Weaveworld

IX

THE FIRE

he day and night that Suzanna spent in Nonesuch, and in the Wild Woods, stalking Hobart, took Cal and de Bono to no less remarkable places. They too had their griefs, and revelations; they too came closer to death than either wanted to come again.

Upon parting from her, they’d resumed their journey to the Firmament in silence, until out of nowhere de Bono had said: ‘Do you love her?’

Oddly enough, that very thought had been on Cal’s mind, but he hadn’t replied to the question. It had frankly embarrassed him.

‘You damn fool,’ de Bono said. ‘Why are you Cuckoos so afraid of your feelings? She’s worth loving; even I can see that. So why don’t you say it?’

Cal grunted. De Bono was right, but it rankled to be lectured on the matter by someone younger.

‘You’re afraid of her, is that it?’ de Bono said.

The remark added insult to injury.

‘Christ no,’ Cal said. ‘Why the fuck should I be afraid of her?’

‘She’s got powers,’ said de Bono, taking off his spectacles and surveying the terrain ahead. ‘Most women have, of course. That’s why Starbrook wouldn’t have them in the Field. It threw him off balance.’

‘And what have we got?’ Cal asked, kicking a stone ahead of him.

‘We’ve got our pricks.’

‘Starbrook, again?’

‘De Bono,’ came the reply, and the boy laughed. ‘I tell you what,’ he said. ‘I know this place where we could go –’

‘No detours,’ said Cal.

‘What’s an hour or two?’ said de Bono. ‘Have you ever heard of Venus Mountain?’

‘I said no detours, de Bono. If you want to go, then go.’

‘Jesus, you’re boring,’ de Bono sighed. ‘I just might leave you to it.’

‘I’m not much enjoying your damn fool questions, either,’ Cal said. ‘So if you want to go pick flowers, do it. Just point me to the Firmament.’

De Bono fell silent. They walked on. When they did start talking again de Bono began to parade his knowledge of the Fugue, more for the pleasure of belittling his fellow traveller than out of any genuine desire to inform. Twice, in the middle of a diatribe, Cal dragged them into hiding as one of Hobart’s patrols came within sighting distance of them. On the second occasion they were pinned down for two hours while the Squad got progressively drunker within yards of their hiding place.

When they finally moved on, they progressed much more slowly. Their cramp-ridden limbs felt leaden; they were hungry, thirsty and irritated by each other’s company. Worst of all, dusk was creeping on.

‘Just how far is it from here?’ Cal wanted to know. Once, looking down on the Fugue from Mimi’s wall, the confusion of its landscape had promised unending adventure. Now, immersed in that confusion, he would have given his eye-teeth for a good map.

‘It’s quite a distance yet,’ de Bono replied.

‘Do you know where the hell we are?’

De Bono’s lip curled. ‘Of course.’

‘Name it.’

‘Huh?’

‘Name it!’

‘I’ll be damned if I will. You just have to trust me, Cuckoo.’

The wind had got up in the last half hour, and now it brought with it the sound of cries, which halted the escalating war of words between them.

‘I smell a bonfire burning,’ de Bono said. It was true. Besides its burden of pain, the wind brought the scent of burning wood. De Bono was already bounding off in search of its source. Nothing would have given Cal more satisfaction at that moment than leaving the rope-dancer to his own devices, but – much as he doubted de Bono’s value as a guide – he was better than nothing. Cal followed him through the gathering darkness, up a small ridge. From there – across a space of fields littered with arches – they had a fine view of the fire. What looked to be a small copse was burning lustily, the flames fanned by the wind. On the outskirts of this sizeable blaze a number of cars were parked, their owners – more of Shadwell’s army of deliverance – running riot.

‘Bastards,’ said de Bono, as several of them hounded down a victim and laid into him with cudgels and boots. ‘Cuckoo bastards.’

‘It’s not just my people –’ Cal began. But before he could finish the defence of his tribe, the words died on his tongue, as he recognized the place that was being destroyed in front of his eyes.

This was no wood. The trees weren’t arbitrarily scattered, but planted in ordered avenues. Once, beneath the awning of those trees, he’d spoken Mad Mooney’s verses. Now the orchard of Lemuel Lo was ablaze from end to end.

He started down the slope towards the conflagration.

‘Where are you going?’ de Bono asked him. ‘Calhoun? What do you think you’re doing?’

De Bono came after him, and took hold of his arm.

‘Calhoun! Listen to me!’

‘Let me alone,’ Cal said, attempting to throw de Bono off. In the violence of that attempt the soil of the incline gave way beneath his heel and he lost balance, taking de Bono with him. They slid down the hill, dirt and stones showering them, and came to a halt in a waist-deep ditch of stagnant water at the bottom. Cal began to haul himself out the other side, but de Bono had hold of his shirt.

‘You can’t do anything, Mooney,’ he said.

‘Get the fuck off me.’

‘Look, I’m sorry about the Cuckoo remark, right? We breed vandals too.’

‘Forget it,’ said Cal, his eyes still on the fire. He detached de Bono’s hand. ‘I know this place,’ he said. ‘I can’t just let it burn.’

He pulled himself up out of the ditch and started towards the blaze. He’d kill the bastards who’d done this, whoever they were. Kill them, and call it justice.

‘It’s too late!’ de Bono called after him. ‘You can’t help.’

There was truth in what the youth said. Tomorrow there’d be nothing left of the orchard but ashes. Still he couldn’t bring himself to turn his back on the spot where he’d first tasted the Fugue’s raptures. Vaguely aware that de Bono was padding after him, and completely indifferent to the fact, he headed on.

As the scene before him became clearer he realized that the Prophet’s troops (the word flattered them; it was a rabble) were not going unresisted. In several places around the fire figures were locked in hand-to-hand combat. But the orchard’s defenders were easy meat for the fire-raisers, for whom these barbarities were little more than sport. They’d come into the Fugue armed with weapons that could decimate the Seerkind in hours. Even as Cal watched he saw one of the Kind felled with a pistol shot. Somebody went to the wounded man’s aid, but was in her turn brought down. The soldiers went from body to body to see that the job was done. The first of the victims was not dead. He raised his hand towards his executioner, who pointed his gun at the man’s head and fired.

A spasm of nausea convulsed Cal’s system, as the smell of cooking flesh mingled with the smoke. He couldn’t control his revulsion. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, retching on his empty stomach. At that moment his misery seemed complete: the wet clothes icy on his spine; the taste of his stomach in his throat; the paradise orchard burning nearby. The horrors the Fugue was showing him were as profound as its visions had been elevated. He could fall no further.

‘Come away, Cal.’

De Bono’s hand was on his shoulder. He put a handful of freshly torn grass in front of Cal.

‘Wipe your face,’ he said softly. ‘There’s nothing to be done here.’

Cal pressed the grass beneath his nose, inhaling its cool sweetness. The nausea was passing. He chanced one more look up at the burning orchard. His eyes were watering, and at first glance he couldn’t trust what they now told him. He wiped them with the back of his hand, sniffing. Then he looked again, and there – moving through the smoke in front of the fire – he saw Lem.

He spoke the man’s name.

‘Who?’ said de Bono.

Cal was already getting up, though his legs were jittery.

‘There,’ Cal said, pointing towards Lo. The orchard-keeper was crouching beside one of the bodies, his hand extended to the face of the corpse. Was he closing the dead man’s eyes, offering a blessing as he did so?

Cal had to make his presence known; had to speak to the man, even if it was just to say that he too had witnessed the horrors here, and that they wouldn’t go unrevenged. He turned to de Bono. The blaze, reflected in the rope-dancer’s spectacles, hid his eyes, but it was clear from the way his face was set that what he’d seen had not left him untouched.

‘Stay here,’ Cal said. ‘I have to speak to Lem.’

‘You’re insane, Mooney,’ de Bono said.

‘Probably.’

He began back towards the fire, calling Lem’s name. The rabble seemed to have tired of their hunt. Several had returned to their cars; another was pissing into the fire; yet others were simply watching the blaze, stupefied by drink and destruction.

Lem had done with his blessings, and was walking away from the remains of his orchard. Cal called his name again, but the sound of the fire drowned it out. He began to pick up his pace, and as he did so Lem caught sight of him from the corner of his eye. He seemed not to recognize Cal, however. Instead, alarmed by the approaching figure, he turned and started to run. Again, Cal yelled his name, and this time drew the man’s attention. He stopped running and glanced back, squinting through the smoke and smuts.

‘Lem! It’s me!’ Cal yelled. ‘It’s Mooney!’

Lo’s grimy face was not capable of a smile, but he opened his arms in welcome to Cal, who crossed the last yards between them fearful that at any moment the curtain of smoke would part them again. It didn’t. They embraced like brothers.

‘Oh my poet,’ said Lo, his eyes reddened with tears and smoke. ‘What a place to find you.’

‘I told you I wouldn’t forget,’ said Cal. ‘Didn’t I say that?’

‘You did, by God.’

‘Why did they do it, Lem? Why did they burn it down?’

‘They didn’t,’ Lem replied, ’I did.’

‘You?’

‘You think I’d give those bastards the pleasure of my fruit?’

‘But, Lem … the trees. All those trees.’

Lo was digging in his pockets, and brought out handfuls of the Jude Pears. Many were bruised and broken, sap glistening as it ran over Lo’s fingers. Their perfume pierced the filthy air, bringing back memories of lost times.

‘There’s seeds in every one of them, poet,’ Lem said. ‘And in every seed there’s a tree. I’ll find another place to plant.’

They were brave words, but he sobbed even as he spoke them.

‘They won’t defeat us, Calhoun,’ he said. ‘Whatever God’s name they come in, we won’t kneel to them.’

‘You mustn’t,’ said Cal. ‘Or everything’s lost.’

As he spoke he saw Lo’s gaze move off his face towards the rabble at the cars.

‘We should be going,’ he said, stuffing the fruit back into his pocket. ‘Will you come with me?’

‘I can’t, Lem.’

‘Well, I taught your verses to my daughters,’ he said. ‘I remembered them as you remembered me –’

‘They’re not mine,’ Cal said. They’re my grandfather’s.’

‘They belong to us all now,’ Lo said. ‘Planted in good ground –’

Suddenly, a shot. Cal turned. The three fire-watchers had seen them, and were coming their way. All were armed.

Lo snatched hold of Cal’s hand for an instant, and squeezed it by way of farewell. Then contact was broken, as more shots followed on the first. Lo was heading off into the darkness, away from the light of the fire, but the ground was uneven, and he fell after only a few steps. Cal went after him, as the gunmen began a further round of shots.

‘Get away from me –’ Lo shouted. ‘For God’s sake run!’

Lo was scrabbling to pick up the fruit that he’d dropped from his pocket. As Cal reached him one of the gunman got lucky. A shot found Lo. He cried out, and clutched his side.

The gunmen were almost upon their targets now. They’d given up firing, to have better sport at close range. As they came within a half a dozen yards, however, the leader was felled by a missile hurled from the smoke. It struck his head, opening a substantial wound. He toppled, blinded by blood.

Cal had time to see the weapon that had brought the man down, and recognize it as a radio: then de Bono was weaving through the murky air towards the gunmen. They heard him coming: he was yelling like a wild man. A shot was fired in his direction; but went well wide. He threw himself past the hunters, and ran off in the direction of the fire.

The leader, his hand clamped to his head, was staggering to his feet, ready to give chase. De Bono’s tactics, though they’d distracted the executioners, were as good as suicidal. The gunmen had him trapped against the wall of burning trees. Cal caught sight of him pelting through the smoke towards the fire, the killers in howling pursuit. A volley of shots was fired; he dodged them like the dancer he was. But there was no dodging the inferno ahead. Cal saw him glance round once, to take in the sight of his pursuers, then – idiot that he was – he plunged into the fire. Most of the trees were now no more than burning pillars, but the ground itself was a firewalker’s heaven, hot ash and charcoal. The air shimmered with the heat, corrupting de Bono’s figure until it was lost between the trees.

There was no time to mourn him. His bravery had earned them a reprieve, but it would not last long. Cal turned back to aid Lemuel. The man had gone, however, leaving a splash of blood and a few fallen fruit to mark the place he’d been. Back at the fire, the gunmen were still waiting to mow de Bono down should he re-emerge. Cal had time to get to his feet and study the conflagration for any sign of the rope-dancer. There was none. Then he backed away from the pyre, and took off towards the slope on which he and de Bono had fought. As he did so a vague hope rose in him. He decided to change his route, and made a run that took him around to the other side of the orchard.

The air was clearer here; the wind was carrying the smoke in the opposite direction. He ran along the edge of the orchard, hoping against hope that maybe de Bono had outpaced the heat. Half way along the flank of the fire his horrified eyes found a pair of burning shoes. He kicked them over, then searched for their owner.

It was only when he turned his back on the flames that he saw the figure, standing in a field of high grass two hundred yards from the orchard. Even at that distance the blond head was recognizable. So, as he drew closer, was the smug smile.

He’d lost his eye-brows and his lashes; and his hair was badly singed. But he was alive and well.

‘How did you do that?’ Cal asked him, when he got within speaking distance of the fellow.

De Bono shrugged. ‘I’d rather fire-walk than rope-dance any day of the week,’ he said.

‘I’d be dead without you,’ Cal said. ‘Thank you.’

De Bono was clearly uncomfortable with Cal’s gratitude. He shooed it away with a wave of his hand, then turned his back on the fire and waded off through the grass, leaving Cal to follow.

‘Do you know where we’re going?’ Cal called after him. It seemed they were striking off in another direction to the one they’d been following when they’d first come upon the fire, but he couldn’t have sworn to it.

De Bono offered a reply, but the wind blew it away, and Cal was too weary to ask a second time.