Weaveworld

3

Of the dream he’d had, one part was true. He had sloughed off two skins like a snake. One, his clothes, lay scattered around him in the grass. The other, the accrued grime of his adventures, had been bathed away in the night, either by dew or a fall of rain. Whichever, he was quite dry now; the warmth of the ground he lay upon (that part also had been no dream) had dried him off and left him sweet-smelling. He felt nourished too, and strong.

He sat up. Balm de Bono was already on his feet, scratching his balls and staring up at the sky: a blissful combination. The grass had left an imprint on his back and buttocks.

‘Did they please you?’ he said, cocking an eye at Cal.

‘Please me?’

‘The Presences. Did they give you sweet dreams?’

‘Yes they did.’

De Bono grinned lewdly.

‘Want to tell me about it?’ he said.

‘I don’t know how to –’

‘Oh spare me the modesty.’

‘No, it’s just I … I dreamt I was … the moon.’

‘You did what?’

‘I dreamt –’

‘I bring you to the nearest thing we’ve got to a whorehouse, and you dream about being the moon? You’re a strange man, Calhoun.’

He picked up his vest, and put it on, shaking his head at Cal’s bizarrity.

‘What did you dream of?’ Cal enquired.

‘I’ll tell you, one of these times,’ said de Bono. ‘When you’re old enough.’