Weaveworld

4

There was mute but perceptible elation in the upper room of the Laschenski house: the call had been answered. It had begun slowly, with lights moving back and forth through the echoes of the Weave, as the Old Science rose from its hiding places in the carpet and came to meet those who longed for it. The process was still slow, and demanding – they could not afford distraction from the task for fear of losing contact. But they were prepared for such rigours, and as the power beneath their hands intensified they couldn’t help but express their pleasure in soft words of welcome. The past was coming to fetch them.

A noise from the floor below drew de Bono’s attention. Taking care not to disturb the others as they worked, he tip-toed to the door and stepped out onto the landing.

There was no encore to the sound that had brought him out here. He crossed the darkened landing to the top of the stairs, and studied the shadows below. Nothing moved there. He’d imagined it, he decided. His protein-starved brain was playing tricks on him. But just to be certain he went through to one of the back bedrooms and peered down into the yard. Snow was falling, the flakes tapping lightly on the glass. That was all he could see or hear.

He took his spectacles off and pressed his fingers to his eyes. The burst of energy that had come with the first intimations of success had faded. All he wanted now was sleep. But they had a good deal of work to do yet. Calling the Old Science up was just beginning; next came the problem of harnessing it.

He turned away from the window to make his way back to his companions. As he did so he saw two figures moving towards the Weave room. Had someone come out to search for him? He put his spectacles back on, to get a better look at them.

The sight before him brought a shouted warning to his lips, but it was old news by the time he raised it, falling on ears already deafened by their own screams. It was all so quick. One moment he was slipping the scene into focus; the very next, it erupted.

Before he could reach the landing the killers had stepped into the carpet room, and the door was flung off its hinges by the force unleashed inside. A body was flung out on a stream of molten light and held – as though spitted – in the middle of the landing, while darts of flame devoured it. He saw the victim clearly. It was Toller; poor Toller; his body closing into a blistered knot as the fire withered him.

The de Bono who’d been with Cal at Lemuel Lo’s orchard would now have flung himself into the holocaust, and not considered the consequences. But bad times had taught him caution. There was no merit in suicide. If he tried to challenge the force that was running riot in the carpet room he’d die the way the rest were dying, and there’d be nobody left to testify to this atrocity. He knew the power whose labours he was witnessing: the worst predictions of his fellow Kind were here proved. This was the Scourge.

There was another explosion in the carpet room, and fresh fire blossomed onto the landing. The ceiling and floor were alight now; so were the bannisters and stairs. Very soon any escape route would be blocked, and he’d perish where he stood. He had to risk crossing the landing, and hope that the smoke would conceal him from the killing glance. There was no time to plot his route through the fire. Shielding his face he made a straight run for the stairs.

He almost got there too, but as he came within a pace of the top step he stumbled. He threw out his arms to save his fall and his hands gripped hold of the burning bannister. A cry escaped him, as the fire caught him; then he was up again and stumbling down the stairs towards the front door.

The Scourge came after him immediately, its first blow melting the brick where he’d stood two beats before. Eyes on the door, he pelted down the stairs, and was within five steps of the hallway when he heard a sound – like a titanic intake of breath – behind him. Why did he turn? He was a fool to turn. But he wanted a sight of the Scourge before it slaughtered him.

It was not the fire-bringer he saw at the top of the stairs however, but its slave. He’d never seen the Salesman dressed in his own skin, so he couldn’t name this man. All he saw in that instant was a wasted, sweating face, regarding him with more desperation than malice. The sight made him hesitate, and as he did so this Cuckoo stood aside, and the Scourge came into view.

It was made of innumerable eyes; and bone that had never been clothed; and emptiness. He saw the fire in it too, of course: a fire from the bowels of a sun, in love with extinction. And he saw agony.

It would have been upon him – both fire and agony – had the ceiling above the stairs not given way at that moment, falling between him and his tormentors in a curtain of flame. He didn’t escape its touch. Pieces of debris struck him: he smelt his skin burn. But while the deluge eclipsed him he was down the rest of the stairs and out – in three or four panicked paces – into the freezing air of the street.

There was a body burning in the gutter, having been thrown from the upper window, reduced by the Scourge’s heat to the size of a child. It was beyond all recognition.

With sudden fury he turned back on the house and yelled at the beasts within:

‘Bastards! Bastards!’

Then he took to his heels, before the fire came after him.

There were lights on all along the street, and doors opening as Cuckoos came out to see what it was that had disturbed their slumbers. Always the sight-seers: open-mouthed, disbelieving. There was a force for desolation loose in their midst which could consume their lives at a glance, surely they could see that? But they’d watch anyway, willing to embrace the void if it came with sufficient razzmatazz. In his rage and his despair de Bono found himself saying: let it come, let it come. There were no safe places left; nor powers to protect the vulnerable.

So let it do its worst, if that at the last was inevitable. Let the void come, and bring an end to the tyranny of hope.