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Authors: Felix Gilman
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Mountain, through strange and hidden doors, and for a moment he thought he could recall the key to those doors, but there was no time, no time; he tightened and tied the bandage with his good hand and his teeth, and he darted from the table and up the stairs.
On his way out he stole a loaf of hard black bread and some cheese; a few coins; a half-sharp knife from the kitchen. He did it almost without thinking. So that was another fact about himself; he was selfish, and treacherous, in pursuit of whatever it was that he wanted, that he was so desperate to have.
He climbed out of the attic window. The roof was still slippery from the morning’s rain, and he slid and scrambled down to the edge, where he was able to lower himself down onto next-door’s roof, and from there down onto a jutting window balcony where he stepped carefully among Marta’s plant pots, and from there it was not such a dangerous drop into the alley, considering the alternatives.
As he climbed the back fence and fled down the alleys he heard Carnyx Street’s conversation resume, as if whatever unpleasant thought had distracted it had passed and been forgotten.
In or Out?-An Ugly Joke-Among the
Paranoids-A Memory of Flight-A Kiss-
The Third Sister
D ead end. Arjun threw himself at the fence, scrabbled panting up it, the rusty wire cutting the palm of his good hand, tearing into the bandages on the other. The mesh sagged loose like the hide of a starving beast. It shook with a harsh percussive sound. Atonal—very modern, he thought. His foot slipped on the fence’s hollow frame and he fell, landing on his back. Grey dust rose around him—the backyard was heaped with acrid soot, black dunes, waste products of some incomprehensible industrial process. The windows overhead were dark. He stood slowly and looked back through the fence. The alley was empty. No sound of footsteps— only his own heart, its strained gears rattling. The long shadows that had seemed to follow him were only the shadows of chimneys, pipes, laundry. The sun was rising, flushed and sweating. The Hollow Men were gone.
His chest burned, and his legs were weak. He’d fled for hours, imagining the Hollows behind him, not daring to look back. When had he lost them? Had they even chased him at all?
He rested his head on the cold metal of the fence and twined his bruised fingers in it, and he dredged in the darkness for memories. His flight down the Mountain, and how the Hollows had chased him—he caught scattered images, but their sense slipped his grasp. All those streets and corridors, alleys and rooftops; sliding down a silver staircase, his feet slippery with strange muck; and the Hollows always following behind him. They were slow and patient.Time and distance meant nothing to them. They were inevitable. He belonged among them. They were what happened to those who failed on the Mountain …
A horn sounded overhead, booming over the rooftops. Dawn shift. A single motorcar roared down the street and into the distance. Chains rattled and heavy doors unbolted. Horses approached, dragging iron wheels along the cobbles. Arjun clutched the fence, sighed, smiled. He should not be caught trespassing. He had enough problems as it was.
Morning, he thought. The Low sisters would be waking …
For the first time since he’d fled the house he thought of the sisters. The sick panic the Hollows radiated had left him, and his thoughts were clear again: he’d left Ruth and Marta alone with those horrors. Perhaps the Hollows were still there in the house— perhaps that was why they hadn’t chased him. He imagined them questioning Marta, tormenting Ruth, standing in the darkened doorways with their arms folded. Their presence would stop the clocks and put out the candles.
Arjun flushed with shame. He had to go back. Hooking a foot into the loose wire he launched himself at the fence again. Hunger and exhaustion plucked at his heels. He gasped as he threw himself over.
Down the alley,
On his way out he stole a loaf of hard black bread and some cheese; a few coins; a half-sharp knife from the kitchen. He did it almost without thinking. So that was another fact about himself; he was selfish, and treacherous, in pursuit of whatever it was that he wanted, that he was so desperate to have.
He climbed out of the attic window. The roof was still slippery from the morning’s rain, and he slid and scrambled down to the edge, where he was able to lower himself down onto next-door’s roof, and from there down onto a jutting window balcony where he stepped carefully among Marta’s plant pots, and from there it was not such a dangerous drop into the alley, considering the alternatives.
As he climbed the back fence and fled down the alleys he heard Carnyx Street’s conversation resume, as if whatever unpleasant thought had distracted it had passed and been forgotten.
In or Out?-An Ugly Joke-Among the
Paranoids-A Memory of Flight-A Kiss-
The Third Sister
D ead end. Arjun threw himself at the fence, scrabbled panting up it, the rusty wire cutting the palm of his good hand, tearing into the bandages on the other. The mesh sagged loose like the hide of a starving beast. It shook with a harsh percussive sound. Atonal—very modern, he thought. His foot slipped on the fence’s hollow frame and he fell, landing on his back. Grey dust rose around him—the backyard was heaped with acrid soot, black dunes, waste products of some incomprehensible industrial process. The windows overhead were dark. He stood slowly and looked back through the fence. The alley was empty. No sound of footsteps— only his own heart, its strained gears rattling. The long shadows that had seemed to follow him were only the shadows of chimneys, pipes, laundry. The sun was rising, flushed and sweating. The Hollow Men were gone.
His chest burned, and his legs were weak. He’d fled for hours, imagining the Hollows behind him, not daring to look back. When had he lost them? Had they even chased him at all?
He rested his head on the cold metal of the fence and twined his bruised fingers in it, and he dredged in the darkness for memories. His flight down the Mountain, and how the Hollows had chased him—he caught scattered images, but their sense slipped his grasp. All those streets and corridors, alleys and rooftops; sliding down a silver staircase, his feet slippery with strange muck; and the Hollows always following behind him. They were slow and patient.Time and distance meant nothing to them. They were inevitable. He belonged among them. They were what happened to those who failed on the Mountain …
A horn sounded overhead, booming over the rooftops. Dawn shift. A single motorcar roared down the street and into the distance. Chains rattled and heavy doors unbolted. Horses approached, dragging iron wheels along the cobbles. Arjun clutched the fence, sighed, smiled. He should not be caught trespassing. He had enough problems as it was.
Morning, he thought. The Low sisters would be waking …
For the first time since he’d fled the house he thought of the sisters. The sick panic the Hollows radiated had left him, and his thoughts were clear again: he’d left Ruth and Marta alone with those horrors. Perhaps the Hollows were still there in the house— perhaps that was why they hadn’t chased him. He imagined them questioning Marta, tormenting Ruth, standing in the darkened doorways with their arms folded. Their presence would stop the clocks and put out the candles.
Arjun flushed with shame. He had to go back. Hooking a foot into the loose wire he launched himself at the fence again. Hunger and exhaustion plucked at his heels. He gasped as he threw himself over.
Down the alley,
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