everything.’
He did it to himself, then – to his own vein in his own arm, which was far beyond my powers of protection. He sat back in the big scratchy armchair, and sank away from her. He came back for a moment, to tell her how good it was, then fell away again.
She watched the whites of his eyes. She picked up the instrument and turned its emptiness over in her hands. The simulacrum perched low opposite me, peering into the cage, wanting home now that its work was done.
The man’s mouth had fallen open. Water pooled inside the lower lip, ready to drool out. ‘It’s not very interesting from the outside , that’s for sure,’ Scarlet murmured. She stood, picked up her bag.
I stayed with her as far as the street, then summoned the simulacrum back through. The moment we were incorporated, I slept.
In my dream I rose through to the Hereabove, a single flake or feather travelling upward on the indrawn breath of the god-who-admits-of-love. There curved its breast above me, densely feathered with souls. The freshly dead ones who had been kept and cared for on earth, they were the brightest; others whose Connections with the Hereunder were dying one by one were being resorbed, fading into the body of the god. All was warmth and light; earthly sensations fell away, the twitching fear, the gnawing hunger and thirst, the thinned-out feeling that tiredness gives you. My borrowed body’s false feathers with all their mites and dust dropped behind me, my bones heavy with earthly air, as I flew without beat of wing or heart towards the place reserved for me on the god’s skin.
I woke in a panic. A dark-clawed hand pursued me. Bars beat on my wings, on the back of my head.
They were the cage, and the claw was the hand of Scarlet, looming there in all her multifarious layers and odours.
‘Come on,’ she prayed. ‘You used to hop on anyone’s hand.’
‘Leave him alone,’ said Taylor in his pyjamas at the door, rubbing one eye. ‘You have to tame them up again – they don’t remember. You have to do it every day, and it’s been four weeks since he practised.’
‘Well, whoever had him should’ve kept him up to speed.’ But she pulled her hand away and closed the door, and dropped the cloth.
‘Maybe nobody had him. Maybe he was living wild and free.’
‘Bull, he was. He’d’ve been cat food in two seconds if he hadn’t found another home.’
They squabbled on, and I smoothed myself down. I lost a few feathers in the preening; now that the Defining Moment had passed, the form would not last long. I would be gone by morning from this itchy, seedy world full of frights, flown to the bosom of the god.
I fluffed up what was left of me and settled beside the dark mirror.
Diammid Anderson gazed over into the Vale. It was dark down there among the trees, and not just from shadow. He was glad of the rock’s coolness and solidity against his chest.
‘I don’t like that black mist,’ he said. ‘It makes me feel as if bits of my eyes are blind.’
‘Oh, you caint see straight in this place,’ said Razor. ‘And when you do see summink, afterwards you caint quite remember. You caint quite believe, you know? It will not stay proper in your head.’
Razor’s skin was like yellowed wax. He was dressed all in raggy black, his head thrust forward motionless, his miserable eyes taking in the overcast sky, the complex darkness of the Vale.
‘It’s not guaranteed we’ll see anything at all, is it?’ said Diammid.
‘Nuffing’s sure, no. Git out the glass, though – you never know, it might help.’
Diammid had forgotten about the spy-glass. He rummaged in the rucksack and brought it out. It was comforting to look at, and to hold – the old, tooled, red leather, the chased metal.
‘Crothel will notice it’s gone. Maybe even before he notices me gone.’ Diammid laughed nervously.
‘Long as we get us a half-hour here. Any longer and we’ll be for the nuthouse.’
‘Have you ever stayed
He did it to himself, then – to his own vein in his own arm, which was far beyond my powers of protection. He sat back in the big scratchy armchair, and sank away from her. He came back for a moment, to tell her how good it was, then fell away again.
She watched the whites of his eyes. She picked up the instrument and turned its emptiness over in her hands. The simulacrum perched low opposite me, peering into the cage, wanting home now that its work was done.
The man’s mouth had fallen open. Water pooled inside the lower lip, ready to drool out. ‘It’s not very interesting from the outside , that’s for sure,’ Scarlet murmured. She stood, picked up her bag.
I stayed with her as far as the street, then summoned the simulacrum back through. The moment we were incorporated, I slept.
In my dream I rose through to the Hereabove, a single flake or feather travelling upward on the indrawn breath of the god-who-admits-of-love. There curved its breast above me, densely feathered with souls. The freshly dead ones who had been kept and cared for on earth, they were the brightest; others whose Connections with the Hereunder were dying one by one were being resorbed, fading into the body of the god. All was warmth and light; earthly sensations fell away, the twitching fear, the gnawing hunger and thirst, the thinned-out feeling that tiredness gives you. My borrowed body’s false feathers with all their mites and dust dropped behind me, my bones heavy with earthly air, as I flew without beat of wing or heart towards the place reserved for me on the god’s skin.
I woke in a panic. A dark-clawed hand pursued me. Bars beat on my wings, on the back of my head.
They were the cage, and the claw was the hand of Scarlet, looming there in all her multifarious layers and odours.
‘Come on,’ she prayed. ‘You used to hop on anyone’s hand.’
‘Leave him alone,’ said Taylor in his pyjamas at the door, rubbing one eye. ‘You have to tame them up again – they don’t remember. You have to do it every day, and it’s been four weeks since he practised.’
‘Well, whoever had him should’ve kept him up to speed.’ But she pulled her hand away and closed the door, and dropped the cloth.
‘Maybe nobody had him. Maybe he was living wild and free.’
‘Bull, he was. He’d’ve been cat food in two seconds if he hadn’t found another home.’
They squabbled on, and I smoothed myself down. I lost a few feathers in the preening; now that the Defining Moment had passed, the form would not last long. I would be gone by morning from this itchy, seedy world full of frights, flown to the bosom of the god.
I fluffed up what was left of me and settled beside the dark mirror.
Diammid Anderson gazed over into the Vale. It was dark down there among the trees, and not just from shadow. He was glad of the rock’s coolness and solidity against his chest.
‘I don’t like that black mist,’ he said. ‘It makes me feel as if bits of my eyes are blind.’
‘Oh, you caint see straight in this place,’ said Razor. ‘And when you do see summink, afterwards you caint quite remember. You caint quite believe, you know? It will not stay proper in your head.’
Razor’s skin was like yellowed wax. He was dressed all in raggy black, his head thrust forward motionless, his miserable eyes taking in the overcast sky, the complex darkness of the Vale.
‘It’s not guaranteed we’ll see anything at all, is it?’ said Diammid.
‘Nuffing’s sure, no. Git out the glass, though – you never know, it might help.’
Diammid had forgotten about the spy-glass. He rummaged in the rucksack and brought it out. It was comforting to look at, and to hold – the old, tooled, red leather, the chased metal.
‘Crothel will notice it’s gone. Maybe even before he notices me gone.’ Diammid laughed nervously.
‘Long as we get us a half-hour here. Any longer and we’ll be for the nuthouse.’
‘Have you ever stayed
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