Weaveworld

IV

THE ROPE-DANCERS

1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Who the hell are you?’ he said.

All three stared at Suzanna and Cal.

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

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

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

‘Who is this Starbrook?’ said Cal.

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

That’s right.’

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

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

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

He crossed towards Cal and Suzanna, proffering the radio.

‘I’ll give it a try,’ said Cal.

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

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

‘It’s Cuckoo-shite,’ said Galin.

‘Corruption,’ Toller announced once more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I want to break his nose,’ Cal said.

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

‘I know. I know.’

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

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

‘What about Starbrook?’ Cal said.

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

He grinned.

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