Weaveworld

II

REPRESENTATIONS

1

ight days after the destruction of the Fugue and all it had contained, the remnants of the Four Families – in all, maybe a hundred individuals – assembled to debate their future. Though they were survivors, they had little reason to celebrate the fact. With the Weaveworld’s passing they’d lost their homes, their possessions, and in many cases their loved ones too. All they had, as reminders of their former happiness, was a handful of raptures, much weakened with the Fugue’s defeat. These were small comfort. Raptures could not wake the dead, nor keep the corruptions of the Kingdom at bay.

So; what were they to do? There was a voluble faction –led by Balm de Bono – that argued to make their story public; to become, in essence, a cause. There was merit in the idea. Perhaps the safest place to be was in plain sight of the human world. But there was substantial opposition to the scheme, fuelled by the one possession circumstance could not take from these people: pride. Many of them stated bluntly that they’d rather die than throw themselves on the mercy of Cuckoos.

Suzanna had a further problem with the idea. Though her fellow humans might be persuaded to believe the Kind’s tale, and sympathize, how long would their compassion last? Months?; a year, at most. Then they’d turn their attention to some new tragedy. The Seerkind would be yesterday’s victims, tainted by celebrity but scarcely saved by it.

The combination of her argument and the widespread horror at humbling themselves to the Cuckoos was sufficient to outweigh the opposition. Determined to be civilized in defeat, de Bono conceded.

It was the last time the etiquette of debate shaped the night’s proceedings, as the meeting grew steadily more heated. The escalation began with a call from a harried, grey-faced man that they put aside all pretence to bettering their lot and concentrate on revenging themselves on Shadwell.

‘We’ve lost everything,’ he said. ‘The only satisfaction we’ve got left is seeing that bastard dead.’

There were voices raised in protest against this defeatism, but the man demanded the right to be heard.

‘We’re going to die out here,’ he said, his face knotted up. ‘All we’ve got left are a few moments … to destroy the ones who did this to us.’

‘Seems to me this is no time for a vendetta,’ Nimrod said. ‘We have to think constructively. Plan for the future.’

There was some ironic laughter amongst the gathering, above which the voice of the would-be avenger rose:

What future? he said, almost triumphant in his despair. ‘Look at us!’ There were many downcast eyes at this; they knew all too well what a forlorn sight they made. ‘We’re the last of the few. There won’t be any coming after us, and we all know it.’ He turned on Nimrod. ‘I don’t want to talk about the future,’ he said. ‘That’s just asking for more grief.’

‘That’s not true –’ Suzanna said.

‘Easy for you to say,’ he retorted.

‘Shut your mouth, Hamel,’ Nimrod shouted.

‘I won’t!’

‘She came here to help us.’

‘We’ve had enough help from her to kill us!’ Hamel yelled back.

His pessimism had found a good number of supporters.

‘She’s a Cuckoo,’ one of them now piped up. ‘Why doesn’t she go back where she belongs?’

Part of Suzanna was ready to do just that: she had no desire to be the target for so much bitterness. Their words stung. More than that, they stirred another fear: that somehow she could have done more than she had; or at least done it differently. But she had to stay, for de Bono, and Nimrod, and all the others who looked to her for guidance in the Kingdom. The fact was that all Hamel had argued made a sad sense to her. She could see how easy it would be to take strength from hating Shadwell, and so be diverted from the losses they’d sustained. They more than she, of course; and that thought she had to keep uppermost in her mind. She’d lost a dream she’d had a few precious moments to indulge. They’d lost their world.

A new voice now entered the controversy; one she was surprised to hear: that of Apolline. Suzanna hadn’t even been aware of the woman’s presence in the room until she rose from a cloud of tobacco smoke and addressed the company.

‘I’m not going to lie down and die for anyone,’ she said. ‘Especially not you, Hamel.’

Her defiance echoed that of Yolande Dor, back in Capra’s House: it seemed always to be the women who argued most vehemently for life.

‘What about Shadwell?’ somebody said.

‘What about him?’ said Apolline. ‘You want to go kill him, Hamel? I’ll buy you a bow and arrow!’

The remark won over-enthusiastic laughter from some quarters, but only served to infuriate the opposition more.

‘We’re practically extinct, sister,’ Hamel replied, his scorn lavish. ‘And you’re not too fertile these days.’

Apolline took the taunt in good humour.

‘Want to try me?’ she said.

Hamel’s lips curled at the suggestion.

‘I had a wife –’ he said.

Apolline, taking her usual pleasure in offending, jiggled her hips at Hamel, who spat in her direction. He should have known better. She spat back, only more accurately. Though the missile was harmless enough he responded as though he’d been stabbed, throwing himself towards Apolline with a cry of rage. Somebody got between them before he could land a blow, and he struck out instead at the peace-maker. The assault ended any lingering pretence to civilized debate: the whole assembly began shouting and arguing, while Hamel and the other man traded punches amongst the overturned chairs. It was Apolline’s pimp who parted them. Though the fight had lasted no more than a minute, both had taken a beating, and were bleeding at mouth and nose.

Suzanna watched with a heavy heart as Nimrod attempted to calm proceedings. There was so much she wanted to talk with the Kind about: problems upon which she needed their advice; secrets – tender and difficult – which she wanted to share. But while things were so volatile she feared voicing these matters would simply be further fuel for dissension.

Hamel took his leave, cursing Suzanna, Apolline and all who – as he put it – ‘sided with the shit’. He didn’t go unaccompanied. Two dozen left with him.

There was no serious attempt to return to the debate after this eruption; the meeting had effectively been brought to a halt. No one was in any mood to make balanced decisions, nor were they likely to be so, at least until a little time had passed. It was concluded, therefore, that the survivors would disperse, and lie low in any safe place they could find. There were so few of them left that melting amongst the populous would not prove too difficult. They’d wait out the winter, until the reverberations had died down.