by Tom Fletcher
‘What is this?’ he breathed. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
‘The Terrarium,’ a Pilgrim replied. This individual was not as friendly as Ippil or Weddle; she was big, and strong-looking, with a neck like a toad’s and eyebrows like masses of spider legs.
Alan thought the Pilgrim would elaborate, but she didn’t.
‘Is it … important?’ he asked eventually.
‘It is everything to us,’ the Pilgrim replied. ‘It is the heart and soul of the Pale Goddess, and the Pale Goddess is at the root of everything. She is buried deep in our core, as we are in hers. The Terrarium is where we come to thank her, and where we come to pay our obeisance.’
‘So it’s part of her? I mean, part of the Goddess? The Sanctuary?’
‘What is it you want, man?’ the Pilgrim asked. ‘I’m trying to worship.’
‘I wanted the mushrooms,’ Alan said, pointing. He realised what he’d said as soon as he’d said it and clapped a hand over his mouth.
The Pilgrim looked at him angrily.
‘I didn’t mean to say that,’ Alan said. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘We do not curse in the presence of the Goddess,’ the Pilgrim said. ‘This is a sacred place. And we do not reach into her soul so that we can pilfer it for our own gain. Now,’ she said, and she prodded Alan’s chest with a finger, ‘you will be gone from here and you will not come back. You profane us.’
Alan cast a brief glance back at the Terrarium and hurried away, back down the trunk.
He tried to process what he’d seen in that last look. The object suspended in the middle of the Terrarium was not a stone block or a tree stump; it was a huge, leather-bound book, sodden and rotting, and from it grew all of the vines, the ferns, the flowers, the lichens and the mosses. And the mushrooms.
*
‘Idle Hands was a parasitic fungus,’ Ippil said. ‘It came before my time. It devastated much of the Low Discard. The outbreak came from an exploratory mission into the Sump, and the Pilgrims were best placed to deal with it because of our location, and because of our experience in healing. It has not been reported since, though the Discard is a big place.’
‘And what was it?’ Alan asked.
Ippil, Churr, Nora and Spider followed suit, then Ippil continued, ‘The first symptom took weeks to manifest, but when it did it was moving hands: a sufferer’s fingers would bend and wiggle, and they wouldn’t be able to control them. Then their hands would start shaking. That was partly how it got its name.’ She looked around. ‘It was a very unpleasant disease. I don’t know if I should elaborate while you’re eating.’
‘Please,’ Spider said, through a mouthful of little birds. Crumbs flecked his beard. ‘Do continue.’
‘All right. This was a fungus that thrived inside the human body, and in order to replicate itself, it made its way into the sufferer’s mind and prompted them to pass it on. The second symptom was usually paranoia, which would develop into full-blown murderousness – this indicated that the fungus was well and truly embedded in the host’s brain, physically growing in there. Eventually, it would take over the brain, and the host would be little more than an ambulatory unit, carrying the fungus around until it was ready to spill from the host’s eyes, ears and mouth. Most strikingly, it would soften the top of the skull and erupt from there in the form of two long, curved horns. And that’s the second part of how it got its name.’
Alan looked confused.
‘Idle Hands,’ Nora said. ‘Idle hands make the devil’s work.’
‘That’s a sentiment I can’t quite get behind.’
‘It’s something you can joke about now,’ Ippil said, ‘but the outbreak was brutal: people turning on each other; families ripped apart. There was a lot of bloodshed. And the elders say that it was incredibly difficult to treat. If the fungus takes hold, then it controls all the body parts, even bits that have been amputated.’
‘So how was it treated?’
‘Well, I told you that the various powers and potencies of the mushrooms are a consequence of where we are. We believe that what the Pyramid dumps into the Sump is magical, and that as a consequence of the rising swamp, that magic is leaching out. It is our belief that this magic is causing these various afflictions throughout the Low Discard; making people ill, making them mad, making them … different. And that’s why they’re drawn here: they’re drawn to the source of their condition.’
‘Why would they be drawn to the source?’
‘It’s a theory,’ Ippil said, ‘that’s all. Once we suppose the presence of magic, though, it’s difficult to rule anything out.’
‘The corruption – I can feel it,’ Nora said. ‘It is a corruption of Gleam’s spirit. If Gleam itself is somehow magical, and if these people are indeed touched by magic, then it is possible that they can feel the corruption too.’
‘Why would they head towards anything that feels like a corruption, though?’
‘It’s not them, it’s the magic – the magic is compelling them.’
‘Hang on,’ Alan said. ‘Idle Hands – let’s go back to that.’
‘We use our experience and what understanding we do have to manage the growth of various fungi. Back then, the Pilgrims were experimenting with growing a fungal antidote, but they were working in the dark. Many of the effects of these mushrooms – again, this is just our belief, but it is based on decades of experience – are magical, so they thought they’d try to manipulate the magic in the mushrooms. They were good with the fungus, but they knew little to nothing about magic and it took them a long time, while all around them, the world was falling apart.’
‘But they succeeded.’
‘That is correct: they did. They hit upon a new strain; not a fungus like Idle Hands, but a mushroom that could be cut up, dried and ingested. It could not undo any damage done by Idle Hands to the host’s brain, but it could halt it, and it did negate the aggressive urges.’
‘It stopped the spread.’
‘That is correct.’
‘So that’s why you don’t open the Seal.’
‘That is correct.’
‘And that’s why we can’t know what the Pyramid is making.’
Ippil nodded silently.
‘But,’ Nora said, ‘we know that Idle Hands is something they made.’
Ippil nodded again.
‘Good point,’ Alan said. ‘But … if you’ve got an antidote, why the fear of Idle Hands?’
‘There are dangerous side effects, but mostly, the reason is that the antidote is very hard to grow. There is only one culture in which we can keep it alive, and it does not support a large crop.’
‘The Terrarium,’ Alan said. ‘The little pale green mushrooms.’
‘That is correct,’ Ippil said.
Alan ran a hand through his hair. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he said.
Ippil pointed a finger at Alan. ‘We do not curse in relation to the Terrarium,’ she said, her face transformed in anger. ‘You need to learn to hold your tongue, Alan.’
The others murmured their agreement. ‘Why does the nature of Green’s Benediction upset you so?’
‘That’s what it’s called, is it?’
‘It is.’
‘Well,’ Alan said. He paused. ‘The truth is …’ he said, trying again, but he didn’t get much further. He could see Churr slowly shaking her head at him while Ippil wasn’t looking, mouthing the word ‘no’.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘Ippil, it’s what I came for.’
Ippil’s expression froze, and she said nothing.
‘Don’t look at me like that. It can’t be unusual. You must get people coming down here for them all the time.’
‘We certainly do not. Why would we? Idle Hands is not a threat any more. We have the only specimen left.’
‘I know that the Mushroom Queen had some of these, so one of your Pilgrims must have supplied them. Somebody here must be trading them.’
‘Well, yes: the Mushroom Queen could have some. Drie
d, they last indefinitely. And Daunt is our only trading partner with regard to Green’s Benedictions, so she might have some from previous giftings. But the issue is that they are not for us to harvest. We cannot simply open the Terrarium and take them. The Giving Beast releases them in accordance with its own cycles. So, no matter how desperately you want them, you cannot have them. No matter how far you have come, they are not yours to take. Another possibility, of course, is that the Benedictions you encountered were fake. Some Tunnellers perhaps, dyed green with the juice of refinery beetles.’
‘They were not fake,’ Alan said, angry with himself for not considering that. Though if they had been fake, it was a good job he’d lost them, instead of giving them to Tromo in good faith.
‘How do you know?’
Alan cast about for an answer. ‘She really wanted them back,’ he said. ‘She was going to great lengths for them if they were not genuine.’
‘Regardless,’ Ippil said, her voice even, yet steely, ‘coming here to secure some for yourself was a mistake. We cannot sanction a breach of the Terrarium, and besides, we are, first and foremost, healers, not one of your topside gangs, looking to make a profit by peddling poisons to the desperate. Nor are we here to supply such parasites. We trade with Daunt, but only out of necessity. Our preference would be to offer something else in return for goods, but, unfortunately, we have nothing else to offer.’
She stood up. ‘I thought you were here because you had brought your friend, but your motives are far from altruistic. I am going to have to ask you to leave.’ She frowned. ‘All of you.’
‘But—’ Churr started.
‘No.’ Ippil had turned white with rage. ‘You have come to steal from us. You are not worthy of our hospitality. You are not worthy of the Giving Beast. And you are not welcome.’
‘What about Eyes?’ Spider asked.
Ippil thought for a moment. ‘You can go to see him, but then you must leave. You can wait for him out in the swamp. You have half an hour before I send Pilgrims to enforce your banishment. Remember: you are now being watched.’
She turned and swept away, head down, almost vibrating with fury.
‘So,’ Alan said.
‘Nice one,’ Churr said. ‘Good work, dickhead.’
‘I’m not a good liar.’
‘You’re not good at anything.’
‘He’s quite good at singing,’ Spider said.
Churr rolled her eyes.
Alan turned to Spider. ‘Quite?’ he said.
Spider shrugged.
‘You can’t lie, you can’t kill, you can’t—’
‘I can fight a bit.’
‘What good is that if you’re not going to kill?’
‘I’m pretty sure I could kill, actually,’ Alan said, quietly. ‘It just hasn’t been absolutely necessary yet.’
‘My understanding,’ Spider said, ‘is that Alan chose his companions with his own limitations in mind. He is not generally comfortable with killing, so he asked me along, for example. Not to mention Bloody Nora.’
‘I secured Bloody Nora,’ Churr said, ‘and don’t you idiots forget it.’
‘Lest anybody forget,’ Nora said, ‘I’m here for my own reasons.’
Churr glared at Nora, then slammed her hands onto the table, stood up and strode off.
Alan took a deep breath. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Coming to see Eyes?’
*
‘This is the place,’ Spider said to Alan as they entered the Sanctuary. ‘The place the Omentoad showed me. It feels the same. I knew it augured something good. This is where we succeed.’
‘You are too optimistic,’ Alan said. ‘We may have found our Benedictions, but we have not yet succeeded in anything.’
‘I felt the magic,’ Spider said. ‘I felt it coming up from underneath. I don’t feel it now, but I did then – that must be what the afflicted feel. That must be what you feel, Nora.’
Nora nodded briefly, but her face did not betray anything like the wonder that was in Spider’s words.
Alan, Nora and Spider stood around Eyes, lying on his wooden gurney. Once Nora and Spider had taken in the nature of the Sanctuary, the Goddess and the Giving Beast, they relayed the recent developments. The flesh of the Giving Beast smelled much stronger this close to its interior ‘wall’, and the surface of the gills was soft-looking, inviting.
Alan had to resist the urge to climb inside one of the gills and lie down himself. ‘I wish I’d made better use of my bed,’ he murmured during the silence that followed their story.
‘Aye,’ Eyes said, ‘if you’d just stayed in bed, you’d likely not be getting the boot.’
The old man was much, much better – in fact, his recovery was almost eerie. Alan was shocked when they first saw him. Although Eyes was still blind – he’d lost his sight permanently, it appeared – the skin of his face had healed and the infection had diminished almost totally. Apart from being far too thin, he actually looked better than he ever had before.
The Giving Beast. Alan couldn’t shake his unease. It was giving, yes; it was giving very much. But was it taking anything in return?
‘It all comes down to the Pyramid, then, eh?’ Eyes said. He chuckled softly to himself. ‘Sending all their shite out here for the likes of us to deal with the consequences.’ He laughed again. ‘Ah, well. It should be no surprise to me any more.’ He shook his head. ‘No surprise at all.’
Alan waited for the onset of the trembles, for the agitation, for the explosion of anger and entreaties for action that usually accompanied Eyes’ musings on the Pyramid.
But they didn’t come. He just lay there, calm and sanguine, a clean cloth wrapped around the top of his head, laughing quietly. It must have been the effects of the spores.
Then Alan cocked his head. ‘Can you hear that?’ he asked.
‘What, exactly?’ Spider replied. ‘I can hear lots of groaning, talking, children shouting.’
‘Babies crying,’ Nora said, standing.
‘Yes,’ Spider said, ‘babies crying, too. The breath of our great host here, the squeaking of these pulley systems …’ He trailed off.
‘The babies,’ he said.
Alan stood up and simultaneously a cacophony of screams erupted outside the Giving Beast. Wound through it all was the high wail of a crying baby.
26
Green’s Benediction
As they ran from beneath the fungal curtain, warm blood spattered across their skin. Screams echoed throughout Dok and bodies rained down from the hole at the top of the tower, splattering onto the stone ground and bouncing from the Giving Beast’s canopy, fluids spraying wildly from tears and ruptures.
‘By the Builders!’ Spider said. ‘Holy hell!’
The baby cries became that awful gurgling laughter and then warped back again, all the time growing ever louder. Alan couldn’t see much up at the top of Dok – he could just about make out the large aperture through which they’d all entered – but there was no bright sky beyond to illuminate anything, not when they were this deep. There was just a paleness, and the impression of movement. And, of course, people falling: Pilgrims and the afflicted alike. Some Pilgrims were running down the walkway and some were running up, armed with staffs, swords and crossbows.
‘We’re up, Nora,’ Spider said, but Nora was already on her way, moving fluidly through the chaos, slipping between the Pilgrims and flowing up the spiral like something betraying the laws of physics.
Spider put a hand on Alan’s shoulder. ‘Now’s your chance, Alan,’ he said. He gestured back at the Giving Beast. ‘We’ll handle the Clawbaby. You get in there and secure those Benedictions.’
‘I should fight it,’ Alan said. ‘It’s here for me.’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘I do – I can’t explain it, but I know. It used to wait for me outside the House of a Thousand Hollows, I’m sure of it now. I used to think there was something out there, watching me. It’s been there ever since I was young. Even whe
n I lived in the Pyramid. Sometimes when I was out on the terraces I felt it, watching.’
‘Alan, we don’t have time for this. Go and get what we came for; you take the Benedictions and you take Eyes and you go. Just go. Because once this is over, there will be no mercy for you. The Pilgrims are dangerous: you know it and I know it. You will have to run. We will all have to run.’
‘Where’s Churr?’
‘I don’t know. Now go.’
‘I—’
Spider shoved him back towards the Giving Beast and then set off at a run, shouldering his way across the increasingly congested ground floor. Alan heard a wet yell from directly above and instinctively side-stepped; a woman with her head twisted right around smashed into the ground right where he’d been standing. The sound of her bones breaking made Alan want to cry. He looked at her and realised that her neck wasn’t twisted; she just had faces on both sides of her head.
When he looked up again, Spider was gone.
Alan ran back to the Giving Beast, to find that inside was no less chaotic. There were obviously different denominations within the Pilgrims’ order, and some of those were trained to fight, and many of those were on their way up to do battle. But those who were not fighters were gathering here and Alan’s heart sank when he looked up and saw how crowded the branches of the Sanctuary were: a bountiful crop of pious greycloaks clutching their cuffs and chanting at the Terrarium. Praying. Yet more Pilgrims were climbing the trunk, and many were simply kneeling on the floor, facing the centre of the great dome. Though most of them would not pose much of a threat individually, he had no doubt that together they could easily overpower him. And there were a few more threatening people pacing around the inside: lithe, bare-chested, wearing loose trousers instead of cloaks and twirling staffs in their hands.
There weren’t any attempts to move the patients out – maybe there was nowhere else for them to go. And perhaps they believed the spores in here would slow down or even stop any attackers, overwhelming them with a pacifist spirit. Maybe that would work on normal human beings, but Alan was pretty sure that the Clawbaby would not be dissuaded from its grisly work, whatever that work was.