Radiant State

by Peter Higgins

  ‘Here we see it, friends,’ said Yashina, looking out across pained faces. Shock and disbelief and fear. ‘This is the fate that will come to us all if the man Rizhin remains in his position.

  ‘He has elevated himself so high above the Vlast he purports to serve that he thinks he can decide all things alone, and all he needs to implement his decisions are engineers, statisticians, soldiers and police. All others must only listen to him and praise him and obey. He has created about himself a cult of personality of truly monstrous proportions, devoted solely to the glorification of his own person. This is supported by numerous facts.

  ‘His official biography is nothing but an expression of the most dissolute flattery, an example of making a man into a god, an infallible sage, the sublimest strategist of all times and nations. It is a confection of lies from beginning to end, and all edited and approved by Rizhin himself, the most egregious examples added to the text in his own handwriting. I need not give other examples. We all know them.’

  Lom noticed that Kistler had slipped onto the platform and taken a seat at the back. Rizhin had seen him too.

  ‘Friends and colleagues,’ said Yashina, ‘we must draw the proper conclusions. The negative influence of the cult of the individual has to be completely corrected. I urge the Central Committee to declare itself resolutely against such exaltation of a single person. We must abolish it decisively, once and for all, and fight inexorably all attempts to bring back this practice. We must in future adhere in all matters to the principle of collective leadership, characterised by the observation of legal norms and the wide practice of criticism and self-criticism.’

  She paused.

  ‘I present the motion stated by Secretary Gribov to the Central Committee for the vote,’ she said. ‘Long live the victorious banner of our Vlast.’

  Yashina returned to her seat, visibly shaken. The observer-delegates sat absolutely still. A woman was sobbing. A naval officer had his head between his knees, being quietly sick.

  Rizhin sat looking at his fingernails with the same faint smile.

  ‘I ask my colleagues,’ said Gribov at the microphone, ‘to indicate assent or dissent.’

  For long moments nobody moved. Rizhin looked along the row of them, and none would meet his gaze. He began to smile. Then Kistler raised his hand.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Assent. Assent.’

  Another hand went up.

  ‘Yes.’

  And another, and another, and the dam broke, and all hands went up, every one, and the Victory Hall exploded into tumultuous shouting. In the body of the auditorium the observer-delegates–knowing now which way the wind blew–were on their feet, applauding, roaring, weeping their relief and joy.

  Alone, Lom watched from the balcony corner. Rizhin was still sitting in the same attitude, still with the same supercilious smile. He seemed frozen in time. Gribov and Yashina embraced, and Kistler’s face was alight with the clear happy grin of a child. The face of a man to whom the future belonged.

  Lom listened to the ecstatic cheering and asked himself why he wasn’t cheering too. He had won. He had done what he set out to do–Rizhin was fallen, the beast was down, the very idea of him in tatters–but his own first emotion was a flood of tired cynicism. Here he was, watching the rulers applaud themselves. All was decided now: Rizhin was a criminal; no one else was to blame, and the banners of the Vlast still flew. The roaring in the hall was the sound of survival, and of ranks closing.

  He pushed that weariness aside: it wasn’t right, it did no justice to the courage of Kistler, Yashina and the rest, and it did no justice to himself. The fall of Rizhin might not be an end, but it was a beginning. Things which only that morning could not have happened were once again possible now. Doors were opening. Possible futures multiplying second by second. He had done a good thing, and it had been hard, and he had a right to a moment’s satisfaction. And more than that. Maroussia. He had a right now to go home.

  He looked across at Rizhin once again, but his chair was empty. The man was not there.

  Lom took the steps up to the exit from the gallery three at a time, crashed open the door into the deserted corridor and began to run.

  Part IV

  Chapter Eleven

  Green shoots swell and burst

  and your back is shattered, you broken

  once-lithe hunting beast,

  my lovely miserable century,

  but still you go on, gazing backwards with a mindless smile

  at the trail you leave.

  Osip Mandelstam (1891–1938)

  1

  The man who was Osip Rizhin moves alone through the corridors of the Victory Hall. No praetorian troopers precede him, ten paces ahead, sub-machine guns in hand, sweeping the way. None follows ten paces behind. But he wears his white uniform still and he walks with the confidence of absolute power.

  If you see him coming, press yourself against the wall, show the palms of your hands, lower your eyes. Do not meet his gaze. Papa Rizhin can break you open and smash your world. The modest gold braid on the white of his shoulder, the ribbons at the white of his breast: these are the crests of the truth of the power of death.

  He looks at you with soft brown burning eyes as he passes.

  The news of his fall has not yet escaped the plenum chamber.

  Papa Rizhin, President-Commander and Generalissimus of the New Vlast, walks the passageways of the Victory Hall with measured pace and purposeful intent, but he does not exist. He is ghost. He is after-image. He is lingering, fading retinal burn.

  The man who hurries towards the exit is Josef Kantor, wearing Papa Rizhin’s clothes.

  He pushes his way through heavy bronze doors and finds himself on a high terrace overlooking the River Mir. No one else is there. Above him the sky and before him the city of Mirgorod in the sun of the afternoon. He stands at the parapet and sees the city he saved, the city he rebuilt from the burned ground up: the great sky-rise buildings spearing the belly of cloudless blue, the tower that bears his face but Rizhin’s name, the tower at the top of which Josef Kantor’s immense and far-seeing statue stands.

  Josef Kantor looks out across the city that is still his. Below him is the great slow silent river sliding west towards the sea. Barges call to barges, ploughing the green surface burnished in the afternoon sun, and a warm breeze palms his face. Summer air stirs his thick lustrous hair and gently traces the tight puckered scar on his cheek. Gulls wheel above the city lazily, flashing white in the sunlight. Their whiteness answers the whiteness of his tunic.

  Josef Kantor does not move. He is calm. He is waiting. It is nearly time.

  The revolutionary has no personal interests. No emotions. No attachments. The revolutionary owns nothing and has no name. All laws, moralities, customs and conventions–the revolutionary is their merciless and implacable enemy. There is only the revolution. All other bonds are broken.

  He slips his hand into his pocket and folds his fat fingers round the tiny warm piece of angel flesh he always carries there. Always. He is never without it and never was.

  He lets the last of Osip Rizhin drift away and dissolve on the air.

  There is no past, there is only the future.

  There is no defeat, there is only victory.

  I am Josef Kantor, and what I will to happen, will happen.

  There is a movement in the currents of the Mir, a disturbance at the near embankment. A roiling and rising stain of yellow sedimentary mud. An obstruction in the green flow.

  The brutal faceless head and shoulders and torso of Archangel-in-mudjhik lifts itself out of the river, a blood- and rust-coloured thing of stone flesh spilling water as it punches holes in the embankment wall and hauls itself higher and higher, climbing towards the terrace of the Victory Hall.

  Archangel tears open Josef Kantor’s mind and pours himself in, flood after flood of vast glittering black consciousness, the voice of the shining emptiness between galaxies.

  You remembered, my son, while
I was gone. You remembered me and did well. You have built me ships for the stars.

  Archangel! Archangel! Archangel!

  I come for you now so that you can come for me! Carry me out from under the poisonous trees and bring me home!

  It begins, oh it begins!

  The voice of Archangel singing among the suns!

  The foundations of the Victory Hall shook as Archangel-in-mudjhik, twelve-foot-high lump of mobile dull red angel flesh, climbed the embankment up towards the terrace, smashing through the skin of brick and gouging hand- and footholds in the concrete beneath. The waters of the Mir sluiced from him. The parapet crumbled and crunched under his weight as he heaved himself over.

  Josef Kantor stood and faced him. He could not speak, his throat was stopped, but he did not fall.

  The voice of Archangel filled his mind.

  Join with me, faithful, beautiful son. Come inside me now and I will carry you.

  Josef Kantor felt the mudjhik mind opening like a flower. It was a deep, scented well and he was on the brink. He was in a high and lonely place and desired only to fall.

  Josef Kantor felt his body dying. His heart in his chest burst open, a dark gushing fountain of blood. His lungs collapsed. His ribs flexed and his throat gaped but no air entered. He was drowning in sunlight. His own name separated from him and drifted away.

  Archangel-in-mudjhik pulled him in.

  Vissarion Lom, running through the corridors of the Victory Hall, felt the irruption of Archangel into the world. A shattering rearrangement of the feel of things. A detonation of total and appalling fear.

  He ran, and as he ran he felt the piledriver-pounding and -shaking of the floor. He was near and getting closer.

  He ran.

  There was no time and it was too far to go.

  Lom shoved open the heavy bronze doors and burst onto the terrace. The paving stones were cracked and shattered, pieces of parapet broken and scattered across the ground. A corpse in a crumpled white uniform curled on the floor, leaking dark blood from mouth and nose. Lom looked over the wall down into the river. He could see nothing but he knew what was in there, moving eastwards, pushing strong and fast against the stream.

  2

  The River Mir is strong and green and brown. The last mudjhik in the world walks submerged, shoulder against the flow, up the river towards the forest. The archangel fragment, small and lonely and triumphant, is going home.

  The river is a strong brown word, endlessly spoken, driving back towards the sea, but the mudjhik is stronger: every mighty footfall stirs puffs of silt. The dark voice of the river is loud: it is a hand against his chest, pressing. It ropes his feet and erodes the ground from under them. Eddies and water vortices stir and turn behind him, sucking him back, tugging him off balance. Thick mud in water whorls. The water ceiling just above his head glimmers and ripples.

  Gravity operates differently here: he has no weight. All the forces shove and shear sideways and backwards, lifting and toppling, pushing back against archangel will.

  Slip and fall. Tumble and roll. The strong brown river voice is running heavy. It turns everything over and over, slowly. Carries all away through city and marsh towards the ocean.

  The river knows mudjhik is there. The river is a watchful, purposeful water ram. The river, the ever-speaking voice of the inland forest, opposes.

  But mudjhik resists. Slow-motion walking like a brass-helmed diver in canvas and rubber, leaning forward into the slow conveyor of the water-wind, he hauls his clumsy mud-booted feet up and over lumps of half-buried concrete, brick and stone. Clambers clumsily over the weed-carpeted black and broken spars of a sunken barge, where worms and shell creatures rout and gouge the softening wood and frond gardens stream with the stream.

  The engined hulls of riverboats lumber past his shoulder. He strokes their iron and timber with his palm and edges them gently aside. Eels and lampreys slide and flick, feeding in the silt clouds the mudjhik’s feet kick up. Mudjhik pays attention to their slick dark mucus gleam. They flash like muscles of lightning in the paunch of storm clouds. They are bright marks of hungry life. Avid. Their needle teeth are sharp.

  Larger fishes watch from shadow and darkness, curious, circumspect, holding themselves effortlessly in position against the force of the stream.

  Mudjhik admires fish. Fish brain is cold, intent and unconcerned: the pressure of water currents is the book the fishes read. They trawl the turbid water with cold tongue. With cold and dark-adapted eye. They know what the river is: where it has come from, where it goes; the taste of earth and forest, lake and rain, and the fainter shadow-taste, the dangerous killing taint of oceanic salt. The river is their living god, and they are part of it, and there is nothing else and never was.

  Josef Kantor knows that he is underwater in the river, and he knows that he is dead. The will of Archangel, heart and brain and total mudjhik commander, is a hot red fire that burns him. The overwhelming intent of Archangel drives all other thought away. Archangel is inexhaustible and unending dinning shout, all on a single note.

  Archangel! Archangel! Archangel!

  Archangel is bands of iron and wires of steel. Archangel is thunderous wheels on rails. Archangel is the blinding brilliance of internal suns. Archangel is the only force that drives. Archangel is…

  Joseph Kantor is dumb with it.

  3

  Mudjhik climbs from the river and stands in the evening sun to dry. The city is far behind him, a murmur in the wind, a skyline stain.

  Archangel is well satisfied.

  You remembered and did well, my son. You were my voice in the silence and prepared for me the way home. Walk with me now, back to the mountain under the trees. Be my voice a while and I will yet show you the light of the stars.

  Josef Kantor is fist. All fist. He rises from the quiet floor (which smells of dead dog and stinks of dead Safran still) and fights.

  I am nobody’s son.

  All the long day, all the river walk, Kantor has been watching from the shadows, crouching, growing tired of the taste of defeat and death. He has been gently, silently, testing the boundaries of Archangel, weighing strength against strength, will against will. He knows now that this Archangel is fragment only, stretched thin and small and far from home.

  He knows the prize to be won, and that the risk of failure is death, but he is dead already, so what does it matter? And he is strong, stronger now than he was, and stronger than Archangel knows.

  Josef Kantor hurls himself at the Archangel root shard. Pushes his fist into Archangel mouth.

  I am Josef Kantor, and what I will to happen, will happen. I am nobody’s prophet and nobody’s labouring hand.

  Archangel screams shock and indignation and turns on the sudden enemy within. Crushing. Squeezing. Smashing. He is speed beyond perceiving, strike and strike and strike again: he is the lancing burning blade and the crushing stamping heel. Burst upon burst of hammer-blow force. He is the turner-to-stone and the acid lick of a fire mouth. He is the bitter adversary against whom nothing stands.

  Archangel! Archangel!

  He is warrior nonpareil; his birthright is all the stars.

  Josef Kantor goes down before him like a blade of dried grass under the wheel of a strong wind. Archangel burns him and he flares, weightless and brittle, crumbling to ash and dust. He vanishes into instant vapours of nothing like a scrap of paper in the belly of the white furnace.

  The brevity of his destruction cannot be measured in the silence between tick and tick. Josef Kantor is simply instantaneously gone.

  But Josef Kantor returns.

  Every time Archangel destroys him he returns.

  Archangel’s force is fabulously, immeasurably, gloriously greater. He extinguishes Josef Kantor instantaneously every single time–blows him into nothing like a candle flame–but this is not a contest of force, it is a contest of will and nothing else. Archangel-fragment fights for pride and dignity and purpose, because he is Archangel and cannot fail; that canno
t be conceived. But Josef Kantor fights because he will not die.

  Study what you fear. Learn and destroy, then find a stronger thing to fear. Endlessly, endlessly, until the fear you cause is greater than the fear you feel. This is the dialectic of fear and killing.

  Even before birth it began for Josef Kantor, the triumphant twinless twin spilling out onto the childbirth bed, accompanied by his shrivelled and half-absorbed dead little brother. Josef Kantor does not let rivals live. He doesn’t share space in the womb.

  All night long the mudjhik stands without moving on the bank of the river, and when morning comes the archangel-conscious fragment is dead.

  Josef Kantor explores his new body, and oh but it is an excellent thing! Senses of angel substance show him the world in all its surge and gleam and detail, alive in a thousand ways he knew nothing of before. Mudjhik strength is power beyond dreaming: with a flick of his arm he splinters trees. This is the eternal body Khyrbysk dreamed of! Tireless, impervious, unfailing, free of death.

  I have died once. I will not die again.

  And yet this mudjhik body is imperfect. It has no face. No voice. No tongue with which to speak. It is a crude and clumsy roughed-out template of massive earthy red. So Josef Kantor does what no mudjhik dweller ever thought to do before, nor ever had the will: he begins to reshape the mudjhik clay from within. He gives it mouth. He gives it tongue (a fubsy lozenge of angel flesh, awkward now but he will learn). He gives it teeth and lips and palate for the enunciation of sibilants and plosives and fricatives, and all other equipment and accoutrements necessary for the purpose of making voice.

  He gives its massive boulder head a face.

  Josef Kantor’s face.

  Josef Kantor made of angel flesh the colour of brick and rust and drying blood and bruises.

  Josef Kantor dead and immortal now and twelve feet high.

  Josef Kantor in the warmth of the morning walking east towards the forest.