm of my hand. By profession I trad

n flotsam, which I catch under thbridge in these great hands of mine ansell at the Pauper’s Forum up by ShindEstate.



Because of this occupation, whickeeps me under the bridge watching thwater from morning until late at night,

oftentimes see the dead animals. If thhusks are not burnt, people toss thento the river. I see them on holidays

especially, when the slaughterenumbers are high, but they are killed alear round.

To look at them! Never did dream

supply such a zoo of little spotted anstriped horses and chequered gazellessky-blue lions, dawn-pink bears, gallangolden beetles, chivalrous silve

anteaters! I have even seen elephantamongst them, and star-shaped beasthat must have come from the carve

waves of the sea before they wer



captured and hung up to be put to death.To see their poor empty bodies make

me cry into the water – sometimes s

much that I think the tears of Molimucould turn the river salty.

I can’t even salvage them for tradingThe bodies last for very little time aftehey have yielded up the ghost. Th

husks are as diaphanous as cellophaneand any part submerged below the wate

dissolves like bread in soup.I had never thought to see a live onhat wasn’t already hanging in a yard

soon to die. But that is what happened. I

was an October night, a while aftesundown, when the day-boats were bacat their moorings and the water was fulof the dark medicinal colour of a



overcast sky. I saw the head of a littlhorse, banded in red, blue, white angold like the flag of some merry knigh

ossing on the river waves – anothedead victim of a party, I assumed, until came to see the striped legs that werchurning the water.

Despite his predicament there wanothing frightful about his looks, as saw when his head turned towards me

Far from showing panic, he gave me game sort of grin and rolled his eye as io say, ‘It’s the world! What can yo

do?’

It was a simple thing to reach out ancarry him into my little hut of boards anbark, where I wrapped him in a blankeand set him in front of the oil stove to ge



dry and warm.

I had saved a life and that lif

herefore became my responsibility. did all I could to nurse the little stripehorse, who I named the Gleeful Horsebut I could see my efforts coming tnothing. He was as full of holes as sieve and his legs were twisted. I bounhis wounds with clean rags and tried t

feed him, but he had no appetite, despithis steady good cheer.It became clear to me that I woul

have to take the bus out to Barrage Cros

o get help from near there. I went in thearly morning and carried the GleefuHorse in a string bag. He seemed tenjoy the sight of the green marke



gardens of Shindy Back through thwindows of the bus, and as we drovhrough the chalk hills that roll awa

behind the gardens his fiddle-shapenostrils and his round hindquarterwitched, as if in his own mind he wa

galloping about out there on the world’green grass.

From the Barrage Cross shops walked out of the village, into the trees

and down the little grey weedy pathhrough the birch and buckthorn, goinby the way that leads to the Garth of thAorist: where trunk and branch turn, b

and rumly by, into pillar and vault, anhe path passes into the shade of ston

arcades forming a four-sided cloistearound a garth choked high wit



enormous brambles.As you must, I walked around th

cloister with the sun a certain number o

imes, then against the sun anothenumber, then with the sun again, so thahe brambles withdrew underground, alhe thorny bundles coming apart an

slithering below in one rush as if a giann the earth had them on a rope (th

effect on the eye is striking). After this

where all was a wild saw-toothemuddle just a moment or two ago, ianother moment the lawn of trefoil anclover grew, which grows no matter th

season – as dainty a green spread as yocould wish for a picnic or a weddingUpon the grass, as settled as a hen in thmiddle of the sweet-smelling lawn, ther



appeared the dwelling that appears: round, rose-bosomed hut of dry-stonehaving a chimney at the rear and on

doorless doorway at the front, facing thcoming visitor across the green court.

Entering this shelter, half-house, halfdovecote, as it were, with the GleefuHorse in the string bag under my arm, ugged my cap to the White Ma’at, thast Ma’at.

Whoever first painted the omen-carwhere she is shown as a figure seatewith legs crosswise in front of a paintehearth must have seen her, or bee

advised by someone who had; at anrate, I have never found her arrangeother than in this wise when I come ther house.



The White Ma’at: a woman, or woman-shaped thing, built in a long anheavy way, with a tall forehead like

white wall and a knotty blue veiabouring up it. What lies on the othe

side is a great store of irregularwonderful knowledge; a cellaprovisioned with all the vintages omagic. What she doesn’t see through hemilky cataracts would fit in a baby’

sock.She already knows about the GleefuHorse.

‘That is a treasure animal,’ she says

even before I’ve finished pulling him ouof the bag. He has no fear of her; hgives even the White Ma’at hiqualmless grin. Nor does he mind tha



she doesn’t grin back. When she taps ohis bandaged belly with a sharp knucklhe only rolls his eye and winks at me

He makes no fuss even when the Ma’aprises his mouth open and squints insideHer parsnip-white fingers finsomething under his tongue. A toy – plastic ring with a false emerald. Shshows it to me and puts it back.

‘When all their treasure is gone, the

die,’ she says simply.My poor horse, having to hang onthat uncomfortable lump. I suppose thaf he swallowed it, it might fall out on

of the holes in his side when thbandages I put on come loose, as thenot infrequently do.

I take him from the White Ma’at an



sit with him in my lap, expecting her toffer me a healing charm or a recipe fophysick. But instead, she tells me:

‘You mustn’t blame the children. Thedon’t see that this is a living thingMolimus.’

‘They do see,’ I say in replyuncomfortably, for it isn’t really safe targue with the White Ma’at. ‘And theenjoy turning it into a dead thing.’

‘Molimus,’ she starts, and I know shs going to defend them, and I canfathom why – ‘Molimus, you have a foon both worlds. And in one world thi

animal has life, and you see it, and I set, but in the other world it has no life, s a thing. You see more than mos

persons, true, but that’s damning wit



faint praise. Your eyes have a picture ocruelty on the inside. You see thapicture clearly, and because of it, se

other things unclearly.’I think of what I might say and choos

silence. When I think of how that picturcame to be there on the inside of meyes, I am certain beyond any possibilitof error that children know what ialive, and moreover that they ar

disposed to do harm with thiknowledge. I’m surprised that the Ma’adoesn’t know.

But in any case, I don’t see what thi

has to do with my horse and his needs.Then, rare for her, she asks

question: ‘Why do you want to save thahing?’



I feel like answering that I didncome all this way to talk to a towmatron with ordinary vulgar ideas.

wish I could hide the thought, but shsays, ‘What do I care about your dulhoughts, Molimus?’ Her hands fall a

her sides after she speaks. The unstrungesture is not one that should belong ther. She isn’t like herself at all today, shat I dare to ask:

‘Is anything wrong, Ma’at?’There’s nothing to like about thdistracted way she pinches at the foldof her clothing, as if the white woo

were full of seeds and burrs, nor the waher jaw goes around like a cow’chewing cud. Thankfully, both motioncease and she retires her hands to he



sides again – they look better hanginhan twitching.

There’s no reason why the Ma’a

shouldn’t be tired, of course. She waold a long time ago, and her life hacertainly had its ups and downs. But it’oo much to believe that she is actuallnfirm in either body or mind. Or that shs changing. The world changes. Th

White Ma’at doesn’t.

‘The White Ma’at doesn’t,’ shechoes me aloud. I can’t tell whether shs agreeing or mocking me.

I try to think of nothing, while her eye

move back and forth under the cataractsprobably following the movements ofigures she sees in her head.

It comes to me that she would surel



have dismissed me by now if she didnhave any magic for the Gleeful HorseSo perhaps she wants to bargain, afte

all, and has a peculiar way of saying soday.

The White Ma’at is a great one fobargaining. When she was young, as theell it in Bracklow and Shindy, she lost

battle that she shouldn’t have losRather than blame herself she blame

her armies and cursed those of her loyamen who were left alive. She cast spell that pushed them into the chalhills like raisins in a pudding, so tha

hey all died in the white dark.After that she slept, and was capture

whilst asleep. She was to have beehung and burnt, but she escaped – b



means of a bargain with Princovember himself. That’s why she neve

eaves her house in the midst of th

cloister. Prince November keeps hehere. He knows she’d escape from hi

forever if he let her wander even as faas to the paths in the birch wood, nevemind to the bus stop at Barrage CrossGossip says he drinks knowledge frohe vein on her forehead at night an

uses it for his business in the world.The White Ma’at says she doesncare about my dull thoughts. But if I hasome thoughts that glimmered a little

Perhaps she wants payment or partpayment in that coin. She is gettinfretful, it may be, like a bored child, sicof her boxed-in life, and wants to hear



wonder-tale. I would rather believe thahan believe she has changed, or i

changing.

But how to give wonder to a creaturike her?

‘Well, White Ma’at,’ I begin at lasas for why I want to save him, it’s likhis…’

From the seed of the name I gave hihere grows a tale of happiness an

delight that was lost to the world evebefore the long-ago age when the Ma’atruled from their halls where ShindEstate is now. The gist is that my Gleefu

Horse will bring this happiness back tus.

Or the beginning of the tale growsanyway, issuing from me like a run o



notes from a whistle. I use my beswords – words and devices of speech have heard during my life an

remembered for their decorative annoble effects but have never haoccasion to use aloud.

My efforts sound very handsome tme – so handsome that they even sounruthful.

But before I am much past th

beginning, the White Ma’at snapEnough!’ so sharply that I jump. In thglare of her cataracts, my story liedead. If it had been a treasure animal i

would have been not beaten witwooden weapons but dispatched in anstant with one swing of a real sword.

I want to cry out that this is not



game. It’s all I can do to bite my tonguecan’t make myself not think of puttin

my huge hands around the neck of th

White Ma’at and shutting her throat foher. Of course, if I tried something smad, she might drum me into the grounike the biggest raisin of all. I feel sick

not for my sake but for the sake of mhorse, whose winking eye shows howittle he understands.

But the White Ma’at only twitches heips, as if she were amused at last.‘Let’s not tell the end of the story,’ sh

says, and her voice is calm. And she

hen: ‘You must fill that sorry thing witreasures again, Molimus.’ I don’t lik

her calling him a sorry thing. But hearken to what she tells me, now tha



she is speaking about the Gleeful Horse‘You don’t know at all why you wan

o save it. But I know on your behalf

The future will work through youMolimus. Who would have imaginehat? Replenish his treasures – you havour work, Molimus the Great

Replenish them abundantly.’‘And how shall I do that?’ I as

gruffly. Her insults and sneering ton

have rubbed me up the wrong way, and can’t hide it – but I think she was tellinhe truth that she doesn’t care about mhoughts, even if they’re disrespectfu

Should I buy caramels and trinkets anfeed them to him?’

‘No,’ she answers to my words. ‘Thworld inside him is yet another world



You can’t see it, Molimus. These thingshese nothings that fall out of a treasur

animal, are altogether different whe

hey’re inside him. In the world insidhim, they are more like stars. It ielements – starlike pieces – of this sorhat you must gather and feed to him. H

has one left, as you saw. One is noenough.’

I feel a qualm, as if conspiracy sit

here with us. The Ma’at sounds morike herself again, but I am suddenly ilwith a spasm that feels like shame. can’t say whether this is the reasonabl

compunction that belongs properly to thhealthy conscience of a man, or amaginative, fanciful shame. Whatever s, here in the Garth of the Aorist it ha



he shape of a real, solid thing stuck imy gullet, making me gag around it. Mongue feels it as it comes up with

mouthful of bile. It is annular, with aembellishment on one side: a sort oornamented sphincter. I spit the plastiring out onto the floor, where its stoneof pure false red blink sleepily in thweak sun that has placed one foohrough the opening in the wall.

The White Ma’at picks it up anmakes it vanish between her fingers lika street magician doing a coin trick.

‘Was that a starlike piece?’ I ask.

She says no, it wasn’t, but it wasomething I should feel better for havingot out of me.

And waits, until I ask where I shoul



find them.

Within every living thing is a starlik

piece. Those within human beings arbright, and those within children are thbrightest of all. As people age, thstarlike parts grow dim as though witdistance, except in the cases of certaigeniuses and halfwits. At first I didnunderstand how children can be so crue

and their starlike parts so bright, but thWhite Ma’at, who told me these thingwhen she gave me the Wine of Smokesaid that she knew nothing of stars bein

kind, only of their being powerful.She asked me three times if I reall

wished to drink the Wine of Smoke.The Wine of Smoke was acquired b



her, hundreds of years ago, from a mawho combined the talents of wizard anvintner, who had come to the Garth o

he Aorist to bargain with her. Shntended to use it to escape from th

confinement that Prince November haforced on her. But even after drinking draft and becoming smoke, she founhat she still could not penetrate past th

cloister. The White Ma’at spent mor

han a century in sorcerous meditation ohe most strenuous kind to turn her bodback to flesh.

For someone who is not a sorcere

here is no such possibility of returnAnd the gift of death is lost. If one whhad drunk the Wine of Smoke wercaptured and, for example, shut within



bottle and the bottle sent deep into thearth, he would be stuck in that binuntil the end of time. This, said th

White Ma’at, is the penalty I shoulexpect to suffer if I ever break ouagreement.

As if I would ever break it – for all iwell with the Gleeful Horse. He greetme leaping and grinning when I returhome in the early mornings. Even befor

get back, I hear him whinny merrilwhen he smells me coming through thfog on the river.

I think he has forgotten that he wa

ever hurt. There’s no rancour or fear ihim, nothing timorous or furtive. Hbreathes in the starry motes – they looike sun-kissed thistledown – through hi



fiddle-shaped nostrils. He capers alaround the bridge and the docks, rollinhis eyes and winking, brave as a flag

friend to cats and dogs, and that is as should be. I only wish I could pet himbut in the afternoons I lead him by mscent to Shindy Park, and the old ladiewho feed the ducks there make a greafuss of him.

The starlike pieces don’t last ver

ong – this being because they aren’t hiown, the White Ma’at taught me – so must keep putting them inside him, as shold me to do. For each one that I give t

him, I must take another to give to her.Over in Firmitas they shut all thei

gilded and vermilion windows at nighand in Bracklow and Shindy they han



up charms next to fireplaces. On botsides of the river they talk in whisperabout the smoke that sticks to the life o

children and pulls it away. The ones thsmoke touches sicken and die quicklyBefore they die they change, becominike wax-paper figures. You could ligh

candles in them and they would be childshaped lanterns. Because they becomhollow, like treasure animals, the sic

ones are euphemistically called TreasurChildren.Bracklow wonders where Molimu

he Great has gone, but I’m still around

n the smoke of chimneys and buexhausts, and in the engine smoke of thday boats ferrying the folk who work amaids and porters in Firmitas. I believe



know what the White Ma’at does wither share of the starlike pieces, for I’vseen Prince November in his tin

shingled carriage out on the chalk hillmore than once, with his retinue in duand black, driving towards the bircwood. He and she have come to a newagreement, I think, whereby she ipaying off her debts.

The vein on her forehead has becom

a lode of white gold: often swollen, busometimes flat, so that the gossip abouPrince November drinking from her hagained more currency amongst thos

who go to see her. But not so many dhese days. Unthinkable as it is, she ha

changed. She is nearly always queenow. I never know whether she will b



distracted or depressed or silly when come with the lovely motes for her tnhale. She wears the ring I coughed up

and when she’s in her whimsical mooshe steals admiring looks at it, as if were a real ruby band on her finger.

I would not have believed it possiblebut since the emptying sickness has been the world the old game of murderinreasure animals has fallen out of favour

Ball games and swap cards are populanow, and pageant games.In the pageants, a character calle

Grinning Horse has for some time been

playground hero. He is the one whsaves children by breathing in the smokbefore it can reach them. He is also thone who, by the laws of the games, is th



bold opponent of a certain Prince Noever, and his old nurse, the Whea

Mate, and defeats them (as he defeat

policemen, schoolmasters, and other vilenemies – often in rough and bloodways, children being what they are).

For months, I could make no pretenco having an explanation for this, bu

eventually I began to hear things. Iseems that the Treasure Childre

hemselves started the invention oGrinning Horse, Prince No-Never anhe Wheat Mate. If what I have heard irue, the Treasure Children dream o

hese characters after the smoke visithem, and they say the smoke gives thehe dreams in exchange for their lives

The dreams, and the part played by th



smoke, they confide about to friends ansiblings before they are seized by thsilence that comes with the hollowin

effect of the illness, and the accounts arreinforced by others who fall sick.

I remember the White Ma’at’s wordconcerning the future, and how mnever-finished tale of the Gleeful Horssounded true when I tried to tell it.

So perhaps it will all be just as

magined.



OTHER’S CURTAINS

For Alex Dally MacFarlane ‘She doesn’t like us,’ complaine

Mother’s curtains.

‘She used to. We used to undulatabove her bed while she thought of oucarnations in a garden.’

‘What a garden that was! It went o

forever.’‘In fifty directions–’‘Colossal–’

‘With long lawns and parterres anopiaries–’‘And grottoes and bosquets an

espaliered orchards, once she found ou

about such things–’



‘People in towering silver wigs, likwalking castles.’

‘Buttonholes embroidered wit

carnations.’ The curtains sniffed, one side sniffin

o the other, and the other side sniffinback. The sniffing went on through thgrey plush afternoon and the brief nylonellow sunset and into the evening

when, as the street outside darkened an

people started to come home in theicars, doubt set in. After all, they weronly ordinary curtains in an ordinarhouse: they were not all that immensel

sure of themselves. Now drawn together, the two halve

of the curtains began to discuss theidentical uncertainties in whispers.



‘Are we really mundane?’‘We are a lot like the curtains over th

road.’

‘But we gave her lovely dreams.’‘But not wild dreams.’‘Well, never mind about her. She di

all right in the end, after all. What abouus?’

‘Us, dear? What do you mean?’‘Well, have you ever had a wil

dream?’‘Have you?’‘I asked first.’‘Well…’ The half of the curtains tha

had been asked – it was the left side gave a self-deprecating twitch. ‘As matter of fact, I did use to dream aboubeing a sail. On a pirate ship. Terribl



silly of me. I mean, what sort of piratwould have carnation-patterned sails?’

The right side of the curtains the

confessed to having had the same dreamt said: ‘But I thought that carnation sail

might be just the thing to have on a piratship. On a pattern like ours, who woulnotice a few drops or even sprays oblood?’

In the morning, the curtains tolMother about their wish.‘Oh, how convenient,’ said Mother

I’ve been thinking about running awa

o sea. I hadn’t decided whether I wagoing to be a jolly tar dancing hornpipe or a pirate out of Tortuga wita pair of pistols and an enormou



rainbow bird on my shoulder. But if yowant to be pirate sails, then my decisios made.’

‘What about Father?’ asked thcurtains.

‘Oh, he died last night,’ Mother saidI found him at the foot of the bed, al

shrunken and flat. At first I thought hwas a hot water bottle! But I suppose shall pack him in my case.’

‘Huzzah!’ cried the curtains. In Tortuga, Mother and her curtain

attracted a crew of sensitive an

hygienic pirates who cared about thittle things almost as much as they care

about loot. The sea air agreed witFather, who came back to life a



Hibiscus, the ship’s cat, a great blacvelvet creature with an assassin’s minand a penchant for turning up in th

dreams of captains who were fated tdie at the hands of Mother’s elegancrew.

As for the curtains, they swellecontinually with the trade winds, sure ohemselves at last.



EACH RUBBLE

‘I’m a bona fide crone, honey. I hava thousand wrinkles, but if that doesnbother you, come and visit me.’

She identified herself as Melusine

Her avatar was classically human, witblack wavy hair and an elegant, maturolive-skinned face. She was wearing aunbelted black kimono coat, ivory sil

pants, pearl jewellery. Around her yocould smell a dry chypre scent. Heappearance and her way of speakin

didn’t seem like the efforts of a younperson play-acting. I felt sure she wagenuine, my certainty bolstered by ittle sly hope. I’ve always had a thin

for older women.



My avatar was a thrown-togethecollage of tattoos, liquids and volcaniight in a loosely humanoid form. It ha

stars in its eyes, tiny suns and meteordancing around like tadpoles in the oozpupils. I didn’t tell her I was onlseventeen. I assumed my youth waobvious.

‘I’d like to,’ I said. In the absence of mouth to smile with I made my face do

coruscating shimmy.She handed me a mandala-shapepasskey and faded out of the V-lounge.

When I visited her in her towebeside the tropical, madly turquoise sehat was also hers, I wore a new avatahat was basically me as I am in th



flesh, tweaked to be a little more athletiof build and chiselled of profile than mau naturel. I liked the way it looked i

he maroon pleated slacks and whitopen-collared shirt I’d chosen for costume, but I was less happy with thface. With my tourist-class moodware even though I’d forked out for thArtiface extension – I wasn’t able tachieve a really lifelike quality o

expression.Apart from wardrobe switchebetween classy outfits, Melusine’avatar never changed. She looked mor

ike a real human than anyone I’d evemet in V. One day I got around to tellinher this. Our avatars had been lovers foa few weeks, and I was starting to lov



more than just the sensations of beinwith her. We were sitting in canarmchairs in the circular space sh

called the tea room, though we nevedrank tea there. A drone in a whitcaftan brought us gin and tonics anpanatelas out of a carved humidor. Throom was decorated with old prints andwarf palms in African pots. Biwindows faced the sea, where dhow

and a couple of sailing schooners werdrifting around in a world of sun-igniteblue. You could hear the sea and thmurmur of the town below the tower.

‘Well, the server plays a part,Melusine said, looking out at her worldBut it isn’t only that. Reality come

with age. A sapling isn’t a tree,



caterpillar isn’t a butterfly. Until you gehere, you can only fake it. No matte

what we do, the soul shows its stuff

even in here. Perhaps especially ihere.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘If you donhink I exist every bit as much as you doust because I’m young, then you’d bette

ditch me for an ageing lothario.’‘My dear Zack, I am an agein

othario. Anyhow, I was complimentinou. Young people are stage magiciansand for that I like you. If I were so fonof reality, would I have had mysel

ifted? I doubt the poor old carcass iworth much of a look these days.’

She claimed to have been one of thvery first migrants out of the flesh



When there were great beasts on thearth, Zack. When many a marvel existen the world, I also existed.’

After a pause in which she draineher glass, she said, ‘For crying out louddon’t listen when I talk through my hatOr do listen, but notice the hat.’ Then shchanged the subject. ‘Shall we go ansee what the trade winds have broughn?’

‘Sure,’ I said.Technically, we didn’t have to waldown the stairs. We could have jusumped out of the window, but then we’

have missed all the glass and mosaic angold and silver treasures Melusine kepn niches on the staircase. It was all cli

art, she’d confided to me – but she ha



good taste.In this phase of her life she was

collector, she said – ‘but only o

bargains.’ Beachcombing was one washe could get something for nothingQueuing in the soup kitchen of art, shcalled it. Her crying poor was obviouslan affectation. Poor people didn’t geifted.

At the bottom of the stairs we wen

hrough a blue door with a fanlight, ounto the garden of palms and oleandersA walk under the trees took us down the sunny, weathered town o

whitewashed houses that followed relaxed maze of streets. Dark-skinnedrones simulated a bustling populationThe slightly breezy warmth of the air an



ts salty ocean smell were particularlwell done.

The weather was the same wheneve

’d been there. ‘Really it ought to bhotter than this,’ Melusine had said. ‘Buhis is my perfect day.’

She had told me she was born iZanzibar and that the town was based ohe island’s old capital, Stone Town

Many of the houses had the carved door

he real Stone Town was famous forHowever, from other conversationwe’d had it was obvious that she placeZanzibar on the wrong side of Africa, of

he coast of Gabon.Though it could have been that sh

had simply forgotten the real world’geography, I wondered if she had neve



known where Zanzibar was, and hamade up the story about her origins. didn’t mind. Who ever tells the truth i

V? Besides, when half the veebooterou meet are pretending to be vampire

and ETs, a not-quite-Zanzibar seems modest fiction. And perhaps she hadeliberately put her Zanzibar in thwrong place.

We went down to the beach via a stai

between walls covered in scarlebougainvillea. It was your smooth whitsand and coconut palms kind of beachwith lulling, sparkling wavelets, an

parrots and gulls for colour and noiseEfficient shark programs patrolled thwater. I’d never seen a single porn bottlor other spam object on the sand



Melusine used the beach as the portal foan open art gallery she subscribed to. Aot of rubbish washed ashore, as you’

expect, but so did beautiful anntriguing pieces. She took what shiked, including some of the rubbish, an

put it in a room at the top of her tower.I followed her down to the cov

where the daily quota of offerings camn. Several dozen items lay in a bed o

seaweed on the damp sand. I stored mshoes and sat down with my feet in thwaves while Melusine looked through all. I was always interested to see wha

ook her fancy.Today she set aside a dramatic phot

of sunrise on a Mars base, a barrel ocartoon monkeys that performe



acrobatics when you poured them outand a short film, in a framed screen, of oung man lying nude on a sofa, sleepin

fitfully and sometimes waking anspeaking to the camera. But her find ohe day was a rosewood cane with avory tiger’s head for a knob. She gave ow whistle when she noticed it, anifted it out of the seaweed with a loo

of delight. She pointed out the realism o

he materials and the fine detail in thcarving, and handed it to me so that could feel the weight and texture of it fomyself. It was heavier than I ha

expected. I could imagine swinging it ia brawl and cracking the kneecaps anskulls of the less well equipped. Thvory beast was roaring, showing it



eeth and a long dark throat. Itexpression was more than ferocious; was horrid. I handed the cane back t

Melusine.‘I think he’s a man-eater, don’t you

Zack?’ She jiggled the tiger’s head ame.

‘What an evil thing. He certainlooks annoyed about something.’

‘He is angry because he doesn’t exis

except here. An angry ghost.’At that moment, in her avatar’s subtlchanged expression, I saw things I didnremotely understand. I was almos

frightened. I wondered whether thhuman race had changed a great deasince her day.

‘The maker’s muse must have bee



some hooligan or loony he met on a darnight,’ she said. ‘I like that idea.’

‘He or she,’ I said.

I thought she probably liked it fomuch the same reasons that I liked herbut I felt too shy to say such a thing. Shook the cane and the other thre

offerings and left the rest. The sea woulake them back. I played porter, carryinhe items of secondary interest, whil

Melusine carried the cane like a royasceptre. She stopped once in the streeon the way back and flung her armwide, pointing the cane towards he

ower. She cried:‘I am the Boss of Zanzibar! Tribute i

sent to me from far lands and my desireare the law!’



She only just managed to finish thipronouncement before we both starteaughing.

‘The drones ought to be cheering,’ said, looking at the faces in the streetsome of which had turned towards us.

‘They’re not programmed to carmuch about what I do,’ she said.

‘Well, I’ll cheer you then. Hip, hiphooray!’

Her smile stiffened in place and realised her mood had changed.

She was happy again by the time w

returned to the tower.In the highest room, which she calle

he Lost and Found, there was a greaamount of stuff from the beach, all i



disorder. Much more was in storagerepresented by boxes and suitcases. Shdid a bit of filing while I was there, an

put her new acquisitions on displayexcept for the cane, which she took wither as we descended to the tea room. Mime warning plughole gurgled.

Melusine sat with the cane across heap.

‘Tell me honestly, do you reall

believe a person accrues reality as theage?’ I asked her over a final drink.‘It is my opinion,’ she said, ‘that in

oung person the soul projects itself ou

onto the world, casting about foreceptive surfaces. The half-formedentity needs to see itself in order t

check on its progress. Every day it hope



o glimpse the mysterious telos towardwhich it senses itself travelling. Thsoul comes to the face and leaves sign

of itself there first of all. To read thsoul in the face requires a mirror, ocourse, which is why youth is forevepeering into the looking-glass: naturacuriosity, rather than vanity, is threason. If the hand becomes involved writes graffiti. Generally speaking

everything a young person writes igraffiti. Ochre handprints on a cavwall.’

I tried not to feel insulted.

‘I think some people really do see thaglimpse in the mirror,’ she went on, ‘anhen they know who they are and whahey’re going to do, and they do it. Bu



not everyone gets the glimpse, and whehe years go by without it there’s just

gradual process of becoming used t

one’s uncertain self. Perhaps I could sahat the soul goes native. The territory o

one’s own identity never ceases beinstrange, but it ceases being exotic. It’hen that you stop seeking your ow

reflection so obsessively. Then wonderful thing will happen. The sou

begins to turn its focus around, until ihas swung a hundred and eighty degreesWhen this state is achieved, you’rfinally seeing the world. You becom

receptive. Not receptive like a childchildren are simply programmed to bsponges, and they can’t help it. I meahat you stop insisting on working, doing



giving, making, teaching, nourishingYou’re glad to stand at the other endYou stop wanting to make an impressio

on the world and start hoping the worlwill make an impression on you. And thworld obliges. It soaks into you. It putts weight and history into you. It makeou real in a way that you, standin

heroically by yourself, cannot hope tdo.’

I smiled slightly. ‘I guess I’ll have twait and see what happens.’‘You will.’ She thrust the cane at m

and roared – a big cat’s roar she’

pulled out of a sound library. I jumped imy seat, which made her laugh.

‘I have to go,’ I said.‘See you again, Zack.’



She waved, and I faded myself out. Next time I visited, we went flying

Melusine had a birdflight program, but preferred to just float, so that was whawe did. We drifted over an archipelagof islands that extended beneath us as wrose higher through mild, gauzy wincurrents. Bird calls and snatches of seshanties peppered the air.

We returned to a mattress on wooden balcony halfway up the towerThe midday call to prayer was risinfrom the town. Melusine had shut he

eyes against the sun.‘I’m tired of most people,’ she said

but not of my gigolo. Do you mind mcalling you that? You’d be my gigolo i



he real world.’‘You’re a dreadful old woman.’‘I am,’ she agreed. ‘A dreadful ol

woman who lives in a dreadful town ogolems and likes dreadful things.’

‘Except for me. I’m nice, and you likme, I hope.’

‘I do like you. Sooner or later you’lget tired of make-believe and wonwant to come back; but that’s all right. I

would be sad if that didn’t happen tou.’We lay silently for a while. Th

muezzins had finished their song

Melusine opened her eyes and rolleaway from me to look through the railof the balcony.

‘Zack, I’ve been living up high for s



ong. Would you believe that when I waa young woman I lived in a tower? AfteZanzibar I went to university in France.

went down to Marseilles on holiday anmet a man who lived in an olighthouse. He was a lazy fellow an

always poor, but I fell in love with hienough to marry him.

‘I was married for thirty years, untimy husband left me. He heard mermaid

singing on a spring night and went dowo the beach and waded towards theivoices until the waves closed over hihead. On nights after that I sometime

glimpsed their long cold tails flashing ihe water, but I never saw my husban

again. I saw so many strange things. saw ghost ships, and even Leviathan



The top of his back, turning through thwater. Those black ridges rolled for hala night.

‘A woman from the sea took my sonoo. A year after my husband died ther

was a terrible wreck. A big cruise linerMy son and I watched it happenSomehow we couldn’t make ourselveurn away. Perhaps the world asked us t

witness. No survivors were found tha

night, but in the morning he found heying there with the kelp. She was froAthens. He went back there to live wither.

‘So then I was alone. A lot of peoplried to persuade me that I should mov

down into a cottage, or an apartment ihe city. They couldn’t see why I’d wan



o stay in the lighthouse. But I liked iOver the years I had come to need thsea and the sky around me. I wa

halfway to being a bird, and thighthouse was my eyrie.’

As she wasn’t looking at me I didnhave to worry what my face was doingBut then I just shrugged to myself. If shwas a little mad, what did it matterreally?

‘You know, when I had a body anived in my lighthouse, there was nothinbetween me and the rim of the universbut vanishing waves. I never grew tire

of that enormous sea.’Instead of pointing out that th

Mediterranean wasn’t enormous, I saidYou didn’t think of it as your enemy?’



‘Oh yes!’ she answered, speaking sfiercely that I almost flinched. ‘It wamy adversary. I never forgave it. Bu

still I had to accept what it gave me. couldn’t deny the beauty of it. I habecome very stubborn. For the rest of mife I would insist on existing as though

stood naked in a gale, feeling everythingEvery day was a sequence ooverwhelming impressions. Once I saw

albatrosses migrating. There wermillions of them. I thought the whole skwas clouded, until I realised it waafoam with white birds… The sky gav

me that, and in a way the sea gave meven more. If you ask most peoplehey’ll say, if they’re honest, that the

dislike images of things that live in th



deep fathoms of the ocean. They wanalien life to be on other planets, not theiown. But I love the idea of there bein

hings that will never be revealed tanyone. Don’t you think there’enormous power in a secret that wilnever be told?’

‘I do,’ I said. I felt caught up in hewords, to a degree that surprised me.

‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I wasn’t reall

expecting you to believe me, and yodon’t have to believe me now, but whe lived in the world I spoke with ol

fishermen who told me of things the

hrew back into the sea with a curse anan invocation to the Virgin. Things thwater brought, that made no sense them. I believed them. The sea is th



great alchemist. I still sometimewonder what it changed my husbannto. Does his eye roll around like

golden wheel in front of a vast barnaclefin? For a long time I felt like a childMany things bemused me. I felt I coulbelieve anything.’

I decided to make her a present.

was no artist, but that wasn’t going t

matter, since I only had to give twobjects some basic properties and puone within the other. Since there was nway to make it end up in her quota fro

he gallery if I uploaded it there, slipped it into the seaweed while shwas looking at something else anwaited for her to notice it.



She had already chosen a couple opieces before she picked up mine. It waa blue glass bottle with something insid

t which couldn’t clearly be seen.I watched her try to work out what i

was. First she held the bottle up to thsun, but the glass became more opaqun the brighter light. She tried to removhe stopper, but it was fixed an

wouldn’t come out. She shook the bottl

a few times. It made a windy sound, thea sound like a crackling fire, then onike wheels rolling down a woode

corridor. She took the bottle over t

some rocks and tried to break it. It waunbreakable.

She kept it. She made no commenabout it at all, which disappointed me



ittle. If she had seen me planting it shdidn’t drop a hint.

The last time I saw her we’d beeflying low over the beach and town anwere sitting on the sand, watching thsky turn from blue to hibiscus-orangand pink as the sun went down. She wagripping the tiger-head cane and her haiwas flying around in the evening breez

off the sea.‘As far as I know, I’m the oldesperson in the world.’

I tried to work out how long we ha

been seeing each other. It came as shock to realise it was over a year. hadn’t told her I loved her, because couldn’t imagine what my childish lov



would have meant to her.‘Will you do me a favour?’ she asked

Will you keep on accepting the world

and not turn into one of those deplorabloung people who are too arrogant t

really receive anything except filthucre? Will you promise?’

‘I’ll give you a definite maybe,’ I saidobscurely pleased with my flippancy.

‘I get a sense of vertigo, sometimes,

she said. ‘When one is standing on cliff, one can only look back so manimes. That which is below pulls.’

I switched on, at last, to what she wa

rying to tell me.There was no way my emotions coul

have registered properly on my faceAnd I couldn’t find anything right to say.



Finally, fumbling, I said, ‘Are yohinking of… going away? Because–’

She put her finger on my lips. ‘I’

afraid I am. No, I put that wrongly. I’not afraid at all.’

I looked away. Looked at her worldThe holiday-brochure beach. The skydimming, popping out stars.

I suddenly, selfishly, wanted herespect, and I hoped that the profile I’

urned to her was somehow lookinough and untouchable, as if I werdeigning to show her for the first timhat I had secrets of my own, to whic

she could not expect to be made privy.‘I thought we could fly back to th

ower,’ she said. ‘Unless you’d rathefade away now, with my last perfec



day?I looked back at her, shaking my head

I’d rather fly.’

I received a letter through th

Barclays remailer from a firm oattorneys in Lausanne, informing me thaa recently deceased person oundisclosed identity had left me a smalsum of money and a V property accoun

fees paid for the next century.There was also a personal messageon gilt-edged vaper in sloping script tha liked to think was her real writing. Th

note proved to be infused with hechypre perfume when I read it again ihe tower:



My dear Zachary,

Life is not one thin story, but a

many as you wish to tell. We walk thlank, and dare the ocean. Aren’t w

unny creatures?

I shall remember you with love, i

memory remains with me, if I remain.

Melusine

There are mysterious bottles floatinn the oceans, jostling with the spam.

I haven’t decided what to do wit

Melusine’s world yet. I’ve been goinhrough all the stuff in the Lost an

Found, looking at the things she chose tkeep, discovering something like th



shape of a hollow where she had lain ihe sand of other people’s minds.

I’ve been making copies of the blu

bottle and uploading them to the gallery’ve spent a lot of time on this gesture

because although the bottles all make thsounds of the sea and a murmuring townhe secret, inaccessible content of eac

one is unique, and made with care anall the skill I have.





He was, however, devoted to himother, who lived in the walls ancommunicated to him in melodic an

dramatic sighs that became particularlexpressive when she reminisced (anshe did little else) about her youthfudesire to live in a terrarium with a chinpagoda that was to have housed himbleful of the ashes of her entirel

wooden lover, who died after catchin

fire staring at the sun in a set ocommemorative spoons.If a combustible creature wishes t

ake leave of the world thus, it is best t

do so in a blue room, facing southwithout clothes on, though gloves may bworn.

It is also very elegant to wear glove



n the bath; then one’s hands easilbecome amorous starfish that attachemselves to one’s face and breasts i

good-natured, pentacular, leatherconcubinage. To watch the sun risbetween the rays of a starfish is tremember something blunt like a bulbut diaphanous, without weight, thadanced before your eyes once in a feverwhen others of your own race were stil

mute hieroglyphs, sand and surf not evedreams in the driveway. It rightlbelongs in the cupboard with the savears – but how it resists! Like a Ferri

wheel it is unexpectedly strong. It wilprobably break away and get up to whknows what stormy feast of narcissus…



VISION SPLENDID

I. Strathgower, central Victoria

1953

‘They must have been pigeons,’ sai

Lillian Heap, one of the older girlsaffirming the logical explanation. Thcareless set of her body – a wellfurnished, freckled woman’s body in th

fawn school uniform – declared againsother possibilities.

To the short and stocky girl wit

recently-cut black hair who stoodequally fawn, on the dry grass borderinhe tennis court she said, ‘Are yo

coming, Joan? Or are you going to sta

and wait for the flying saucers to land?’



It was a generous invitation to be thsort of person who had friends. It woulhave taken great courage of conviction t

explain why it had to be refused.Joan Walker, who had been the onl

one to see them, hid a frown under thcovered racquet she shaded her eyewith as she continued to loosearchingly overhead, willing theireturn.

It was the third week of March anstill hot. The sky had reached the stagwhere it looked sick and tired of itglorious state; the blue was very thi

around the edges. Only the sun was keenpressing light down with a fierce wilupon the asphalt courts and the deagrass



It couldn’t be supposed that a nyloniswisp of cloud in the pale lower registeof the sky was hiding anything. ‘The

weren’t saucers,’ Joan said pedanticallywithout thinking. There was in hemanner the signature of emplaced, heavand longstanding defence.

Someone shot back: ‘No – they werpigeons!’

Fawn figures had started to leave th

courts in dribs and drabs. It was now thde facto end of the school day for thstudents playing sports at the reserve, thhouse prefect having recently bee

around to mark the roll. Once the prefechad been and gone there was nothing tstop you from wagging the rest of thafternoon.



‘They were pigeons, or you’re goinpotty,’ declared Lillian, who lately habeen staking out a no-nonsense territor

of character. Joan felt a warming of thflush that the heat and the game had pun her cheeks.

‘Well, cheerio, you lot!’Lillian made a lazy about-turn an

headed off towards the bicycle rack ahe other end of the court. Joining in wit

he returning cheerios, Joan felt hevoice droop to a weak note.While people changed their shoes an

went back and forth to the drinkin

fountains and hung around talking, Joamade frequent eye-contact with the skystill hoping to see the futuristic silvecigars again. She had already sworn tha



he apparitions were positively silveand not grey or white, had no wings, anwere therefore neither planes nor bird

nor, as one wag had joked, Supermaand a few friends). And wings or nohey had been too high up for pigeons

But since common sense had chosepigeons, she felt there was still somargument to be made.

‘If they were pigeons, where did the

go?’‘Probably flew down to a roof,’ said blonde girl called Faye.

‘Well, I was watching them, and the

didn’t.’ Joan squinted at Faye, whshrugged and swung her racquet throughe air, as if to salute her own happines

at being free for the afternoon.



‘You must have looked away, then.’Joan squinted for a moment longer a

he disinterest grafted on the other girl’

features and recognised the lost battlhere.

She looked through the mesh fence ahe flattish range of galvo and slate roof

on the houses across the street. One roohad one lead-coloured pigeon on it. Hoight gleamed heroically on a new iro

veranda. That was how metallic thgliding objects in the sky had been.She was aware of holding, like a

untasted sweet in her pocket, a wish t

be a casual, easy come and easy gperson like Lillian and Faye, as shwalked to get her bike. But she fepainfully full of her own material, as i



Joan Walker were a small stifoverstuffed chair.

Riding home with the sun on the bacof her head, Joan took one hand then thother off the handlebars and wiped hepalms on her dress. The question obelief raised itself like a stalk in a field

If the others had believed, or even ihey had been interested in believing

might that have been enough to buy reprise of the vision? And then, if it habeen enough, might the reprise not havbeen a signal to the world to turn over

new leaf, recast itself, in one greagenial spasm – become, in one momenthospitable, kind, sympathetic?

Not all of this matter shaped itself int



words, but what remained undergrounn the earth of inarticulate feeling wa

close enough to the surface that it

general contour was intelligible.The road was paved with gravel lik

all of the streets in Strathgower excepfor a few in the town centre. A couple ogrand polychrome brick villas from thboom years after the gold rush stood odouble blocks. More attentive to th

ordinary houses, the usual loiterinpresence belonging to the afternooeaned a creased and flannelly shoulde

against windows with curtains that gav

a little in the middle. Parked caroffered it something to saunter around.

East, to her left, rising above the flaplain, the low ranges hugged the tow



edge, pressing their gumtree-covereknees to the earth and gathering up a fewstreets into their laps. Instead of ridin

home, she turned down Dunstan Streewhich led out to the railway line thapassed in front of the hills.

Ten minutes brought her to the levecrossing, after which the street rossharply, so that she had to get off anpush. The effort of climbing soon mad

her hot and flushed again. She mentallsaw her own face – a collection of largemportant shapes, smoothed out with fan which were the looks of a great aun

or two. In contrast to the over-maturattainments of her face, her body hahardly grown at the end of childhoodremaining brevilinear; it had onl



hickened, seeming to find the shortstemmed plumpness of its first years tocomfortable to give up.

This combination of face and figurdid not go at all with any of her internapictures of herself; not the ones in whicshe was a desirable woman, nor thmore private, attractive but confusinones in which she was a man. Yet if heface was false to her fantasies it wa

utterly true to her opinion of her souwhich she also felt was made of largcharmless shapes that she would nevebe able to pack into a graceful

comfortable arrangement.As for the body, it was too much lik

an unwanted Christmas present, swrong that it made you wonder who o



earth the giver thought you were, or whahey were trying to turn you into. It coul

not be refused, you could only cast it

shadow out of you with all your might.But she had reached the top of th

street. Here the town petered out. Asingle road, or rather a track, windinand studded with lumps of quartzcontinued into the trees, more or lesfollowing the ridge of the hill. Joa

stopped briefly to get her breath bacfrom the climb, then rode onto the bumprack.

The bush was drowsy, half-asleep i

ts bed of sunlight and wrap of slim paleau-de-nil shadows, muttering thquietest noli me tangere. Thgreenwood, in its brownish and bluis





where a miner’s cottage had stood. Alaround, flies hummed in the bark-litterebays between trees.

Would they make a sound if they werclose?

She climbed off the bike and stoosquinting up, until that which had beguo break broke and she burst open withe sense of herself as a tragic being.

‘Your mood will no doubt settle dow

of its own accord once you are marrieand have children,’ the doctor had said

Her mother had taken her to see thdoctor earlier that year, when it seeme

hat she was not outgrowing the tempeantrums of childhood as quickly as sh

should be. As it had turned out, irasciblhigh school teachers had through thei



own adult, sanctioned rages and stormof sarcasm frightened her temper intpatience. Now it always waited until sh

was away from school, sometimewaiting so stealthily that she didn’t knowwhen it was already there, like a tiger ihe underbrush.

She shoved the bike so that it fell oveoff the track. Letting it lie there, shclimbed through the wire fence an

marched down to the chimney with heeyes unfocused. She stopped behind thchimney, which offered the sense if nohe fact of privacy. One more stubbor

ime she looked up, and thought, If yocome back – she promised in the washe sometimes made promises to God – won’t do this. I’ll be good. I won’t b



angry anymore. I’ll change.The sky responded to her hailing a

ast: But you won’t change, it said.

She took a deep breath, preparatoryooked around to check that no stra

person was observing, then slappeherself on the arm. She hit herself on tharms and legs, and slapped one hanwith the other. The crime these blowpunished was the crime of being Joa

Walker. There was no other way to put.On the shelves of experience was th

knowledge that in a minute or two th

worst and most urgent energy of hemood would be exhausted, leavinbehind only a stump that would take timand stimulus to reach such a state again



although while the rage lasted it felt ahough it could last forever.

It came to an end. She frightene

herself with her own vehemence at lastSomething was appeased. So that nowshe could walk back, smarting anshaking but capable of normamovement, up to the track, as if she haonly gone behind the chimney for a wee

She picked up the overturned bike, bu

before she got on it she stood dazedlstill in the bright sun, feeling that thstuffing had been beaten out of the chair.

And her interior state change

suddenly. A spirit looked out through heeyes, and observed that the firestor was over, and that now there was queer wonderful blaze of light withou



heat coming from all directions annone. It swept over her as the rage hadone and she was just as weak before it

strength. A magpie warbled and in thsudden song she heard a reminder thashe had seen a wonder that daySomething inside her responded something that ached in a finer way thaself-pity or self-disgust – though it wababyish, like a grub arching itsel

owards the unexpected light when hand lifted the rock it had been livinunder, but too puny and inept to do mor– except that it was also sensitive, an

capable of swelling, as it did in churcwhen they sang ‘Jerusalem’, or aclimactic moments in films.

This grub enlarged suddenly, takin



her by surprise, as if it had fed secretlon the emotional substance of thafternoon. To the magpie’s handsom

song she answered, as she rode bacalong the track, with ‘Jerusalem’, in voice that even she found shocking, as missed virtually every note.

Nonetheless she sang loudly anboldly about the chariot of fire and thsword and the green and pleasant land

which her mind had always conflatewith the Jerusalem that was to be built; did not seem necessary or desirable tseparate them.

The smell of a beef casserole wa

flowing extravagantly out of the stovwhen Joan entered the kitchen. Mr



Walker came away from shelling peas ahe bench to kiss her on the cheek. He

weak eyes, close-set by the aquilin

nose that Joan had inherited, like twpale flowers decorating a Roman gravegave Joan a look of tender inspection.

Joan pulled away to get a glass owater.

‘Can I help with anything, Mother?’‘No, thank you,’ said Mrs Walker

urning back to the peas. ‘You get starteon your homework.’ Mother neveallowed you to help with dinner on school night, but you knew she would b

hurt if the offer were not made.‘Was school all right?’‘It was sports day.’‘Oh, well then.’



As soon as Joan had quenched hehirst, she went and washed her face anhen shut herself in her room.

She took her books out of heschoolbag and dropped them on thdesk. The desk was in front of thwindow, which looked out at thbackyard fruit trees, around and up andown which Keith and the boy from ovehe road were running madly.

The light was finally starting to softeas the shadows stretched out. A fewproper clouds had gathered at last in thnow-watery sky. Joan did not expect t

see anything up there now, and thaexpectation was met in full.

She opened the French exercise booon top of the pile, studied the workshee



stuffed inside it, and began translatinnto English the set extract from Conte

et Légendes. At the half-page mark he

attention departed from the tediouwork. She opened the desk drawer anook out a piece of loose paper. On it sh

doodled the UFOs, placing them in tharrowhead formation she rememberedThen habit took over and she begaotting down her usual things: ideas fo

her trousseau, schemes of decorationmenus for parties. Most of these planwere already established in her mindbut going over them supplied a soothin

sense that it was only a matter of timbefore they all would be enacted.

Her thoughts passed briefly throughe subject of the man. The husband-to



be that she imagined was not as detailen his points as the other arrangement

were in theirs. He was a benevolen

abstraction, with something about him oLieutenant Marlowe from The Sea Rove

wireless serial, with whom she had been love and who, sad to relate, had dierying to save the ship’s dog in a fire

Although The Sea Rover was lonfinished, Marlowe’s sacrificial en

meant that she kept adoring him a little.The fantasy then skipped decades, anpulled up like an express train in front oan apparition of herself as an elderl

woman, surrounded by grown childreand young grandchildren and the vaguenow whitened bloke, smiling a serenall’s well’.



To be that old, your work completedhe struggle of life over and heaven a

hand – this fantasy of the future had bee

a part of her imaginative repertoire sincshe was a child and she turned to automatically for comfort, in defiance oknowing that she should take a greatenterest in what lay between throusseau and the end of life.

She heard the side gate open and shut

hen the back door, as Dad came homeShe stuffed the paper back in the draweand returned to Contes et Légendes. Shwas still working on it fitfully whe

Mother called down the hall that dinnewas ready.

Having saved up the announcement ohe vision, Joan shared it with her famil



over the casserole. Keith was inclined tbe scathing – he was getting to that age but Dad appeared to bring a genuin

consideration to the matter. His rougnimble hands, clean now that he hagone from being a fitter and turner to anspector at the railways workshopowered the knife and fork to his plat

while he paused in eating to speak.‘I don’t disbelieve in them,’ he began

He raised his eyebrows and tilted hihead as he did when he wished to maka qualified point. ‘But I wouldn’t jumpo the conclusion that they’re little gree

men from outer space. My bet would bhat they’re experimental aircraft.’

‘Russians?’‘Or Yanks,’ Dad answered Keith



Yanks, more likely.’‘Did you find out about them whe

ou were in the army?’ asked Keith, n

onger scathing. Dad picked up hicutlery again and laughed.

‘Heavens, no. I wasn’t high up enougo know about that sort of thing.’

Joan helped herself to more potatoes.‘Don’t take so much, Joan,’ sai

Mother.

‘I’m hungry,’ Joan protested.‘You’re looking very solid. Isn’t sheArthur? Looking very solid?’

Dad looked down to consult his plate

An army marches on its stomach.’‘Yes, but she isn’t trying to invad

Russia.’‘I’ll put them back,’ Joan said.



‘We do live in an age of advancinscience, don’t we?’ Mother saisuddenly, addressing a place on th

ablecloth between the casserole and thpeas. ‘Or, who knows that they werenfriends of the Aboriginals?’

Where other people would have saiAboriginal gods’ or ‘Aboriginal spirits

she said ‘friends of the AboriginalsMrs Walker’s deviations from th

expected were always mild anceremonious. It was the ceremony tharritated Joan and made her want to d

something frightful like spit her food ou

onto the tablecloth or run around throom hooting like a monkey. She coulnot imagine being like her mother. Thmonkey was easier to imagine.



It was possible to see that Mrs Walkefeared vulgarity and took refuge from n slight affectations, such as an affinit

for the far-fetched and the exotic. With more generous eye it was not impossiblo find that her soul had been born i

circumstances not very suited to it andoo strong to agree entirely to thos

circumstances, if too weak to refushem, had grown up as a slightl

artificial, or imaginary, to use a lescondemning and probably more accuratword, version of itself. There wadiscernible partisanship in ‘friends o

he Aboriginals’.‘Better the Aboriginals,’ joked Dad

than the Russians.’Mrs Walker’s pursed expression mad



t plain that she thought her remark habeen given unfairly short shrift.

After dinner, Joan returned to he

room. Someone turned the TV on in thiving room and cigarette smoke begao drift through the house. With the T

filling in the background, she closed thcurtains resolutely and attacked hehomework.

At around eight o’clock, Da

appeared in the doorway. He held in hihand the telescope that was brought ouoccasionally for impromptu astronomessons.

‘Going all right?’ he asked.‘Yes, all right.’ Joan glance

nquiringly at the telescope.‘It’s a good clear night. I thought w



could have a look for your UFOs, iou’d like a break.’

‘Well, I don’t think we’ll find them.

Joan was too surprised not to say thfirst thing that came into her mind. Shworked up a smile. ‘But I wouldn’t mina break.’

Mother did not come outside, as shfelt the cold even on mild nights. JoanDad and Keith went out.

After the UFOs had been searched foand the search abandoned, the skygazinsession became an ordinary one. It wanatural that Keith, as the younges

should hog the telescope. While Daquizzed Keith on the constellationsalready familiar to Joan, she tried trecover at least the feeling that ha



brought on her singing of ‘Jerusalembut even that had been something wilhat was not going to return when called

After enough time had gone by, withe excuse of homework to finish, sh

went back inside the house.

II.Strathgower, 1964

Mr Dean was a miner froStrathgower who now lived at thCoober Pedy opal fields in SoutAustralia. He had chosen opals ove

gold, since, even before he was born, thgold remaining in Strathgower’s hillwas too deep to be accessible to a maon his own, and he preferred being o



his own to working in a commerciamine.

Like many miners, he left the field

during the summer and returned to hinative town. A human figure made froa minimum of dried and hardenematerial, his forehead elevating to a flaplateau twigged with upstanding blacand grey hairs, his way of livinncluded a gentle and abidin

alcoholism, the delicate early fumes owhich came into the Strathgower librarwith him at ten o’clock on a Thursdamorning in January.

After browsing the shelves he broughwo paperbacks to the loans desk wher

Joan was working that morning.‘As I always say, I’ve come te



refresh meself at the bar of literature’m going down ter Melbourne; I’aking these fer the train.’

Joan stamped the books and smilewith unfeigned cheer, for she liked MDean. She liked the way he spoke, whicwas evidently to please himself. Hielaborate stock phrase was mornteresting than most people’s talk.

‘Making a business trip?’ Joan knew

having been told by Mr Dean himselfhat he did not like to sell all his stone tbuyers on the field. He kept some backf he could afford to, until the summe

hiatus, and sold them directly to a gedealer in Melbourne.

‘Reckon I am. Wish me luck, eh?’‘I certainly do.’



He leaned across the varnishecounter of the desk, breathing likBacchus. ‘I’ll give yer a look. Yer ca

be the first person to see ’em, apart frome.’

Since no one else was waiting to bserved, Joan indicated that he coulshow her.

He reached into an inside pocket ohis sports coat and withdrew a brow

paper bag from which he gently shooout a bundle in a handkerchief. Joaknew Mr Dean’s paper bags anwatched the unfolding of th

handkerchief with anticipation.This time there were six or seve

fingernail-sized pale opals. As usual, thstones he had with him were ‘rubs



cleaned of waste rock but still to be cuand polished. He spread them out on thhandkerchief. The milky pebble

sparkled with electric green and bluepink and orange, here and there showinoff the strength of red or a burst ochartreuse.

He entered upon a short, poetispeech that he had given before, oseveral previous show-and-tel

occasions, more or less exactly in thsame words he now spoke.‘Isn’t it amazing ter think they’ve bee

n the ground fer millions of years, an

t’s taken till now fer someone to look aem? Yer could put ’em in a crown.’ H

appeared moved. Joan gazed at thgorgeous stones, drinking up their seale



ridescence with her eyes.‘Magic, aren’t they? I wouldn’t do

ust for the living. I save ’em. That’

exactly what I do. I rescue thesbeautiful things from the darkness of thground.’

‘And the light completes them,’ saiJoan.

‘Ah, you know. You know.’ He put thopals back in their handkerchief in th

bag and the bag back in his pocket. Hooked away and when he looked bachis face exhibited a mixture of intensnexpressibles.

‘I could tell yer a story,’ he saidMost people wouldn’t believe it, buou might. D’yer want to hear it?’

‘Go on. You’re right, I might believ



t.’He began by leaning over the des

again, his manner becoming confidentia

It was up at that place where I founhese. Out on the fields, middle of th

day. I’d just come out of me hole fer breather. Well, I looked around, and saw a bloke, standing just about teards away. Of course, I wondered wha

he was doing there on me claim.

‘There was only him and me therenobody else around. Me eyes were stiladjusting to the light, so I couldn’t sehim all that well – at first. Anyway,

called out hullo. He didn’t say anythingbut he looked at me. Me eyes came goon a moment, and I saw his face.’ M

Dean pulled his lips back against hi



eeth. ‘He wasn’t a human being. He haa face like a lizard. He wasn’t burnt, hwasn’t deformed – he just wasn’t human

And if you’re wondering how clear saw him, I can tell yer he had sad eyesLooked as if he was holding back tears –for what sorrows I couldn’t imagineAnd then he was gone – poof! Jusvanished. He was there, and then hwasn’t.’ Mr Dean leaned back

separating himself from the desk. ‘WelWhad’yer think of that?’‘It gave me a shiver,’ Joan sai

ruthfully. ‘I don’t disbelieve you at all.’

Mr Dean looked satisfied. ‘You’re alright.’

‘Can you remember what he wawearing? A spacesuit?’



A shake of the lean head. ‘No idea. wasn’t looking at his clothes.’

‘What do you think he was?’

‘Wouldn’t have a clue.’‘An ancestor spirit, perhaps?’‘All religion is hocus-pocus. Nothin

n it,’ he said firmly. ‘No, he was mystery.’

‘I saw a mystery like that too, once,Joan began.

‘Go on, your turn.’She related the story of the fleet oUFOs she thought she had seen when shwas a girl. It was the first time she ha

spoken about the vision since the day ots occurrence. She had kept the memory

which already had the grubbfingerprints of doubt on it, a secret fro



hen on, so that it should not be damageany further by the application oanyone’s disbelief.

The unexpected gift of a listenewhose sympathy seemed guaranteemade her begin confidently, but wheshe had finished speaking she was nosure that she had not made a mistake iunburdening the tale to Mr Dean. Heexperience seemed less remarkable i

he light of his. She had to force herselnot to end on a lame retreat intconceding that the objects might havbeen birds after all.

But he did not seem to doubt her.‘That must have given yer somethin

o think about,’ he said. ‘I knew therwas something different about you



You’ll have an interesting life.’‘Well, I hope I do.’That seemed a natural end to th

conversation and he looked about to takhis books and leave. But Joan felt hungrfor more sympathetic talk, and she wastill alone at the desk with Mr Dean. Shhought quickly of a subject to raise.

‘Are you going to Melbourne thiafternoon?’ she asked

‘Tomorrer morning.’‘Don’t you hate what they’re doing the city? Pulling down so many beautifu

old buildings and throwing up thos

awful office blocks?’ To be fair, many ohe old edifices could not have passed

safety inspection; but sensing a kindrespirit in Mr Dean she felt sure o



receiving from him the balm oagreement.

‘Oh, I don’t mind about that,’ he said

Things change. People want to try newdeas. They want to spread their minds.’

‘Oh, well, I suppose so,’ she saiwithout feeling.

‘Don’t worry, you’ll have anteresting life,’ he said – she realisehe phrase had taken his fancy – and h

ouched his forehead and left.The house, when she returned to it ihe evening, was bright, as it always wa

at night, as if its rooms were full o

people; but it was only her mother, whwas nervous of the dark, leaving thights on. Joan had spent two years i

London and was broke when sh



returned, so that she had been obliged tmove back home. Keith had a bank jon Melbourne, so that dinner was onl

for Mr and Mrs Walker and Joan.It was on the tip of Joan’s tongue t

relate Mr Dean’s story. But she feareher mother’s response. Mrs Walker’mannerisms had grown more extravaganwith time, and there might be a hand laion Joan’s arm, a sickly smile, an

something sentimental said about Joan’childhood vision. And Dad, whateveelse he might say, would also say thaou couldn’t discount the DTs, and sh

would agree with him because shncreasingly liked to agree with him.

After the dishes, Joan took her shoeoff and lay on her bed. She stared up a



he ceiling with its modest rose and itseveral big cracks in the stale icing ohe plaster. Her mind underwent a quee

remor. She composed a fantastical sorof script addressed to the spacecraft – ihey had been spacecraft – and th

persons in them, if persons there wereThe missive took a line of lament. Whyshe asked, had they appeared so brieflydidn’t they know what contortions o

hope their visitation might cause dowbelow? Were they unaware, were thecruel, or did they misjudge their oweffect – were they as careless as huma

beings?Then her thoughts ran out, and she la

quietly while the sense of waiting for response wore away.



For comfort, she burrowed a little inthe daydream – she had kept it securel

with her – of herself as an old woma

for whom life was an accomplished feaShe was a little ashamed of it now, buno other daydream had come along witsufficient charisma to replace it. Librarwork was drudgery only relieved boccasional meetings with characters likMr Dean. She was twenty-five and ha

not had a lover. A psychiatrist had madfrowning if undiagnostic noises over henot having had at least one affair iLondon. She was now strong enough i

her own opinions to think him a fooThe simple fact was that no one haappealed. She pushed up the sleeve oher blouse and studied a scar on her arm





ast she was able to get in the coup d

race:‘Yes, I’ll give them your love. Al

right. Goodbye, Mother.’ Joan hung uhe phone and clenched her fists. Sinchere was no one to see her, she beat th

air with them. An hour. A whole bloody

hour . She swore under her breath as shhurried from the kitchen into the livinroom and then the hall of the house, wit

which she now had a closer relationshihan ever since a computer had replaceher at the library two years ago. Thcleaning and upkeep of the house was i

her hands, according to a rigid schedulfrom which she disliked to deviate. Iher more jocular moments shsometimes thought of herself as



housekeeper for the bank that owned thplace.

With period front rooms, and furnitur

of the right age hiding the worst of thrising damp, it was the sort of old houshat people admired. She had assumed

would attract guests and fill naturallwith friends, but the sitting room and thdining room saw use only a few times ear.

The sherry was located in the dininroom. She allowed herself one glass foeach thirty minutes of the phone calAfter the sherry she felt grandiose an

forgot that she was wearing grubbhousecleaning clothes. Her body went owith the day’s interrupted chores whilher mind turned upon snatches of poetr



and oratory that she felt an affinity withSweeping in the kitchen, she recited ifull voice – ‘Now is the winter of ou

discontent made glorious summer by thisun of York–’; ‘We shall defend ousland, whatever the cost may be, w

shall fight on the beaches, we shall fighon the landing grounds–’; ‘Should yoask me, whence these stories? Whenchese legends and traditions, with th

odours of the forest, with the somethingsomething, with the rushing of grearivers–’

The rhythms of ‘Hiawatha’ caught he

up while she darned a pair of Natalie’school tights. Those rhythms encourageher to a militant pitch of feeling. Shmarched up the hall singing at the top o



her lungs, as off-key as ever, the firsverse of the French national anthem annto Natalie’s bedroom singing the firs

ine of the German. And then at lasstanding empty-handed in the hall wither head held up – ‘Swing low, sweechario-ot…’ until the sentimental tearpricked her eyes.

Then it was time to pick Natalie upatalie always went to Amanda Lucas’

house on Tuesdays, and Amanda came theirs on Thursdays. It would not do tbring Churchill and Longfellow anRichard III. Joan laughed inwardly at th

hought of turning up with them all iow. She changed into a skirt and blous

for going out and ran a brush through hehair. She gargled toothpaste in th



bathroom and chewed mints in the car. Natalie was talkative on the wa

home.

‘Gail’s nice, isn’t she, Mum?’‘You should call her Mrs Lucas. An

es, she’s nice.’‘She said I could call her Gail.’ A

pause. ‘I like her hair a lot. Do you likt?’

‘Yes, it’s a pretty style. Though I’

sure she helps it with a curling iron.’From the back of the car, Natalie’oud voice piped approval of glamorou

Gail Lucas who went jogging and di

azz ballet and always wore makeupShe was particularly impressed, seemed, by Gail’s ability to sunbathe ia bikini by the pool.



‘When I grow up, I want to be likher,’ Natalie declared.

‘Well, if you want to be someone’

rophy wife, that’s your business. I hopou’ll have the looks for it.’ Joa

sometimes found herself talking tatalie as if she were much older tha

en. Natalie let her sigh be heard.That evening, while Joan prepare

dinner, Natalie sat at the kitchen tabl

copying notes out of a book for homework project. Part of her remaineattuned to her mother’s mood, whicevery gesture and attitude revealed to b

ense and hostile.She knew she had provoked the mood

But there was a wisdom in her minwhich believed that with the right sort o



goading, her mother might change anbecome a pretty, fashionable, relaxemother like Gail. To go with the new

mother there would be a new, moderhouse with a swimming pool. And withe new mother and the new house, ther

would be a new Natalie, much prettieand more like Amanda. This Nataliwould have a horse somewhere in thcountry and be allowed to wear makeup

All of that was worth risking a rowfor. Therefore, while her mother wadoing the potatoes, Natalie found newpraiseful things to say about the Lucases

t did not take long for Joan, her patiencried, to snap, ‘Just dry up about thos

bloody people.’‘I’m only talking.’



‘Well, find something else to talabout.’

Joan fought the upsurge of rage. Sh

attacked the eyes of a big spud with thsharp end of the peeler. ‘I’m sorry,’ shsaid bitterly, ‘that I’m not what you wanme to be. As you get older, you’ll finhat most people aren’t what you wanhem to be. And perhaps if Mrs Luca

was your mother you wouldn’t think sh

was that much chop, either. You donknow people when you only go to theihouses.’

Although Natalie felt a littl

frightened, it was always interesting thear her mother talk like this. Shdecided to say:

‘Am I what you want?’



‘Of course. Although I wish yowould be more obedient and loyal aimes, I love you very much.’

She did not turn around as she spokeand Natalie only saw her mother’s old tshirt and her pink elbows, and her thicwaist around which an apron was tiedand heard in her voice an inflection oforce that she took for strictness.

Joan did not want to show how hur

she was by her daughter’s crush osomeone else’s mother, or how, boperations one could not explain to en-year-old, she was upset by th

hought of the Lucases’ world, which ther seemed both enviable for its wealtand despicable for its plastic-and-pinaridity. You could not imagine what it



spiritual qualities were; they werpeople who knew only materialistic anhedonistic goals, and while she reasone

with herself that it was natural for child to be attracted to such people, ipained her that Natalie showed no signof being the unusually sensitive sort ochild who just might have felt somethinamiss.

She had told herself often – and felt

sincerely – that she was glad Nataliwas not odd like her. And yet, she hahoped that out of herself might comsomeone whose soul was naturally i

sympathy with her own.There is, she thought, a masculin

spirit inside me; a martial spirit – but useless blustering one, all sentiment an



no courage.So she condemned herself.

Natalie was pushing it. ‘Why don

we ever go to Bali?’‘Do you want a sting around the legs?‘No.’‘Then stop saying things to drive m

mad. I’m not having a good day.’ Natalie fell ostentatiously quiet.Going on with the vegetables, Joa

heard a plane and glanced up through thwindow above the sink. The sky waimpid and, as ever, free of visitors. Sh

had not told any of the doctors about th

silver shapes. There had been no othehallucinations. A couple of years aghere had been that pilot, Valentich o

Valentik, who vanished over Bass Strait



and all the stir about a UFO havinsomething to do with it. And when thegave you gloomy black and whit

pictures to look at, how were yosupposed to make up anything bugloomy stories about them?

There was so much to think about –she was packed in a heaving crowd ohoughts – until the car came in and th

gate clicked and the strange top of th

man’s head passing under the windowheralded the last quarter of the day.



ADAME LENORA’S RINGS

Madame Lenora’s turban was sizzling pink, and she was fat again.

‘You’re fat again,’ said the Marquisbefore seating himself at the table in he

egendary tent.‘Your head is fatter. The usual?’‘The usual,’ he affirmed, containing

sigh. He still felt woozy from th

warding glyphs placed among thpictures on the tent’s painted exteriorThey couldn’t keep him out, of course

They were reminders, merely, that hentered at his own risk.His pale eyes were fixed on her hand

while she shuffled the cards. It wa

awful, but he couldn’t make himself loo



elsewhere.Each plump black finger wa

decorated with a ring. Fancy costum

ewellery, enamel beasts and bisemiprecious stones, as flashy as the resof her costume, and, indeed, his owsilver-sequinned jacket. Their kinweren’t given to understatement.

Nine of the rings glowed like littlightbulbs. Only one, on the fourth finge

of the left hand, a marcasite panthecurled around a moonstone as big as aolive, was dull. Uninhabited.

She had captured all nine of hi

brothers and sisters, each win adding thmprisoned sibling’s suite of powers t

her own. He was one of the strongest ohe ten, and he was the luckiest. But h



would have to be very lucky to beat henow. Very, very lucky.

The spread suggested that luck was o

his side. Madame Lenora’s smile wamischief itself.

‘Well, Marquis?’He pursed his lips and tapped th

head of his cane. This was unexpectedShe might lie, but her cards didn’t.

On the other hand…

There was a reason why no one hagone to anyone’s aid until it was too lateSibling rivalry was the curse of theifamily. It had taken him a thousand year

o start missing one or two of them. Aallies they would never be better thaunreliable.

Yet it sat badly with him to take n



action, attempt no revenge, to be coward. But the consequence ofailure… and there would be no rescu

for any of them if he lost.Madame Lenora, still full of mirth –

were fat people really happier? –nterrupted his thoughts.

‘How about you try your luck tonight’m game if you are.’

It was already over. The moment ha

passed, if there had even been a moment‘It seems I never am,’ he said, tryino be breezy.

Her pity wasn’t a pleasant meal, bu

he had a cast-iron digestion. He coulmake something of it.

He put the right amount of monedown on the table and returned to hi



own black leather tent. Severacustomers were queued up outsidepatiently waiting their turn to be flogge

and humiliated.He wondered if he hadn’t picked up

some of their quirks of character.



HE MIRRORS

A horse cab dropped him off at thDelgano Library of Arts and Sciences aone o’clock, when the lawns in front ohe building – a neo-Baroque box in th

centre of Sheol, the city on the edge ohe Teleute Shelf – were lying like sheetof malachite under a rather damp palsky.

A thin man in his sixties, he put in aappearance at the library on mosSaturday afternoons. His suits wer

dressy for the daytime, his long grey haiwas never without arrangement in ribboned queue or flowing tail, and hicuffs and tie pin were invariably an

variously jewelled. With his old



fashioned dandyism he looked like aageing musician or actor, and it was ahe latter that he had made himsel

known to the library’s staff.The lie had an element of truth, as

good lie should: an actor’s vocation haalways been a constant in his substrate, mine of pleasure and almost incidentallan aid to profit. It had served him weland he was too old to give it up. It wa

hardly a stretch to play the part of cultivated, mildly eccentric, worldly buscholarly, retired knight of the footlights

He left his hat in the cloakroom

keeping his coat and silk muffler on. Ihe privacy of the men’s room h

downed a measure of the snake oil hidoctor had given him. In spite of being



cure for stuttering and an aid tconception, it contained the usuapainkillers and helped allay th

discomfort in his gullet and the newisaches in his ribs and pelvis. The liquidat least, still went down handily enoughWithin a few months if not a few weekshe doctor had warned, it would not.

After rinsing his mouth he emergeand crossed the coffered foyer to ente

he library – a two-storeyed, galleriespace that was large and light, crowneby a great circular skylight like an opeumbrella above a frieze pierced wit

windows, and outfitted with electriamps on the desks and over th

bookcases. Downstairs, the march omahogany shelves paused at pedimente



doors to the music, manuscript anprivate study rooms.

Not a helluo librorum as such, he wa

a reader mainly of magazines anournals, his interest being in what wa

current – which, taken together with hiappearance, could be seen as a reversaof the usual situation where a bodoccupies the here and now and the minsome other point in time. Nevertheless

he had a list of bafflingly obscure booksnone remotely new, on longstandinrequest. To the request was appended thnstruction that he should be informed o

he acquisition of any material illustrateby a particular artist.

Having reserved some periodicals thweek before, he presented himself at th



service desk, where the girl on duty haa particularly bright smile for him.

He could admit to himself that hi

vanity was consoled – and he hachosen not to care much what his pridevanity’s fretful overlord, thought abouhe consolation – by the favour hi

moderately gussied-up, libertine-in-ahomeopathic-dose, Saturday charactehad found among the library’

complement of bluestockings. They dinot like the naked, unchastened egos ooung men; an old man’s wistful ego, ohe other hand, and his skills in the art o

deference, brought out the daddy’s girl ievery one of them, so that they treatehim with smiles and daughterlallegiance.



Other men took up gardening owatercolours as hobbies in theiretirement or semi-retirement; he ha

aken up sensitivity, for the samaesthetic reasons that he did everything.

The girl would lightly prick the veiof small talk, and he would sasomething warm or witty–

‘Mr Casmir, one of your books haurned up,’ she revealed, her lowere

voice making the information sounclandestine. ‘It came to us recently in bequeathed collection. Shall I fetch it foou?’

‘Please do.’He had not prepared a reaction i

advance of this admittedly unlikelmoment. The fact was that he had give



he list and the name to the bluestockinbrigade on a whim in the nature of why not?’, since it was a matter o

which his curiosity had never been laio rest; but it had not been important fo

a very long time.He found himself waiting with ver

ittle in the way of anticipation stirring due less to surprise or even the habit oprefacing passion with dispassion, hi

self-observing side opined, than tdullness of mind and body – even whehe librarian returned from the roo

behind the desk, wearing white cotto

gloves and carrying a slim folio-sizevolume.

She placed the book on the counter ifront of him. ‘It’s quite terrifically rare,





opened the book to the title page. Threal jolt happened then – it was ratheike having a suitcase of old belonging

hrown at him, all its contents fallinwilly-nilly over his head – at the actuasight of it printed there – Illustrated i

imment Inks by – and a name tconjure with. A name that had conjured.

He thought that he must have lookedevoid of intelligence for severa

seconds, and was pleased to heanothing out of order in his voice when hsaid, ‘Thank you, Miss Airlie, I shoulike to read this.’

‘I hope it was worth the wait,’ the girreplied, informing him then that rarbooks could not be taken to the gallerupstairs or the study rooms, but had to b





wont to set up camp in distant regions ohe organism, he knew exactly what wa

happening to his bones. His body, whic

had always been as tough, serviceabland obedient a body as one could wisfor, was now losing all of its previouslexcellent character and common sense. Iwas really no longer his; it had declarendependence; though like some tin-po

upstart state, it had no idea how t

organise itself and was doing monstrouhings.So that it smacked somewhat o

parodic coincidence to be revisited b

his particular book, of all his long-agover’s works that might have turned up

here in the present.It was a simulacrum of a medieva



lluminated bestiary. The cover’s gildemage was that of a sort of super

chimera, a beast with an abundance o

heads, which, not content with beinnumerous, were chimeras themselves half-baboon, half-eagle; half-tiger, halfram; half-fly, half-elephant, and so on –as if to say, ‘Boys, it’s chimeras all thway down.’ A short preface informed threader that the volume was intended as

showcase for the chemical inkperfected by paint and dyestuffs maestrDurn Limment. It had been produceduring the craze for the Middle Ages (

nostalgia the culture had quickly purgefrom its system, replacing it witpeculiar nostalgias for the future aneven the present moment).



The colour engravings were as viviand as splendidly rendered as hremembered, and as full of figure

conjured out of the enchanted valleybetween the beacons of wisdom – thyre-shaped beast, or demon, calle

Bonvorog, with two heads whosbeautifully evil faces were composed oflames, and within its body, in ninchambers depicted in cross-section

mages of a human head catching fire anpassing through agony until reaching condition of pure flame like the outewo, with a final expression of coars

oy; the Ombelex, a stone with a bearof grass, locked in a cage; the Sarasp, hand facing palm outward, pierced by window showing a view, against



mountain background, of a flying bird cun four quarters; the Lantamagenta, a tre

bearing fleshy stalks from which grew

he figures of several sleeping mewhose virile members were burnincandles.

She had been obsessed, hremembered well, with rearranginforms, and thus meanings, in bizarrways, as if she had been trying to creat

something much more powerful out ohe original elements. Like the Saraspmany of the combinations were hardlbeasts, but more like inapprehensible

perhaps only hypothetically possiblexperiences expressed as symbolibodies – but if that was true and wortunderstanding, it was a deadly dry wa



o think of a bursting heart, a vase full ohate, or the eyes of prisoners. In othewords, there was a command to leap an

grasp onto something, even if it was thhand of an evil spirit. One could feel threstless mind behind them questing fonew qualia – for sights never possessedfor spiritual cargoes not yet on thmarket. One saw – one knew, one haheard her talk about it at odd times – th

attempt to use artifice to get beyontself and into a magical reality whicwould become factual at the moment obeing breached and entered

Monstrosity, frantic disorganisationnvasion of one form by another, nothin

doing what was proper to itself: theswere her methods, her own little war o



a reality that simply would not do as was. He wondered if she would haviked his wayward cells.

Among the more conventionaunconventional figures there was thsphinx, her symbol for herself, whosred hair in the image became red waven which tiny figures of men and wome

were drowning; and the basilisk, thking of snakes, a feathered serpent wit

he sharp, devilish face of a man whoseering grin implied a nature more likVice than Royalty. These images draggehim out of the abstractions with which h

had been dallying and threw him bacnto the memory of love that had got ou

of hand.How was he to describe it to himsel





– with one and only one of her etchingappearing in his world and serving as maddening clue through which he was t

find her.Two coincidences, then. And so wha

one might say. Yet there it was, aunexpected as the book: threcrudescence, gathering momentuafter the vaguest of beginnings, onterest in playing the tracking game. H

was ready to feel disgusted at himselfor imagining that the game might havstakes – but he had to wait for thdisgust to come, and when it did, it wa

so old and weak and uncertain of its owvalidity that it made him sigh through hieeth.

He could hardly forget her theory tha





when they had found the float in thcanal.

Conceivably she had made more tha

one version of some of the plates. Morikely, his memory was fuddled, by th

strong drugs he had enjoyed all his lifas well as by the usual accumulation oies and fantasies.

His own logic argued that, to an actories and fantasies were valid currency.

Like hell money for the dead.Chimeras all the way down, was it?A thin smile creased his thin face

Here might be amusement, at least – i

only, eventually, it meant that he woulaugh at himself.

Having thought of how he could plawith the book, he rose, wondering if h



would be lucky this time; he was, anwithout uncomfortable interruption hwalked to the desk, obtained paper an

pencil from the obliging Miss Airlieand returned to absorb himself iengagement with a pretence: namely, thahe book might contain a message.

He began at the first page againreviewing each image and thdescriptions on the facing pages, whic

o the best of his recall had beeproduced by a copywriter of poetic bent was suitably delirious stuff. An

secret messages passed between text an

mage should be accidental – he woulhave to throw a net and see what icaught.

He studied the sphinx and the basilis



first, the directions in which eyes gazeand limbs and tails pointed, and drewmaginary lines (another sheet of pape

serving as a ruler) from any seeminndicators to the text. When this yielde

nothing, his hunting nature felt warmeup and ready to work through the wholbook.

He went through the same procedurwith each picture, and when, as he ha

expected, no individual image revealea message, he drew up a table fondicated words, with the column

marked Eyes, Hands, Tails, and so on

and the rows numbered for the plates, owhich there were forty-three, one foeach letter of the alphabet.

Altogether this took two hours, an





and Hello.All to nothing gained.He did not allow himself to sigh o

appear disturbed. That would bdistasteful. Certain shows of emotiomight be forgiven an old and ill man, bunot to be included among those, undeany circumstances, the grumblings of player who was getting nowhere in game!

He pursed his lips, visualising a lonwait on a rooftop with a rifle; thpatience of a donkey essential to the job

Trying a more properly ludi

approach, he fashioned keys out obedroom talk, vulgarities, cant anslang, pornographic clichés, curses annsults. None of these opened a door.



He was aware of the afternoon tickinon, the light deserting the overhead glas– he had turned the desk lamp on alread

– other readers leaving one by one, untihe was alone.

Now Miss Airlie was going to comand tell him to get out. Out of the corneof his eye he watched her: a GirGuide’s forthright walk, but thin wrists.

Chimeras all the…

‘Excuse me, Mr Casmir. I’m afraiwe close at seven-thirty, so I shall havo ask you to return the book in a few

minutes.’

He felt a slithering vampiric lust foher. Unconnected to his personal tastest was certainly the hunger of age foouth, questing for what was most aliv



n its vicinity. He was inclined to view iwith celebration.

‘Of course,’ he said smoothly, movin

his arm to cover the notes he had beewriting, since they contained words thaMr Casmir’, whose scent of rakishnes

was a mere dab on a handkerchiefwould not wish to show a young woman

The librarian went back to her post ahe desk, and he folded his faile

attempts and put them away in a pockeThen he sat with his thoughts for fivminutes; he stood up, enduring a brienasty jab; and, approaching the desk

after handing back the gloves, but not yehe book, and saying a few words in it

praise, asked the question on his mind:‘How much, Miss Airlie, would yo



say this volume is worth?’‘Oh, quite a bit, I should think. It’s i

first-rate condition and very rare

Probably a couple of thousand florins.’It was then necessary to ask, ‘And d

ou know whether one might be able tnegotiate its purchase?’ – so that shaughed and shook her head and supplie

him with the answer that was mosprobable. ‘I’m afraid not. The librar

doesn’t sell to private buyers.’With the book in one arm, he begaremoving his glasses, while he said in anterested tone, ‘And you, Miss Airlie –

do you subscribe to such democratideals?’

She frowned – having a nature whichwhen it suspected fault, liked to give



warning. ‘What a question, Mr CasmirYes, I do; of course I do. You don’t?’

He was blithe. ‘You’re a youn

democrat; I’m an old hypocrite. One haprinciples – but what a trouble to keepconstant company with them. One shoulvisit principles as if they were greaaunts; with all due deference, but not tooften. Don’t you think?’ As he made thispeech he watched the meaning behin

her frown change from disapproval the impression that he was gaga.She answered in a firm voice

slightly raised, since they were the onl

people in the library now, ‘I certainldon’t think so. I’m afraid you must havfatigued yourself, Mr Casmir. Home ana bit of rest for you! Now, may I have th



book?’He gave his head a little shake and le

his features fall in the shape of regret –

father denying something to a favouritchild. ‘How nice you’re being. But no’m afraid – I have to take it.’

‘Have to?’‘Wrong words,’ he acknowledged

while the hand that held his glasses tooout their case and opened it, without th

aid of the other, which was still holdinhe book; however, getting the glassento the case one-handed apparentl

proved too difficult, and he droppe

both on the floor. He tsk’ed as he bendown. When he straightened, the glassewere out of sight and he was holding gun.



It was not a gentleman’s gun – at leastnot a modern gentleman’s. It was heavand black and had a well-used, well

oiled look.‘I should have said, I can’t help takin

his book,’ was how he correctehimself.

‘I am disappointed, Mr Casmir. I hanot thought you were a thief.’ Full credo her nerve, she raised her hands calml

and did not gasp or tremble or danything else to suggest that she wamade of other than steel, for which hcould have kissed her – it was quit

right that she should be the cool anunmoved one.

‘Theft is not a habit of mine,’ hreplied, with a smile brightening hi



eyes – ‘only an occasional indulgence.’‘Was it a whim?’‘Very much so.’ Still telling the truth

he said, ‘I’m sorry that I shall not bable to return. But perhaps it’s time to dsomething else with my Saturdaafternoons.’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t think yowould shoot me, Mr Casmir. But if yoare a man who acts on whim, perhaps

shouldn’t try my luck.’ Now she waooking embarrassed for him. Well, hhought , you deserve it.

‘Good thinking. My trigger finger ha

been known to slip, and I’m gettinclumsier with age. I expect you have aalarm under that counter.’

After a moment’s delay she nodded.



‘Pull the wire out.’She pulled it out.‘I am angry,’ she said. ‘I want you t

know that. Extremely angry.’‘I should think so.’ His left hand wa

working to tuck the book away in hicoat, under the strap of the shouldeholster to which he then returned the gun

He walked out arranging his mufflerpassing the doorman in the foyer, wh

was reading a newspaper and barelglanced up. He retrieved his hat from thcloakroom, where he adjusted the strao hold the book more comfortably, an

ipped the smiling doorman on his waout.

A cool, agreeable evening receivehim outside. The smog was brightly li



Coquettes were beginning to make theiappearance, in wonderfully short skirtsThe man of sixty felt the slither again

his time with more pep in it. Trolleycars rattled down the street – charming– with the windows of a wunderkammeror indeed specimen slides paradinnature’s captive secrets… he stepped ouand hailed a cab, climbed in gingerly –he hoped the girl’s nose wasn’t too ou

of joint – really, how soft was hgetting? – the book was perhaps juswhat he needed, it would keep hioccupied if not out of trouble–

Inhaling and coughing, having in thmidst of his thoughts lit a cigaretteagainst orders (‘because,’ the doctor hasaid, ‘while the prohibition is pointles



now, you’ll enjoy defying it’), he febuoyant. He farewelled ‘Mr Casmirhanking him for his company, telling hi

his was a good time to be goinseparate ways.

His vanity wished to remember bettecrimes. To hell with vanity. Alightinfrom the cab at an obscure square, hstood and fiddled with his clothing untihe cab was off, then started walking

returning soon enough to a busy streeand hailed another cab. His heart beaagainst the book. He gazed at lightewindows, house after house, wondere

what his mistress had done about dinnerand whether he would keep it down, anwould his prick stand up, or would it banother night beginning and ending in th



Bois de Gamahuche?But out in the suburb people drew

heir blinds, since there was nothing t

see but the neighbours, who had nothino see but you – and other people’

houses incessantly repeated, one easilforgot how; and the wind was getting upso that he was glad of his coat anmuffler.





For patiently abiding, having picnics,

Letting the cutups loose?

The hard one’s gone already, thoughnot

To die. Moss will cover all his hurtsmaybe.

Reports of a unicorn in the outfield

Patterns in the corn

A miracle in the otherwise stable Night – You, nightwatchman, whathappened?

Nay, but I was sleeping like the

gnomon there on the lawn;My dreams were full of fish and

spies,I don’t suppose you saw them?



And so we have to listen to this

tedious gent,

Who parted company with reasonlong before

All this nonsense started,Recount the follies of a false life

Where infinite belongings were hisstock in trade,

Adore the flight of the riparian bird

Worship something found in a cave,Tie parcels with string,Avoid the cold heap over there,

Although it looked like Cornwall–

He woke more like Osiris than a

taxpayer,Unable to forget that he was king,



once. Nay, but I was sleeping like a kite

dipped in silver.

Into my mouth swam many thingsAll alight, incendiary, flailing,

Came to rest in my care– Here, this one’s yours, you can have

it–

–while a tram rattles back to the

depot?You were mistaken, mein Herr. Weshall have to walk

And slip like children back through

the fencesInto the world of infallible dunces.

Chances? Where are your dice,You said they were Limoges, or was



it Limburger – paintedWith handsome twits and twats from

that erotic book your mad ancestor

wrote,What was the title – Egypt, Still We

With Spit ?They are not in your handbag?

Well, that’s nothing to do with me.You can go back and look for them.

I have to go to an opening sale,

To buy more exquisite, delinquentthings than youOr your dark bird dreamed

In chalk-cut twilight.

But we must wind down to the

corner again;By all means, we must go home



And take a turn around the questionof the decorations

And your plans for a rocket.

We must get out the melodica,Ten times blow into the dirty hose,

Wish upon the black Porsche;Salaam the dog’s grave under the

apple tree,Do penance for violence–

Then what rompish, darksome,magic character Might spring, high-stepping,

Out of the cobra box on the summer

lino?And then what hordes, departing

through the snow,Dressed as bears and lords,



Might draw whoever needs someconvalescing

Time, or sexual leave, to holiday

shoresOnce painted by Watteau?

I prefer Epping Forest, or even the

Augarten– Best of all the Jardin du Luxembourg

As it was in the master’s time,

Dreaming, and silvan-haunted.That is to say, I want to go in, notover. But look,

I would paddle a boat in the shape o

a swanFor a thousand and one diaphanous

afternoonsTo hear one reed from the isle of Pa



Amongst the rumours bleatingthrough the crowd

And the music blasting from the

storesOr lose my shoes once in the park,

twice in the street, thrice in the sea– And your Hessian boots, dear

Excellence, and your sealed books – those too

Will have to go – and your servants

and the plans– And yes, even you, Milord– The diamonds you hoard in your navel, your title, your hand…

We have to part, like the red balloonand the world.



THE CRONE MEETS HER SON (ON A BATTLEFIELD)

The revolution, this time, was ‘toactualise the marvellous’.

The gunslinger

enlisted, far from sure of his part, fohis weapons fired onlycommon lead,

not multicoloured lights or waves okundalini. But he had,

in his dreams,

dived to the bottom of the ocean andseen the carcass of a whale,

with hagfish



at it all around like mad spermaround a dead egg, devouring

the infertile germ,

and felt his private share of

responsibility, like a new organ in his body,

a harmonica,

maybe. He had always been around

the edges, among the listeners,tapping a foot,

but if he really was a boar leaping

out of the sea, he wanted to knowthat furious joy.

There was no commander as such to



give orders, so he founda place on the left flank

with the giraffes, and an old womanwho had a tray of buttons

and a thermos

of black coffee, infinitelyreplenishing, which she shared around

like

a suave host. With gratitude he drank the unsweet

brew in the tin cup and remembered

how, as a boy,

he’d loved the tubes of buttons in thhaberdasher’s shop,



like lasting candy,

kaleidoscopes, or magic money for

buying magic thingsfrom magicians.

Perhaps, he mused, that was where

his longtime love of finery budded in tulip-stripes.

Looking back, said the woman, it’sall ravines and tempests. You’re cold,have my coat,

he said, stripping down to waistcoaand watch-chain. It’s bulletproof,

and keeps the rain out.



Well, I like rain, but thank you, andhere, choose some buttons,

son. The pearl is smart,

but please yourself. Thank you,

ma’am, and in the yellow dawn he chos plastic

sections of Jupiter

and brass wafers for the charity of

the poor, and pearl for the whaleand the egg,

and fake tortoiseshell for the

giraffes, and fuchsia velvet domesfor sex and love

and loaded them in his old shotgun,



and grinned like a fox suckingshit through a sieve

because that’s how it’s done, and hefollowed the old woman, who followed

no one,

cocking her leg at every pillar, eatinout of garbage cans, sniffing bums

in trousers,

her jubilant howl assuring him thiswasn’t desertion at all.



OTES

All the previously published piecen this book have been revised since firs

publication – some only minisculelyothers more extensively, though there ar

no major rewrites.‘The Art of Dying’ was the first story wrote and actually finished. I’d beewriting nowhere-going bits and piece

for years about the character wheventually became Gwynn (after tryinon a few different roles), and then th

stars came right, the characters toocharge and the story played out in mhead. Aurealis published it in 1997, ant and ‘The Love of Beauty’ were th

seeds from which my 2003 novel Th





secondary world, have always grippemy imagination and made me want twrite my way into a similar place –

hough ‘The Love of Beauty’ turned intess of a demimonde story and more of

foray into my favourite fairy tale than had planned.

‘We the Enclosed’ was written foeviathan 4: Cities (ed. Forres

Aguirre). I had done some touristing i

taly and Morocco, and later on in Egyptand was struck by the contrast betweehe tangible presence of history in th

very old cities in those countries and th

historical flatness of Australia’s mucnewer cities. I had also been thinkinabout consumer activity as questing – thshopper armed with money rather than



sword, but still looking for that speciareasure with magic powers, an

susceptible to bewitchment.

‘Maldoror Abroad’ is a love letter the maddest of ancestors, th

extraordinary proto-Surrealist poetiprose text Les Chants de Maldoro

1868-9) by the Comte de Lautréamontpseudonym of Isidore Ducasse. Aftereading it for the first time I felt a

hough my brain had been rewired by gloriously insane electrician, anMaldoror’s voice continues to echo imy head.

‘Alsiso’ and ‘Last Drink Bird Headwere written respectively for The Alsis

roject (ed. Andrew Hook) and Las

rink Bird Head (eds. Ann and Jef



VanderMeer). For the first, the game wao write a story titled ‘Alsiso’, a wor

originating in a typo; for the second

contributors wrote flash fictioanswering the question ‘Who or what iLast Drink Bird Head?’ – great fun iboth cases. My brain seems to likwriting to strange prompts. The left sidshrugs and passes the job onto the righside, I think.

‘The Memorial Page’ was an attempo write a Borgesian fable – so of coursa tiger turned up. After Morocco we hagone to England, and my husband’

relatives talking about their childhoodon the outskirts of London (which habeen more rural then) set off daydreamhat bumped together with daydream





o Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men anDaniel Keyes’ Flowers for Algernon

and of course the importance of pig sh

o the post-apocalyptic economy comefrom Mad Max 3: Beyon

Thunderdome.‘Saving the Gleeful Horse’ wa

prompted by Aaron Hunter: ‘A macares for a wild animal that has beenjured.’ Molimus leapt – or lumped –

nto my mind, and I remember hielling me the story and it not changinmuch from the first draft. The settingrew out of memories of six months

spent in England as a child, discoverinhe magic of places haunted by myth an

folklore alongside an everyday moderworld which in itself was a bit out-of



he-ordinary to me.‘Mother’s Curtains’ was written i

response to a story, ‘Bounce’, that Ale

Dally MacFarlane wrote to me in a cardAlong with ‘Domestic Interior’ and ‘ThCrone Meets Her Son’ it owenspiration to the joyful experience o

reading Penelope Rosemont’s Surrealis

Women: An International Anthology.I had always wanted to write

cyberpunk story, and figured it would babout hip and edgy young people, thehe World Wide Web got going and

wrote ‘Beach Rubble’. The title is fro

a fragment of Sappho written as graffit– ‘If you’re squeamish, don’t kick thbeach rubble’ – at the start of JonathaLittell’s cyberpunk first novel Ba



Voltage, a book I loved to bits.‘Vision Splendid’ was written fo

Gillian Polack’s anthology Baggage, fo

whose theme of Australian culturabaggage I tried to address what I see aa wilful narrowness in Anglo-Australiaculture.

The title is taken from A.B. ‘BanjoPaterson’s poem ‘Clancy of thOverflow’ (1889), a romanticise

portrait of a drover: And the bush hath friends to mee

him, and their kindly voices gree

him In the murmur of the breezes an

the river on its bars,

And he sees the vision splendid o



the sunlit plains extended,

And at night the wond’rous glory

of the everlasting stars.

I thought of ‘Clancy’ when I ha

written the story and considered thcontrasts between Australia’s preferreself-portraits of national character anhe reality of many people (especiall

women) who don’t resemble th

favourite archetypes and whosexperiences are left out of populanarratives.

The quote in ‘The Crone Meets He

Son’ is from Franklin Rosemont’s texFreedom of the Marvelous’ (Catalogu

of the World Surrealist Exhibition1976): ‘To overcome the contradictio



between these marvelous moments anhe everyday, to actualize the Marveloun everyday life – that is the surrealis

project.’



CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A great many thanks to my betreaders – Gillian Polack, Kirby CrowLaurie Bland, Andrew van der Stockand especially Nick Tramdack, to whos

detailed critique I’m much indebtedExtra thanks to Gillian for her skilfueditorial work on ‘Vision Splendid’ ano Michael Cisco for his valuable inpu

on ‘When the Lamps are Lit’. Mgratitude also to Jean-François Le Ruyefor correcting my French, to Mum an

Dad for their patient answers to mmany questions about Australiahistorical detail and for Dad’s helconcerning the number Pi, and to al

hose who were generous with sundr



assistance and advice. Last and mosthuge thanks to my husband Stu for all ohis support and critical feedback.



LSO BY K.J. BISHOP

THE ETCHED CITY IAFA William L. Crawford Fantasy

Award 2004

Ditmar Award for Best Novel 2004World Fantasy Award for Best Novel nominee 2004

‘Have you seen a split cranium,

growing flowers like a window box? I

saw that, a mere hour ago.’

Fleeing the ghosts of their past, ahealer and a killer escape from the

ruined Copper Country to the city of

shamoil. But as they salvage new live

from the debris of the old, they will





like KJ Bishop’s The Etched City, aheartbreak of a fantasy novel.’

– Junot Díaz

‘…fantasy as high literature, our

world skewed to a hard right angle.’ – James Sallis, The Magazine of

Fantasy and Science Fiction

‘In New Worlds (1964) Ballard said

that speculative fiction would never achieve maturity until it possessed themoral authority of a literature won fromexperience… Without doubt, Bishop’s

fiction has earned that authority.’ – Michael Moorcock, The Guardian

‘This is a challenging novel, both in



the themes and questions it subtly posesand the metaphors it disguisesindivisibly amidst beauty and

monstrosity… An amazing first novel,not only for the skill of writing,

complexity and richness of invention itdisplays, but also for the themes it is

willing to confront.’ – William Thompson, Interzone

‘The Etched City… is thoroughlyunpretentious but unafraid to delvedeeply into all manner of mysteries. It

features a cast of hard-bitten loners who

for all their bitterness and fatigue, arestill passionately full of life.’

– Gahan Wilson, Realms of Fantasy



COPYRIGHT

This is a work of fiction. Names,characters, places, and incidents either

are the product of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously. Anyresemblance to actual events, locales,organisations, or persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © K.J. Bishop 2012

All rights reserved, including the

right of reproduction in whole or in parin any form.

The moral right of the author has

been asserted.



First edition 2012

ISBN 978-1-62590-203-0

Cover design by K.J. Bishop

For information please visit

www.kjbishop.net

‘The Art of Dying’ © K.J. Bishop1997. First published in Aurealis #19

October 1997.‘The Love of Beauty’ © K.J. Bishop

1999. First published in Aurealis #24October 1999.

‘We the Enclosed’ © K.J. Bishop2004. First published in Leviathan 4

http://www.kjbishop.net/



Cities, Night Shade Books, 2004.‘Maldoror Abroad’ © K.J. Bisho

2003. First published in Album Zutiqu

#1, Ministry of Whimsy Press, 2003.‘Alsiso’ © K.J. Bishop 2004. Firs

published in The Alsiso Project , ElastiPress, 2004.

‘The Memorial Page’ © K.J. Bisho2002. First published in Fables an

eflections #2, April 2002.

‘Last Drink Bird Head’ © K.JBishop 2009. First published in Las

rink Bird Head , Ministry of WhimsPress, 2009.

‘Between the Covers’ © K.J. Bishop2005. First published in The Devil i

i b Prime Books 2005

Documents

That Book Your Mad Ancestor Wro - Bishop, K.J