Castles Made of Sand

by Gwyneth Jones

  Failing that, he had to devour the map and think, visualise, because it’s always the detail that counts, the lie of the land—

  ‘We need to retake Reading,’ said a militarised Dilip. ‘If we could walk in there, and make it look never in doubt, that would swing it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Rob. ‘We could do it. The town’s ours. They may not love the staybehinds, but they hate the fucking Celtics.’

  Allie said, ‘Ax, do you want that briefing on Greg Mursal now?’

  ‘Greg what? Who he—?’

  ‘He’s the Prime Minister.’

  He glanced over with a wry grin. ‘Sorry. Yeah. I’ll get to it.’

  The emergency Prime Minister, alas, was not a major issue. The people who were in a position to control the future of England were just about two miles away, in the enemy camp.

  Push wood on the fire, Jackie. Good wood on the fire, Jackie—

  ‘I’m going out for some fresh air.’

  Outside the tent Ax’s driver, a Welsh Independent Volunteer called Bronwen Palmer, slouched in the open door of her jeep. Stay with the vehicle was the only way to hang on mps—mobile power-sourcing, otherwise known as motor fuel. Take your eyes off your ride for a moment, even if you’re driving the Dictator himself, and it will get siphoned, the fuel-cell will be drained; or it will vanish.

  Ax nodded to her, took out a cigarette and looked north. Glastonbury Festival site, was over there, beyond the Celtic position, a great wen; dwarfing the little towns of Shepton Mallet, Street and Glastonbury itself. Something like a hundred thousand people. Women who actively want to bear fifteen babies before they’re thirty, and see fourteen of the kids die. Pagan priests who actively want to keep the ‘unfit’ in dogkennels and sacrifice them on feastdays (with the occasional glorious physical specimen for dandy); because Gaia has spoken…

  He didn’t believe it. As the leader of the Rock and Roll Reich should know, it’s all surface and moonshine. But surface and moonshine can be monstrously effective, you can have a wild idea and haul the people along with you for a while; he knew that too. The warriors wanted their pitched battle, it was their day in court, and either they would have their way, or Ax would back down, lose the initiative, and there’d be hell to pay. He did not want the job of dux bellorum. He almost wished he’d refused, but back in Paris it had seemed there was no other way, and maybe that was still true, if there was hope at all—

  ‘What pisses me off,’ he said, ‘is the number of people who think I’m surprised the Reich ended up like this. I am not surprised. And the other people who think this proves there’s something fundamentally wrong with being green, with treading lightly, or loving this beautiful country. There is absolutely fuck-all wrong with the music; or with turning your back on consumerism. The Celtics are criminal lunatics, but they’re not responsible for the Crisis.

  ‘After the Second World War, when the world was obsessed with Global Thermonuclear meltdown, Albert Einstein said he didn’t know what kind of weapons would be used in the Third World War: but he knew that if there was one, the Fourth World War would be fought with sticks and stones. As it turns out, the Third World War was fought with rotten money, and peasant soldiers in client states, over decades. But it looks as if Einstien was right.’

  ‘You could duck this,’ said Bron, ‘and win a war of attrition.’

  Yeah, right, he thought. Like the Welsh did, when the last global civilisation was tumbling? ‘Nah. I’ll fight. It’s the best option, when you look at the alternatives. What are you Independent Welshpersons going to do?’ he added, in her own language. ‘Clear off back to the valleys would be my advice.’

  ‘Taking a wild guess, we’ll wait and see, and leg it for the winning side at the worst moment for the other fellers.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Of course, I’m talking about the Northerners. Hypocritical tight-arses.’

  She had not expected Ax Preston to be like this, an unassuming feller with a few strands of silver in his dark hair, a demon for work and a distracted look. Didn’t know what she’d expected, really. She liked the directness. He gives you the feeling he’s not just moving his mouth, to be polite: he’s talking to you. That’s what I will tell people, she thought.

  ‘Are you going to smoke that cigarette? Er, Sir?’

  ‘No. It’s Ramadan.’

  It will be Yap Moss again, he thought, tracing the landscape with his gaze, fitting it to his plans. And they don’t know. Very few of the so-called warriors over there were in Yorkshire, very few have been in combat. They don’t know what can happen in an afternoon. He felt sickened.

  The Celtic command post was a Iron Age roundhouse prefab, with a reed thatched roof and wattled walls. Fiorinda and the Heads drove up to it, Fiorinda in the front with George. She was dressed as she’d been at Drumbeg, but cleaned up; and her hair was brushed until it glowed. Rufus, in the sack at her feet, muttered like something overheard in a bad dream.

  They parked a respectful distance from the tooled-up warriors guarding the doorway. There were shouts of excitement somewhere not far away, but here the crowd was silent, pressing close and staring: sombre, tattooed, pierced, wild-haired men and women.

  ‘Rehearse me again,’ said Fiorinda.

  George repeated the Irish with her.

  ‘I’ve got it.’ She pushed back her hair. ‘I wish I had some make-up.’

  ‘You look terrific,’ said Bill.

  ‘Never better,’ said Peter. ‘I never saw you look better.’

  ‘Knock ’em dead, my love,’ said George. ‘You’re on.’

  They were supposed to have a safe conduct. Unarmed, no wires, no panic buttons, nothing, they walked in: Fiorinda casually swinging the sack. Inside the roundhouse it was, unexpectedly, almost as light as day, because there were ATP patches all round the walls. Fiorinda grinned when she saw that. A trestle table of pale raw timber faced the entrance, across a space of beaten earth and the hearth pit; a row of people, mostly men, sat behind it. Others were standing on either side. She recognised intimates of those winter evenings at Rivermead, but not Benny Prem, Glastonbury leaders. The rest of those at the table were Scottish and Irish ‘military advisers’. She knew some faces in that contingent too: people who damn well ought to know better than to be in this company.

  ‘Hello Jack,’ she said brightly, to the worst of those who’d seen her humiliated as ‘Fergal’s’ whore, ‘where’s Benny?’ She grinned. ‘Is he not feeling well? Hello Phil—’ This to Phil Maclean, Scottish radical rockstar: who had been a friend of the Reich last time they met. ‘How’s the band?’

  She emptied her sack onto the table, lifted Rufus’s head by the hair and set it upright. Salt trailed from the mouth; which moved, slackly, but no distinct sound emerged. The life in it was running down at last. There you go. One dead magician, boys. Think about it, those of you who know—

  She said her piece, looking the chief of the Irish party straight in the eye.

  ‘Coir paisean a bhi ann, agus nior fear, bean no leanbh sin Eireann Naofa, go dtabharfainn mise no mó churadh an locht.’

  It was a crime of passion, and there is not a man, woman nor child in Holy Ireland, that would give me or my champion the blame.

  There was a dead silence.

  ‘Well?’ said Fiorinda.

  One of the men at the table (which of them was the first would be cause for endless speculation) stood and bowed, without a word. Then another did the same, then one of the women. There was a rush. They were all on their feet. One or two even dropped on one knee. The armed guards around the walls decided to pitch in, going down in a wave.

  Fiorinda drew a breath, and nodded.

  ‘Good. That’s very sensible.’

  The tableau came to life. A babble of voices.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she told them. ‘Later. Now I have to be somewhere else.’

  She walked out, the Heads close around her, into the waiting crowd. The bonfire at Westminster rose up and there was bi
le in her throat, but she raised her clasped hands above her head. ‘It’s peace!’ she yelled. The warriors cheered. She and George and Bill and Peter leaped into the jeep and roared away.

  While Fiorinda was pulling her stunt, Sage was on his way from the Celtic camp to Ax’s position, escorted by an enthusiastic crowd. Neither of them had yet seen Ax. They’d come to Somerset straight from the South Wales branch of Zen Self labs; where he’d been patched up sufficiently that he could sit in a car. It was a tour de force, but worth it at this juncture, when something like ‘the return of Aoxomoxoa’ could swing the balance. He was drugged to the eyeballs, and as comfortable as possible, it’d be a while before he could lie down anyway. All he had to do was smile, like dowager royalty; maybe a little wave now and then. He was not afraid for himself, because all this seemed like a dream, anyway. He was afraid for Fiorinda, walking into that den of wolves without him. But she would be fine. She could look after herself, and she had George and Bill and Peter—

  The jeep coughed and died. They were halfway up a little lane, eaten away by flowers and grass, that lead to Mr Dictator’s camp. He stayed the back with his medical support, while the driver and his mate decided what to do. They’d run out of fuel, must have been ripped off, better leave the hero and go and fetch help… Everyone in the jeep knew that Sage couldn’t move from that backseat, but the cheering crowd of Aoxomoxoa fans had no idea. These were the Cornish Celtics, coming over to Ax’s side because their hero had returned. Shit. Fate has called our bluff, or put it another way, fucking stupid cock-up. He hated the thought of being carried out of here on a stretcher, but it might have to be.

  There was a sudden commotion. Four young men came barging through the crowd, hauling a great big roan horse, saddled and bridled in Celtic retro style. Everyone was overjoyed. What a great solution!

  ‘Aoxomoxoa! Aoxomoxoa! Can you ride? Uh, Sir?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve never tried.’

  If Olwen had been there she would have stopped him, but the Zen Selfer medics wouldn’t argue with Aoxomoxoa. He had achieved the quest! He almost wished they would, but too bad. Can’t let the punters down. He knew that if the fight happened it would be a close thing, could hang on a thread, and Ax is not going to lose because of me. Still a few dregs of superpower in the tank, I’ll be fine.

  So he climbed on board the fucking horse, and the Cornish all ran along with him, cheering, through a gate, onto a flowery hillside where hordes of barmies came racing down to join the fun shouting madly—

  ‘It’s Sage!’ ‘It’s Aoxomoxoa!’

  Ax and Bronwen stood and stared while waves of barmies swept by, whooping and shouting. The roan horse came up, surrounded by the tumult, and then the crowd stopped shouting. Sage and Ax looked each other over, the horse took a few more steps; it stood and Sage slid down, very carefully, as if he were deeply suspicious of this mode of transport. He leant on the big roan’s shoulder.

  ‘Hi, rockstar.’

  ‘Hi, other rockstar. How was Ireland?’

  ‘Terrific. But I don’t think I’ll be going back for a while.’

  Sage dropped the reins. Bronwen Palmer (what a story to tell) caught hold of them and stood there at the turning point. Mr Dictator walked into his Minister’s arms, and the crowd of barmies gave way to a second wave of staff, officers, war correspondents and close friends. ‘Ah, shit, muttered Sage, head down, his face hidden against Ax’s throat. ‘Can’t do it. Brother, get me out of this, please.’

  ‘No problem. Leave it to me.’

  Ax left the hero propped against the bonnet of Bronwen’s jeep. He was shocked and frightened: when he’d seen his big cat riding up the field like that he’d thought, thank God, he’s not so badly hurt. But he showed no sign of fear as he advanced on the eager company. ‘Okay, fuck off. He’s my boyfriend, have a bit of sensitivity. I get him first. You can have him later. You heard me, go away.’

  Everyone backed off very smartly. Ax returned to the jeep, smiling. ‘See. Nothing to it. I could have been taking lessons from Aoxomoxoa—’

  Sage wanted to tell Ax that he’d been sure he must die on the beach at Drumbeg, and ever since then he’d felt that he was dying, dreaming all this while he was dying. But now he knew he was alive, and he was sorry, again, sorry, Ax, I fucked up, I didn’t mean to do this to you. He wanted to explain so many things, but there was no time. There was blood in his mouth.

  He stood on the cliff. He leaped.

  ‘Sage?’ said Ax.

  Sage tumbled forward, so Ax had to take his whole weight, and felt the rigid body brace, and laid him down with terrified care on the bruised grass—his head thrown back, blood on his lips, wide-open eyes still passionately reflecting the blue of the sky.

  ‘Sage! Oh shit, please, no, Sage—’

  Fiorinda walked along a corridor in the Rivermead medical centre. Reading had been in Ax’s hands since the day battle of Glastonbury had been averted, a week ago. She didn’t think she’d ever feel the same about Reading site, but the medical centre was okay. It was very quiet. She opened a door and looked into a pleasant room filled with summer daylight, simply furnished. There were two empty beds with covers and pillows piled and folded on them: slight burdens, and lying very still. She stood for a moment, looking at that scene, then turned from what might have been, to the world that she had made.

  The third bed was also empty. Sage was propped in the windowseat with his feet up, wearing white pyjamas and a shabby blue cardigan. His scalp wound was taped up, his face bruised and he was holding himself oddly. He looked a little rough, but if you didn’t know better, you’d never have guessed the state he was in… That’s why they were at Reading. The staybehinds had been able to protect a great deal by co-operating with the usurpers—including the cutting-edge full-cover health clinic; here where Ax had provided a safe refuge for the future he believed in. This was the first time she’d been allowed to see him since that insane stunt at the battle ground, but Sage was going to be all right. No dirty magic involved, thank God, just the staggering miracles of modern medicine.

  ‘Hello,’

  ‘Hi.’ He turned his head; he smiled at her dreamily.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oooh, not too bad. Patched up again. Got through countless pints of other people’s blood while they were doin’ it, as the synthetic kind don’t work very well on me. Some of it Bill’s and George’s and Peter’s.’ His voice shook, his eyes tearing.‘I always d-did find it useful to have a band with the same blood group.’

  ‘Rock and Roll feudalism can’t be all bad. Does it hurt very much?’

  ‘Nah, I’m fine. Got a shunt in my arm: I’m tanked to the eyeballs, an’ I intend to stay that way.’ He tried to laugh. ‘You know, I don’t understand Olwen Devi. One minute she tells me I must never, never touch any kind of recreational drug again in my life, ever. Next thing I know she’s giving me unlimited access to this excellent smack—’

  Fiorinda crossed the room. They were silenced, solemn-eyed and almost afraid, because of what they had done together at Drumbeg.

  ‘I killed your father, Fiorinda.’

  ‘I hope he stays dead,’ said Fiorinda, with feeling.

  ‘Well,’ said Sage, lightening up, ‘if he doesn’t—’ Deliberately, he took his hands out of his cardigan pockets, and folded them around his knees, ‘I’ll just have to kill him again.’

  ‘Augh! Sage!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Your hands!’

  ‘What, these?’ He held them out: Fiorinda grabbed them, these undisfigured hands, tanned from outdoor living, with long squareish palms, square-tipped fingers, strong thumbs set wide: hands she’d never seen before but instantly familiar, full of life, full of Sage.

  ‘Oh, my God… Were your hands like this in Ireland?’

  ‘Yeah. I thought you hadn’t noticed, you strange girl.’ He blinked. ‘Woman.’

  ‘I had a lot on my mind… Oh, Sage, how? How did this—?�
��

  ‘I don’t know. When I came back from the Zen, at Caer Siddi, these were my hands, that’s all. I didn’t do it, I didn’t even ask…well, shit, maybe I did. I just came back and these were my hands,’ he repeated. ‘Call it a side-effect.’ His face broke up, like a little child’s. He reached for her awkwardly, without moving his rigidly held torso, tears spilling through thick yellow lashes.

  ‘Oh, Fiorinda, I don’t want to die! I thought I would, I would achieve the Zen Self, and beat Rufus and I would die, I thought that was the deal, but I don’t want to leave you. I want to stay with you and Ax, but I’m so scared this damage can’t be fixed. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, oh, and I left you alone with him, why am I such a fuck-up, why am I always like this? Oh Fee—’

  She held his head against her breast, she had meant not to cry, she’d meant to be cheerful and positive, but she couldn’t help it. ‘Hush, hush, poor baby, you are not a fuck-up, my Sage, you are my darling, you did fantastic, you are going to be all right, little Sage, baby Sage, we will look after you, poor baby—’

  Ax had allowed himself to be waylaid because he wanted to give them space. The three of them were so shattered and battered it would be a while before the love affair was an issue, but he wanted to signal that he understood, and that it was okay. He walked alone to Sage’s room, rehearsing what he would tell them, I love you both very much. Whatever you want, that’s what I want for you too. They’re the lovers, I’m their friend. We get that straight, from the start…

  His big cat was in Fiorinda’s arms, both of them sobbing like fools. His heart turned upside down, he was across the room in a second and taking Sage from her, completely unable to stop himself: I’m never going to let you go, he was babbling, I’m never going to let you out of my sight again—