Watson, Ian - Black Current 03

by The Book Of Being (v1. 1)

  "Fart all," repeated Credence. "Be a good big sister, hmm? Show an example."

  "Damn it," swore Peli, and swallowed her drink.

  Credence patted her on the arm. "Take my advice: pick a quiet spot, sit down and calm down. Here, I'll find you one—where you can watch the love-making, if you like. That's always nice to meditate on."

  Indeed, those who had taken their clothes off were already occupying one of the pits and engaging in gentle preliminaries.

  "It's all a question of timing," I heard Credence remark, as she drew Peli away.

  Of the cultists who were still clad, one woman had lain supine on the matting. Another was kneeling. A third sat hunched over her knees. Several still stood, and looked like staying that way. It was then that I cottoned on to the reason why the numerous windows were tiny and opaque. This must be to stop participants from being blinded should the sun stare in their eyes while they were slowed, and no monitor happen to notice.

  Peera-pa handed Papa and me our dark drinks. She raised her own.

  "We three will hold hands. That way, I hope we may commune. It's quite possible in timestop. You being priestess makes this highly probable."

  "Does it? I shan't have much of a view round Papa's belly."

  "The view you seek is within," she said.

  "Okay. Cheers." I drank. So did they. Shooshi relieved us of our glasses. Peera-pa, Papa and I linked hands.

  The first thing I noticed about being drugged was that I'd been like this for an immensely long time. Yet the experience had only just begun; I was aware of that too. There was simply no borderline to mark the change. Once crossed—as soon as I realized the alteration —the borderline itself receded infinitely; vanished. The immediate past fled away. My memories were of a timelessness to come.

  I knew now where Papa had got his idea about how we emerge as full persons from out of a fog which, thereafter, hides the nature of what we were before-we-were. My own sensations were similar. I had gained Time—some sort of absolute time—by losing touch with ordinary time. Here was the same kind of "never-ever" as I'd experienced in Ka-space during my crazy homeward flight from Earth.

  Indeed, for a moment (but a moment of what magnitude?) then and now connected up seamlessly. Past event and present event were one. Whatever had occurred during ordinary time between whiles became an ox-bow lake of happenings—something pinched off from the stream of never-ever.

  For a moment (but a moment of what order?) I thought I understood the means by which I had twisted back through time. I hadn't slid down a ladder of years, which everyone else must needs climb upward. I had simply floated from the outflow of the ox-bow of events, back into the inflow; for both lay side by side in the never- ever.

  When that had happened, I'd been dead; detached from the world. Now, however, the world confronted me—in the shape of Mardoluc's belly mainly, but also including his podgy hand holding Peera-pa's (I could see that), a patch of golden wall, a distant wax- paper window outlined in bloodwood.

  As I stared fixedly, belly and wall and window began to blank out.

  After an immeasurable while, the world came back, glowing with the message of its existence!

  I had blinked; that's what. I had blinked my eyes. The blink had lasted for dark ages.

  It came to me now that the whole world was actually winking in and out of existence constantly; yet we never noticed, because of the pace of time. Yes, the world forever came and went, just as it had done in that eyeblink!

  For an age the world glowed and vanished and glowed again. Why should it remain the same, each time it returned? Why should it not be different?

  Presently the answer became clear: the world remained constant because it was only a shadow. It was the shadow of the void. The shadow of nothing is something. The shadow of blackness is light. The shadow of a Ka is a person. The shadow of Potential is objects, things, events.

  You can't change shadows by grasping them. You have to grasp the original. But how can you grasp a void?

  I'd gone back through time, but I hadn't changed anything. I'd been scared to try—in case I vanished. Everything had to happen exactly as before.

  I was breathing ever so slowly, in and out. His hand and hers grasped mine. Increasingly I became aware of the pressure of palms and fingers. My nerves had taken so long to pass the message on that when it finally arrived, it wasn't a whisper but a shout. Hearing this message of touch coming in so slowly, my brain opened its ears wide to hear it. Was it thus with those lovers rubbing against each other in the pit? Every feathery touch became a huge caressing wave? And orgasm itself, a volcano?

  Aha, little priestess! Ho there, Peepy, we’ve done it! This way. Over here! Join in, do!

  Not only possible, I told you, but probable! Rejoice!

  Whilst simultaneously. . . .

  Yaleen!

  Worm?

  It's me, all right. But you're so quick.

  Quick?

  Compared with sluggish old me. You 're time-slowed, aren 't you? I've done that too. Part of me can match you for a while; the rest can catch up later. How's tricks? Given any more thought to my proposal?

  About jumping out of a balloon?

  Either that, or some other method. 'Tisn 't as though you lack the knack of dying.

  I wasn 't planning on becoming an expert.

  I'm one, and it hasn 't done me any harm.

  Come off it, Worm. You've never died.

  Ah, but thousands have died into me. I know ten thousand deaths, and more. Things are getting critical, Yaleen. Your first incarnation has been dead about a year and a quarter. She'll be blowing up the Moon in a few more weeks.

  Quite a few. Two score or so.

  Time flies.

  Not at the moment!

  Why are you hanging back? What is it that scares you?

  Being killed, old pal. Being tossed willy-nilly halfway to nowhere. You lost me last time, in case you've forgotten.

  I have a stronger grasp now. I've analysed your last flight, in as much depth as I'm able, and I do believe I've figured out how to steer you to a worm-world.

  Ho hum.

  Worm of the River: is that you? This was Peera-pa, sounding somewhat awed.

  Mardoluc was less abashed. Excuse me: is this a private quarrel, or can anyone join in?

  We aren 't quarrelling, said the Worm, we 're merely discussing tactics.

  Can you slow time at will? asked Peera-pa. And can you dream the True which lies behind phenomena?

  Can you stop time completely? Mardoluc asked.

  Me? Er . . . not quite yet. Look, folks, I really can't hang around much longer. I'm losing touch with myself. I'll see you all when you die. Bye!

  Hang on! I cried. But the Worm departed, with what seemed to me like suspicious haste.

  Mardoluc sighed. Oh dear. So near, yet so far. Shall we show Yaleen the five rites of contemplation?

  Yes, that might bring a breakthrough.

  What are those? I asked.

  Techniques of ours, he said. There's the rite of duration and the periodic rite. Then there’s the ephemeral rite and the instantaneous rite and the synchronous rite, which is what the time-slowed lovers are busy at. .. .

  What kind of breakthrough?

  Why, to being! exclaimed Peera-pa.

  Oh, you mean to those shapes that cast the shadows?

  You can actually see those? Peera-pa sounded a bit awed once again.

  She already glimpsed them in Ka -space, Peepy. She says so in her book. Remember the riddle of the raven and the writing desk? Remember how she guessed that the void dreams the shape of our universe, unawares? She already knows more than the River-Worm knows. But she doesn 't know what she knows.

  I'll say I don't, I said.

  That 5 because you haven't disciplined yourself, Yaleen. You've gobbled knowledge like a cat let loose on a finger-kissingly cooked bouillabaisse of butterfish. The cat doesn 7 know the soup; it just feeds. In its haste, it doesn 7 really taste. Nex
t moment it will catch and scrunch a fly.

  How do you know a cat doesn 7 appreciate good cooking? Maybe a crunchfly for afters tastes as good as a crouton? (I didn't really believe it!)

  There you go, off at a tangent.

  Huh. You mentioned cats. I was talking about shapes that cast shadows—which I happened to glimpse just a bit ago, before you two joined me!

  Really? There's hope for you yet! Let's instruct you in the first rite, of duration.

  Okay, if it'll pass the time.

  No, you mustn 7 pass time. Time must pass you. Start by observing what you see. Next, try to observe what you can't see. Look in the gaps! Catch the breath of Being on the hop, between in and out. Usually the world is breathed too fast for us to notice. . . .

  Immeasurable intervals passed by.

  I didn't become too adept at this breath-of-Being business. Nor did my two instructors seem unduly adept; though I guess they had to be a long way ahead of anyone else I'd ever met. Maybe the Cognizers of Ambroz's world could have given Papa and Peepy a tip or two, but again maybe not.

  Anyway, whilst I was busy observing and not-observing, something sinister started to happen. Credence loomed slowly into view, close by Papa. With what seemed immense patience she began prising Peepy's hand out of Papa's grasp—and suddenly I lost touch with the two of them!

  At a snail's pace Credence slid her leg in front of Papa, as a pivot. Sluggishly she heaved.

  I had all the time in the world to work out her intention. I even managed to loosen my own hand slightly from Peepy's. I even succeeded in shifting ever so slightly aside.

  By now the something-sinister had become something very nasty indeed. How I tried to escape! And how useless it was to try!

  Slowly Papa toppled. His bulk bore down on me, while Credence slid from sight. His huge belly began to push me over backwards. Slowly I fell—and the mountain of Mardoluc followed me down.

  Oh yes, I had plenty of time to observe what was going on. And what was going on was a "tragic accident", during which poor little Yaleen would be crushed to death by the enormous chef who had alas lost his balance. Crushed, suffocated—one, or both.

  Where the shit were Shooshi and Zelya?

  Upstairs, no doubt! Sent up there on some pretext by Credence, who would now doubtless be up there too. She would distract and delay the two monitors—establishing her alibi in the process—then after a suitable interval she would pop back to the head of the stairs, spy the horrid mishap, and shriek.

  Under normal conditions I don't suppose that Credence could possibly have thrown Mardoluc. He had to be time-slowed, unable to readjust his balance. So who would credit that she had thrown him? Not Papa or Peepy, I feared. Credence had stationed herself quite astutely before interfering.

  I hit the matting, slowly-o. And he crushed down on me, oh so slowly-o.

  Damn the Credence bitch!

  No, wait. When Credence had acted treacherously before—that time when she suspended the drugged Marcialla high up a jungle- giant—it had really been the Worm who was responsible! My old pal had admitted as much. The Worm had played on Credence's dreams; had steered and manoeuvred her without her knowing it.

  The Worm had just bragged that it knew ten thousand deaths. Ten thousand ways of dying. And it wanted me dead. In Credence's mind it could soon find anti-Yaleen grievances to bring to the boil. It had taken a quick look at the set-up here, and broken contact with indecent haste. . . .

  Mardoluc's mass pressed down fiercely.

  The mat beneath and the belly above soon lost any bounce or sponginess. They were twin slabs of granite, squashing together— with me sandwiched in the middle. I was buried alive, and a mountain was being piled on me pound by pound, tun by tun.

  Oh yes, the Worm had manipulated Credence. I was sure of it. Credence was just a dupe. And Mardoluc? Oh he was the fall-guy, for sure.

  The Worm might know ten thousand deaths, but I bet it never knew a death such as this one

  Being shot by Edrick had been quick. Shrivelling, freezing and bursting in the wreck of the rose garden on the Moon had taken a while longer; it hadn't been interminable. This was.

  Now my ribs were giving way. Slowly. But slowly.

  I was nailed to the bottom of a lake, with half a league of water overhead, trying to drag a bucket of air down from the sky for my lungs; in vain. I was impaled by slow rods of blazing pain. I was tom apart inside. I was squashed as flat as a fleuradieu under a pile of books. Ever so slowly.

  How I begged to die. Permission denied. Denied. I could repeat it for a hundred pages. For this went on. And on. And on.

  After the hundredth, or thousandth, stage of my death: that was when my mind snapped and I went mad.

  Part Three

  All The Tapestries Of Time

  It's a weird old business, going mad. Going mad isn't something which just happens to you. It isn't like getting trapped in a thunderstorm, or catching a chill. It's something which you help to happen.

  You know that you're beginning to go mad. So you experiment with the madness. You give it a nudge here and a shove there. That's because you have to escape. When you're trapped in a vice that's squeezing you intolerably, and when this just goes on and on; when you can't die, or even faint—madness is the only way out, make no mistake.

  Your mind-paths start to go astray, They bend. They deform. So you help them bend more. Your mental links start to snap, to dangle down into depths where you can hide. You follow them down gladly.

  Your self splits up. You become separate selves, part-selves. Nobody knows these new persons, thus nobody can capture them and hurt them; not easily! Not even you knew they were inside you. No more than you paid attention to the workings of your womb and spleen and heart.

  Imagine a body splitting up into independent heart, and spleen, and womb. Imagine each organ going its own way, toddling off on tiny legs. Now the organs of your mind do likewise.

  The funny thing is that each mind-organ on its own seems more complete—more fully furnished, competent, consistent—than you ever did before, with all your ragged edges and loose ends!

  These mind-organs, these part-selves are as the different cabins in an enormous boat.

  This is the biggest boat you have ever sailed in. It isn't a mere boat. It's a legendary galleon—and argosy, and more! A river is too small to float it. It needs a whole sea.

  You've grown not lesser by splitting, but larger.

  A few cabins are bare and austere; a single oil lamp lights those. But for the most part, oh the furnishings! The panels of gildenwood and rubyvein, the ivorybone shelving, the chairs of hoganny, the ebon scritoires inlaid with pearly shell, the voluptuous bedding, the handbasins of mottled marble, the silver sconces, the bluecrystal candeliers and chandelabra ablaze with candles which never bum low or drip wax . . .

  Most of all, the tapestries.

  A tapestry adorns one wall of each cabin. Portholes are clamped tight, wearing thick brass lids; it is the tapestry which weaves the view instead.

  So here's a view of dusty Pecawar when you were a little girl (before you became a little girl again). Here, of broad Aladalia when you dallied innocently with Tam. There, of the spinach puree jungles by Tambimatu. . . .

  Of the storm-lashed Zattere in Venezia.

  Of the star-dunes of the eastern desert when you were dead, a stowaway in Lalia's memories. . . .

  Those cabins which are bare of luxury are set so deep beneath the waterline that if you did undog their brass port-covers the water outside would be as black and solid as a coal seam. Even though you don't go near the portholes you're aware of this.

  Why should you go near them? Those shuttered portholes are your protection. As are the cabin doors, which all stay locked.

  To move from one cabin to another you don't use doors and dart along corridors and up and down companion ways. Oh no.

  Bend of hull, contour of deck and bulkhead, make the space of each cabin unique to itself. And each cabin is
a separate person, a part of yourself. In order to reach another cabin you need only fit yourself to the right shape. That's the knack. You shift there immediately.

  That's why the invading pirate enemy can't catch you. As soon as pain lays its hand on a doorknob you're off somewhere else.

  But beware: if your madness isn't clever enough you might lose the knack. You might end up fastened away for your own safety in the most sunken cabin of all, so deep that no enemy could reach it by diving, so well concealed in the keel that your foe could spend the whole voyage forcing entry on the upper decks without ever scenting you. Your madness might swallow you—and then it might swallow itself.

  So therefore: flow with the madness. Keep shifting. Dart from cabin to cabin, and from self to self.

  Your madness is many things.

  And you are many.

  Where does this fine argosy sail to? Where's its destination? Why, anywhere in any tapestry! Your madness steers the vessel by shifting you from side to side like cargo.

  In the eyes of the foe your galleon may seem like a bumboat or a wherry, something paltry. Your foe only glimpses a bit at a time. You alone know your vessel's true many-chambered immensity.

  Shifting, shifting, you die. You can't avoid dying. And your galleon becomes a ship of Ka-space. . . .

  Spinning-top in a blue void. Bodiless in empty sky-space. Nothing visible but azure light. . . .

  Nothing at all?

  Faintly you still sense cabins and tapestries.