The War in the Waste
Page 52
Mickey shook his head. It sounded fantastic. “Wraiths are the same strain of people as the Chadou. And the Chadou don’t have a reputation for trickery?
“But they don’t live in the Wraithwaste. There are no daemons in the plains—so you say, and I see no reason not to believe you—no, I’ve thought this all out, Mickey. It’s nothing to do with race. I mean, Ferupian and Kirekuni trickster women are the proof of that. I think it’s to do with the Wraithwaste itself—living there. It does something to people. I can remember... The gift is in the blood, but I think originally, however long ago—before there was ever a Ferupe, when the Wraiths had their own kingdom—trickery came from the Waste itself, kind of soaking into them?
Mickey shook his head.
“Oh, I know it sounds absurd! Believe me, if I could think of a more rational explanation—but you did ask!”
“The fact remains, whatever you did, it worked,” Mickey said.
The wind had fallen, and the stilling of its song over the slopes made the whole mountain seem to be holding its breath. Mickey thought, There’s going to be a storm. He wanted to be away from this place. The valley had become contaminated with the inexplicability of Crispin’s trickery; the rocks and cliffs themselves lacked credibility. Nothing that happened here now could fall within the scope of the laws by which the normal world operated. He wanted to shout aloud and hear his voice bounce back off the walls of the canyon, proof that he existed, and simultaneously he wanted to immerse himself in this two-way current of secrets that violated the established rules of communication between himself and Crispin, he wanted to erase the gap of confidence between them which Crispin’s meager revelations had made even more palpable, as palpable as the tension and the silence.
“I can’t bloody well breathe,” Crispin said at last, fretfully. “Have you got a cigarette?”
Mickey felt in his pockets. “One.”
“Split it?”
Mickey moved over to the boulder where Crispin sat. They passed the cigarette back and forth in silence. Finally Crispin swung down off the boulder, wincing. “Fucking backache. Getting old.” As Mickey followed him back toward the Blacheim, he said over his shoulder, “Let’s get the blankets and clear off. Whenever I come near her I have this inexplicable urge to let the daemon out. They’re very good at making you feel they’re hard done by. If I start sleepwalking tonight, trip me up, all right?”
The storm broke in the small hours. Rain lashed the mountain and drove hard down the canyon, turning it into a river. Water surged around the Blacheim’s wheels and swept away nails, tools, and Mickey’s cigarette box. Where they were sleeping on the raised rocks at the mouth of the canyon, they escaped the worst of the flood, but got no sleep and were drenched to the skin. It was no use changing their clothes; the rear cockpit of the Blacheim had been left open, and everything inside was soaked. Squelching and shivering in the pink-rinsed gloom that heralded the sun’s advent over the mountains, they readied the airplane for takeoff. Mickey wasn’t sure whether they should chance it—the rocks were wet and in some places puddled—but Crispin persuaded him the ruined wheels retained enough traction to handle the speed. Mickey was eager enough to leave the canyon behind that he let himself be persuaded.
It went unnervingly well. The daemon bellowed with a rejuvenated hunger for flight as they took off amid the first rays of day. Mickey’s reflectors glowed like solid gold hundred-sigil pieces. Twisting in his harness to look at the sunrise, he saw the rim of the orb surging up over the ridges: the biggest gold coin of all. Lances of light shot out from behind the Raw Marches like searchglares from the keep of a many-towered city.
...let us now invoke all beings who inhabit the lower air, the shallow water, and the smaller hills, all Fauns and Dryads and slips of the memory, all verbal coincidences, Pans and puns, all that is medieval this side of the grave.
—E. M. Forster
END OF EXCERPT
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