Weaveworld

II

OBLIVION

1

othing, neither in the books he’d read nor the testimonies he’d listened to, nor even in the tormented voice he’d heard on the wind the previous night, had prepared Shadwell for the utter desolation of the Rub al Khali. The books had described its wastes as best words could, but they couldn’t evoke the terrible nullity of the place. Even Emerson, whose mixture of understatement and passion had been persuasive in the extreme, hadn’t come near to touching upon the blank truth.

The journey was hour upon relentless hour upon relentless hour of heat and bare horizons, the same imbecile sky overhead, the same dead ground beneath the camels’ feet.

Shadwell had no energy to waste on conversation; and Hobart had always been a silent man. As for Ibn Talaq and the boy, they rode ahead of the infidels, occasionally whispering, but mostly keeping their counsel. With nothing to divert the attention, the mind turned to the body for its subject, and rapidly became obsessed with sensation. The rhythm of the thighs as they chafed against the saddle, or the taste of the blood from the lips and gums; these were thought’s only fodder.

Even speculation about what might lie at this journey’s end was lost in the dull blur of discomfort.

Seventy-two hours passed without incident: only the same curdling heat, the same rhythm of hoof on sand, hoof on sand, as they followed the bearing of the wind on which the Scourge’s voice had come. Neither of the Arabs made any enquiry as to the infidels’ purpose, nor was any explanation offered. They simply marched, the void pressing upon them from all sides.

It was worse by far when they stopped, either to rest the camels, or to offer their sand-dogged throats a dribble of water. Then the sheer immensity of the silence came home to them.

Existence here was an irrational act, in defiance of all physical imperatives. What kind of creature had chosen to make its home in such an absence, Shadwell wondered at such moments: and what force of will must it possess, to withstand the void? Unless – and this thought came more and more – it was of the void: a part of the emptiness and silence. That possibility made his belly chum: that the power he sought belonged here – chose dunes for its bed and rock for its pillow. He finally began to understand why Immacolata’s visions of the Scourge had brought sweat to her brow. In those nightmares she had tasted a terrible purity, one that had made her own pale by its light.

But he was not afraid; except of failing. Until he stepped into the presence of that creature – until he learned the source of its cleanliness, he could not be cleansed himself. That he longed for above all things.

And, as the night fell on their fourth day in the Quarter, that desire came still closer to being realized.

Jabir had just set the fire when the voice came again. There was little wind tonight, but it rose with the same solemn authority as before, tainting the air with its tragedy.

Ibn Talaq, who’d been cleaning his rifle, was the first to his feet, his eyes wide and wild, either an oath or a prayer on his lips. Hobart was on his feet seconds later, while Jabir went to soothe the camels, who had panicked at the sound and were tearing at their tethers. Only Shadwell stayed beside the fire, gazing into the flames as the howl – sustained as if on one monumental breath – filled the night.

It seemed to go on for minutes before it finally died away. When it did it left the animals muttering, and the men silent. Ibn Talaq was first back to the fire, and the business of rifle-cleaning; the boy followed. Finally, Hobart too.

‘We’re not alone,’ said Shadwell after a time, his gaze still on the flames.

‘What was it?’ said Jabir.

‘Al hiyal,’ Ibn Talaq said.

The boy pulled a face.

‘What is al hiyal?’ Shadwell said.

‘They mean the noise the sand makes,’ Hobart said.

‘The sand?’ said Shadwell. ‘You think that was the sand?’

The boy shook his head.

‘Of course not,’ said Shadwell. ‘That’s the voice of the one we’ve come to meet.’

Jabir threw a handful of bone-white sticks onto the fire. It devoured them immediately.

‘Do you understand?’ Shadwell asked.

Ibn Talaq looked up from his work, and stared at Shadwell.

‘They understand,’ said Hobart.

‘I thought maybe they’d lose their nerve.’

Ibn Talaq seemed to sense the implication of this remark.

‘Rub al Khali.’ he said, ‘we know. All of it. We know.’

Shadwell grasped the point. They were Murra. Their tribe laid claim to this territory as its own. To retreat before the mysteries of the Empty Quarter would be tantamount to disinheritance.

‘How close are we?’ said Hobart.

‘I don’t know,’ Shadwell replied. ‘You heard it the same as me. Perhaps very near.’

‘Do you think it knows we’re here?’ said Hobart.

‘Perhaps,’ said Shadwell. ‘Does it matter?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘If it doesn’t know tonight, it will by tomorrow.’