Weaveworld

2

The sense of physical and spiritual well-being Cal had felt when he woke on Venus Mountain did not falter as he and de Bono made their way down the slope towards the Firmament. But his fine mood was soon spoiled by the agitation in the landscape around them: a distressing, but unfixable, anxiety in every leaf and blade of grass. What shreds of bird-song there were sounded shrill; more alarms than music-making. Even the air buzzed around his head, as though for the first time he was alive to the news it carried.

Bad news no doubt. Yet there was not much of consequence to be seen. A few smouldering fires, little more, and even those signs of strife petered out as they approached the Firmament itself.

‘This is it?’ said Cal as de Bono led him through the trees towards a tall, but in truth quite unexceptional, building.

‘It is.’

All the doors stood open; there was neither sound nor movement from within. They quickly scrutinized the exterior, searching for some sign of Shadwell’s occupancy, but there was none visible.

After one circuit, de Bono spoke what Cal had been thinking: ‘It’s no use us waiting out here. We have to go in.’

Hearts hammering, they climbed the steps and entered.

Cal had been told to expect the miraculous, and he wasn’t disappointed. Each room he put his head into showed him some new glory in tile and brick and paint. But that was all; only miracles.

‘There’s nobody here,’ said de Bono, when they’d made a complete search of the lower floor. ‘Shadwell’s gone.’

‘I’m going to try upstairs,’ Cal said.

They climbed the flight, and separated, for speed’s sake. At the end of one corridor Cal discovered a room whose walls were cunningly set with fragments of mirrors, reflecting the visitor in such a fashion that he seemed to see himself behind the walls, in some place of mist and shadow, peering out from between the bricks. That was strange enough; but by some further device – the method of which was beyond him – he seemed not to be alone in that other world, but sharing it with an assortment of animals – cats, monkeys and flying fish – all of which his reflection had apparently fathered, for they all had his face. He laughed to see it, and they all laughed with him, fish included.

Indeed it was not until his laughter died down that he heard de Bono summoning him, his shouts urgent. He left the room reluctantly, and went in search of the rope-dancer.

The call was coming from up a further flight of stairs.

‘I hear you,’ he yelled up to de Bono, and began to climb. The ascent was lengthy and steep, but delivered him into a room at the top of a watch-tower. Light poured through windows on every side, but the brightness couldn’t dissuade him that the room had seen horrors; and recently. Whatever it had witnessed, de Bono had worse to show him.

‘I’ve found Shadwell,’ he announced, beckoning Cal over.

‘Where?’

‘At the Narrow Bright.’

Cal peered through the window adjacent to de Bono.

‘Not that one.’ he was told. ‘This one brings it nearer.’

A telescopic window; and through it, a scene to make his pulse pick up its pace. Its backcloth: the seething Mantle cloud; its subject: massacre.

‘He’s going to breach the Gyre,’ de Bono said.

It clearly wasn’t just the conflict that had paled the youth; it was the thought of that act.

‘Why would he want to do that?’

‘He’s a Cuckoo isn’t he?’ came the reply. ‘What more reason does he need?’

‘Then we have to stop him,’ Cal said, ungluing his gaze from the window and heading back towards the stairs.

‘The battle’s already lost,’ de Bono replied.

‘I’m not going to stand and watch him occupy every damn inch of the Fugue. I’ll go in after him, if that’s what it takes.’

De Bono looked at Cal, a mixture of anger and despair on his face.

‘You can’t.’ he said. ‘The Gyre’s forbidden territory, even to us. There are mysteries in there even Kind aren’t allowed to set eyes on.’

‘Shadwell’s going in.’

‘Exactly,’ said de Bono. ‘Shadwell’s going in. And you know what’ll happen? The Gyre will revolt. It’ll destroy itself.’

‘My God …’

‘And if it does, the Fugue comes apart at the seams.’

‘Then we stop him or we die.’

‘Why do Cuckoos always reduce everything to such simple choices?’

‘I don’t know. You’ve got me there. But while you’re thinking about it, here’s another one: are you coming or staying?’

‘Damn you, Mooney.”

‘You’re coming then?