Weaveworld

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UNEARTHLY DELIGHTS

1

he journey became a torment thereafter. Events at the orchard had drained Cal of what few reserves of strength he could still lay claim to. The muscles in his legs twitched as if they were about to go into spasm; the vertebrae in his lower back seemed to have lost their cartilage and were grinding against each other. He tried not to think of what would happen if and when they finally reached the Firmament. In the best of conditions he and de Bono would scarcely be Shadwell’s equal. Like this, they’d be fodder.

The occasional wonders the starlight had uncovered – a ring of stones, linked by bands of whispering fog; what appeared to be a family of dolls, their identical faces pale, smiling beatifically from behind a silent waterfall – to these he gave no more than a cursory glance. The only sight that could have brought joy to his lips at that moment was a feather mattress.

But even the mysteries dwindled after a time, as de Bono led him up a dark hillside, with a soft wind moving in the grass around their feet.

The moon was rising through a bank of cumulus, making a ghost of de Bono as he forged on up the steep slope. Cal followed like a lamb, too weary to question their route.

But by degrees he became aware that the sighs he heard were not entirely the voice of the wind. There was an oblique music in them; a tune which came and fled again.

It was de Bono who finally came to a halt, and said:

‘D’you hear them, Cal?’

‘Yes. I hear them.’

‘They know they’ve got visitors.’

‘Is this the Firmament?’

‘No,’ said de Bono softly. ‘The Firmament’s for tomorrow. We’re too tired for that. Tonight we stay here.’

‘Where’s here?’

‘Can’t you guess? Don’t you smell the air?’

It was lightly perfumed; honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine.

‘And feel the earth?’

The ground was warm beneath his feet.

‘This, my friend, is Venus Mountain.’