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Authors: Paul di Filippo
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we climb it?”
“Certainly.” Crutchsump entrusted their purchases temporarily to the nearest vendor.
A circular staircase with crumbling steps clung to the exterior wall of the Belkys Tower. An iron railing on the outside edge of the steps seemed more rust than rail. Pirkle, perhaps wiser than anyone, declined to follow.
The top of the Tower afforded a small platform with waist-high crenellations. The view extended for miles in all directions, a variegated roofscape of chimneypots, orerries, spires, windsocks, ghost-traps, beetle-browed garret windows and glass-walled penthouses of the distant rich, transected by unmappably twisting streets. Numerous birds of assorted sizes and squawks—juncos, lammergeiers and questrals, among other types—parceled the sky into avian empires.
Lazorg absorbed the view with a numb silence, pivoting slowly to take in all of Sidetrack City. Crutchsump tried to imagine his feelings and thoughts. At last the man turned to the bone scavenger. She saw tears staining his caul. Lazorg’s voice was choked with emotion.
“It’s real. It’s all real.”
Crutchsump understood the enormity of Lazorg’s sudden comprehension, and could sympathize. His transit across the membranes of the segmented Cosmocopian infundibulum constituted a monumental climacteric. But, ever practical, Crutchsump also envisioned trying to guide a big mystically bemused stumblebum down the precarious staircase, and so she sought to cast cold water on his epiphany.
“Oh, yes, it’s all real—as you’ll be able to ascertain as soon as your stomach starts rumbling! Let’s get home and get supper on the table!”
Crutchsump’s stern voice brought Lazorg’s sensibilities back to earth. “Of course. I only meant—Well, never mind.”
On pavement once more, they reclaimed their victuals, hailed Pirkle from his rooting in a midden—the wurzel emerged with garish dotted fruitskins draped across his brow—and headed back to the basement apartment.
Over a meal of oudknoobs and breaded, fried sea-skate, Lazorg spoke with voluntary optimism of his future.
“Back in my previous life, I was a tired, debilitated old man. My artistic impulses were all exhausted. Now I’ve been given youth and enthusiasm. Admittedly, at the price of losing all that was familiar and safe. But earning a living should come easy, with your help and tutelage. And once I’ve gotten my feet under me, I can turn my hand to my art again.”
Crutchsump was intrigued. “What art was that?”
“Painting.”
“What is ‘painting’? Is it a kind of thing like ‘writing’?”
Lazorg’s voice contained a hint of hysteria. “No, don’t tell me—That’s impossible! I can’t believe you don’t know painting!”
Crutchsump yawned broadly. “I’m sure you’ll discover whether your imaginary art form exists here or not. But first we have to earn some scintillas, starting bright and early tomorrow. So I’m going to sleep. I haven’t rested fully for two nights now.”
Lazorg stood up, making an evident effort at self-control. “I’m sorry, Crutchsump. Your unease was my fault. You were very generous to give up your bed for me. But now we have two. Goodnight then.”
Lazorg moved toward the original pallet, with its old rumpled threadbare accoutrements. Crutchsump halted him.
“No, you take the new arrangements. I’m used to that old bed.”
Lazorg hesitated, then said, “Whatever you wish.” He moved to his side of the room, and Crutchsump drew the thick curtains between them.
“Don’t forget, you can remove your caul now. Otherwise you’ll develop scaly itch.”
“I’ll do as you say.”
Alone on her side—even Pirkle had deserted her for the allure of the fresh blankets—Crutchsump lingered a moment with her hand on the curtains. Finally though she retreated to her bed, where she removed her caul.
The bedding smelled faintly, disturbingly, of the Mudflats, from when the dirty monster had first lain there,
“Certainly.” Crutchsump entrusted their purchases temporarily to the nearest vendor.
A circular staircase with crumbling steps clung to the exterior wall of the Belkys Tower. An iron railing on the outside edge of the steps seemed more rust than rail. Pirkle, perhaps wiser than anyone, declined to follow.
The top of the Tower afforded a small platform with waist-high crenellations. The view extended for miles in all directions, a variegated roofscape of chimneypots, orerries, spires, windsocks, ghost-traps, beetle-browed garret windows and glass-walled penthouses of the distant rich, transected by unmappably twisting streets. Numerous birds of assorted sizes and squawks—juncos, lammergeiers and questrals, among other types—parceled the sky into avian empires.
Lazorg absorbed the view with a numb silence, pivoting slowly to take in all of Sidetrack City. Crutchsump tried to imagine his feelings and thoughts. At last the man turned to the bone scavenger. She saw tears staining his caul. Lazorg’s voice was choked with emotion.
“It’s real. It’s all real.”
Crutchsump understood the enormity of Lazorg’s sudden comprehension, and could sympathize. His transit across the membranes of the segmented Cosmocopian infundibulum constituted a monumental climacteric. But, ever practical, Crutchsump also envisioned trying to guide a big mystically bemused stumblebum down the precarious staircase, and so she sought to cast cold water on his epiphany.
“Oh, yes, it’s all real—as you’ll be able to ascertain as soon as your stomach starts rumbling! Let’s get home and get supper on the table!”
Crutchsump’s stern voice brought Lazorg’s sensibilities back to earth. “Of course. I only meant—Well, never mind.”
On pavement once more, they reclaimed their victuals, hailed Pirkle from his rooting in a midden—the wurzel emerged with garish dotted fruitskins draped across his brow—and headed back to the basement apartment.
Over a meal of oudknoobs and breaded, fried sea-skate, Lazorg spoke with voluntary optimism of his future.
“Back in my previous life, I was a tired, debilitated old man. My artistic impulses were all exhausted. Now I’ve been given youth and enthusiasm. Admittedly, at the price of losing all that was familiar and safe. But earning a living should come easy, with your help and tutelage. And once I’ve gotten my feet under me, I can turn my hand to my art again.”
Crutchsump was intrigued. “What art was that?”
“Painting.”
“What is ‘painting’? Is it a kind of thing like ‘writing’?”
Lazorg’s voice contained a hint of hysteria. “No, don’t tell me—That’s impossible! I can’t believe you don’t know painting!”
Crutchsump yawned broadly. “I’m sure you’ll discover whether your imaginary art form exists here or not. But first we have to earn some scintillas, starting bright and early tomorrow. So I’m going to sleep. I haven’t rested fully for two nights now.”
Lazorg stood up, making an evident effort at self-control. “I’m sorry, Crutchsump. Your unease was my fault. You were very generous to give up your bed for me. But now we have two. Goodnight then.”
Lazorg moved toward the original pallet, with its old rumpled threadbare accoutrements. Crutchsump halted him.
“No, you take the new arrangements. I’m used to that old bed.”
Lazorg hesitated, then said, “Whatever you wish.” He moved to his side of the room, and Crutchsump drew the thick curtains between them.
“Don’t forget, you can remove your caul now. Otherwise you’ll develop scaly itch.”
“I’ll do as you say.”
Alone on her side—even Pirkle had deserted her for the allure of the fresh blankets—Crutchsump lingered a moment with her hand on the curtains. Finally though she retreated to her bed, where she removed her caul.
The bedding smelled faintly, disturbingly, of the Mudflats, from when the dirty monster had first lain there,
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