Weaveworld

V

A FRAGILE PEACE

1

al was happy to sleep for a while; happy to be at ease in the embrace of gentle hands and gentle words. The nurses came and went; a doctor too, smiling down at him and telling him all would be well, while de Bono, at the man’s side, nodded and smiled.

A night later, he woke to find Suzanna with him in the room, mouthing words which he was too weary to hear. He slept, happy that she was near, but when he woke again, she’d gone. He asked after her, and after de Bono too, and was told that they’d be back, and that he wasn’t to concern himself. Sleep, the nurse told him. Sleep, and when you wake all will be well. He vaguely knew this advice had failed someone he knew and loved, but his drugged mind couldn’t quite remember who. So he did as he was told.

It was a sleep rich with dreams, in many of which he had a starring role, though not always wearing his own skin. Sometimes he was a bird; sometimes a tree, his branches laden with fruits each of which were like little worlds. Sometimes he was the wind, or like the wind, and ran unseen but strong over landscapes made of upturned faces – rock faces, flower faces – and streams in which he knew every silver fish by name.

And sometimes he dreamt he was dead; was floating in an infinite ocean of black milk, while presences invisible but mighty distressed the stars above him, and threw them down in long arcs that sang as they fell.

Comfortable as it was, this death, he knew he was only dreaming it, indulging his fatigue. The time would come soon when he’d have to wake again.

When he did. Nimrod was by his bed.

‘You needn’t worry,’ he told Cal. ‘They won’t ask you any questions.’

Cal’s tongue was sluggish, but he managed to say:

‘How did you do that?’

‘A little rapture,’ Nimrod said, unsmiling. ‘I can still manage the occasional deceiving.’

‘How are things?’

‘Bad,’ came the reply. ‘Everyone’s grieving. I’m not a public griever myself, so I’m not very popular.’

‘And Suzanna?’

He made an equivocal look. ‘I like the woman myself,’ he said. ‘But she’s having problems with the Families. When they’re not grieving, they’re arguing amongst themselves. I get sick of the din. Sometimes I think I’ll go find Marguerite. Forget I was ever Seerkind.’

‘You can’t.’

‘You watch me. It’s no use being sentimental, Cal. The Fugue’s gone; once and for all. We may as well make the best of it. Join the Cuckoos; let bygones be bygones. Good God, we won’t even be noticed. There’s stranger things than us in the Kingdom these days.’ He pointed to the television in the corner of the room. ‘Every time I turn it on, something new. Something different. I might even go to America.’ He slipped off his sunglasses. Cal had forgotten how extraordinary his eyes were. ‘Hollywood could use a man with my attributes,’ he said.

Despite Nimrod’s quiet despair, Cal couldn’t help but smile at this. And indeed, perhaps the man was right; perhaps the Seerkind had no choice now but to enter the Kingdom, and make whatever peace they could with it.

‘I must go,’ he was saying. ‘There’s a big meeting tonight. Everyone has a right to have their say. We’ll be talking all night, most likely.’ He went to the door.

‘I won’t go to California without saying goodbye,’ he remarked, and left the patient alone.