Suddenly Crimson Boney began a continuous sound like a squealing song, and he paced up and down the chamber, head bobbing and hairs erect as if he was declaiming to an invisible audience. ‘Are you all right?’ Dwllis pointlessly said, following with more questions along the same line. Crimson Boney seemed upset, and although Dwllis could not tell if this guess was correct, he did have the eerie sensation of strong emotions coursing through the body of the gnostician.
And then the barrel of bio-gel burst.
He had not noticed sub-systems evolving with manic speed. The barrel burst and a solid block of quivering gel emerged. This was an autonomous protein structured by artificial DNA, appropriated, so it was said, from the depths of the Swamps by Noct’s dark aquanauts. Noct alone knew what it could do.
Crimson Boney stood still, tentacles rigid, eyes slitted, frozen in a pose of tension.
With the plastic struts of the barrel cast aside, the bio-gel, holding the pyuter firm like a child holds a doll, expanded into a column five feet tall, becoming translucent. Inside, filaments snaked with time-lapse speed, growing into nodules, and then into a range of shapes like organs. Dwllis was reminded of what he had seen at the Cemetery. Something here was growing. The pyuter was becoming its brain, held in what looked like the chest of a person.
It was a person! Now that image had come to mind he saw that two legs were forming, two arms, and a head from which yellow hair sprouted.
The thing was turning into a pyuton. Outer layers were now opaque, pink skin just like his. The face was appearing, with nose and mouth. The eyes were black as night, as if declaring that the pyuton had no soul, and they seemed to stare with macabre intensity at Dwllis, until, much to his relief, a brown iris and a bloodshot white appeared. Creaking and squeaking, the body stretched and filled, its skin drying. And it was Etwe.
Dwllis had never expected to see her again. Seeing her here, naked, made him tremble, and he wanted to run away, though he could not. Nor could Crimson Boney, who, likewise, was fascinated.
Tentatively Etwe moved. She twirled about, took hesitant steps. Then she spoke to Dwllis and a musical babble simultaneously emerged from her mouth, giving her words that electronic tinge of two sounds modulating one another.
‘Dwllis… we speak… you, me… me, you.’
Crimson Boney approached Etwe with tentacles twitching. The holes at the side of his head flexed. It seemed to Dwllis that he spoke back in the gnostician tongue.
Etwe said, ‘Yes… I speak you… you, me.’
This, Dwllis realised, was his translator, which had become autonomous in a most fiendish way.
‘Metal,’ Etwe said, ‘string, head, leg, plastic, silicon, nose.’ As she spoke these words their equivalents, or what Dwllis presumed must be their equivalents, were spoken in the musical gnostician tongue, and he was both appalled and astonished to see Crimson Boney running around the chamber to fetch examples of these substances.
‘Etwe, are you really here?’ he asked.
Etwe looked at him. ‘I never go… not go…’
She had returned to him. What would Cuensheley say?
He tried to get a grip on himself. Severely, he said, ‘Etwe, tell me the route to your room upstairs. Now!’
She looked at him, looked up at the ceiling, but was not able to reply coherently. ‘Go up… up plastic…’
So this was far from a complete translator. The one-year-old child had developed a year or two. Dwllis felt some relief at this. The last thing he wanted was Etwe around again, if this was Etwe. How had the pyuton formed so? Had Etwe been spying on him through the networks, waiting for her chance to pounce, to become once again his servant? The thought was dreadful. But at least he had some time in which to think. Of course, the work of translation would have to continue; Etwe’s brain must grow and mature. Yet somehow he would have to squash Etwe out.
Dwllis considered the wider picture. Tierquthay had been told by the radio voice from the afterlife that the work of gnostician augmentation was one key to understanding the threat of vitrescence and the luminophagi. In a matter of days, he might be able to question a gnostician directly. He and Cuensheley would not need to break into Selene’s house again. He was close to finding out some answers.
A knock from outside. He bustled Etwe into a side room and ran for the door, opening it to find Cuensheley, lumod in one hand, basket in the other.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Good morning, what d’you want?’ he asked.
She frowned. ‘I thought we’d arranged for you to have deliveries every other day, as you’re not going to live with me.’
Dwllis smelled a yeasty smell from the basket. ‘Indeed, we did. It is my damnable memory.’
Cuensheley looked into the tower. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in, then? Is that the loper you were telling me about?’
‘Yes, that is Crimson Boney.’
‘How’s the translator going?’
‘Oh, most well,’ Dwllis said. Desperate, he mentally scrambled for a way to force her away from the tower. If she saw Etwe, all his benefits would vanish.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked again.
Dwllis kissed her on the cheek. She smiled and kissed him back. He said, ‘I am most well, Cuensheley. What say we go for a walk into the city? I have not had much of a chance to see you of late, being beset by the Reeve’s orders.’
‘There is something wrong, isn’t there? You’re practically stuttering’
Dwllis swallowed. ‘Truth be told,’ he began, ‘I may be worried about… about the amount of this damnable sponge I am chewing. You are getting me into bad habits.’ He took the basket from her and stepped out. ‘Come along.’
Cuensheley jumped inside. ‘No.’
Dwllis re-entered the tower. There stood Etwe.
Cuensheley rounded on him. ‘You liar.’
Dwllis mustered his sternest tones. She must not get another word in. ‘It is not as you think,’ he began. ‘This is a new pyuton. I know not where it–’
‘She.’
‘Where it comes from. It appeared mysteriously from my translator barrel. It is not the old Etwe. I have no interest in this pyuton except as a translator, as my translation routines are within its brain. That is the truth. If you disbelieve me, it is your fault. Speak to it. The damned thing can hardly string a sentence together.’
‘I didn’t realise speech was something you wanted from Etwe,’ Cuensheley viciously said. The jealousy was plain in her flushed face. ‘So this isn’t Etwe?’
‘It is the form of Etwe, with the brain of a low-standard pyuton.’ Dwllis looked away, the tension he felt making his limbs tremble.
Cuensheley approached Etwe and said, ‘Well, well, so you never left the tower after all. That’s what happened, isn’t it?’
Etwe replied, ‘Tower… up… go up plastic.’
‘Do you see what I mean?’ Dwllis triumphantly asked.
Cuensheley shrugged, making for the door. ‘There’s something going on. Maybe this pyuton isn’t the vacuous fool you used to entertain here, but she looks the same–’
Dwllis’s restraint shattered. ‘Don’t talk to me! If I say she is not Etwe then she damn well is not! Don’t you accuse me of being a liar, you damned… nuisance.’
He turned away, ashamed, the anger gone as if a switch had been thrown inside his mind.
Cuensheley approached and tried to hug him, but he pushed her away and stared silent at the bare wall.
Cuensheley touched his arm. ‘Where does all this anger come from?’
‘Never you mind.’
‘I do mind. I want to know why you’re so angry, why you shacked up with a pyuton, why you won’t have anything to do with me. I want to know.’
‘Being angry is wrong. It is negative and bad.’
‘You were brought up by a guardian,’ Cuensheley said. ‘I suppose it was a lesson you learned.’
‘It is common sense. Now go. I may come see you in a few days, but do not lo
ok out for me.’
Cuensheley, face grim, made for the door. On the step she turned to say, ‘Don’t think you’ve got off the hook by making me feel guilty. You lied to me. What else have you lied about? The interment at the Cemetery? The Archive of Selene, maybe?’
Dwllis could find no answer to these accusations and, though he wanted to stand up for himself, he remained silent.
Cuensheley uttered a grim laugh. ‘The only true fool is he who rejects the sincere advances of another.’
‘Is that then what this is all about? You cannot bear for me to reject you?’
Cuensheley shrugged. Her gaze turned to the nocturnal scene outside. In the wordless pause, the clamour of the city entered Dwllis’s speech-amplifying earmuffs as a low rumble, and he watched the changes on her face, cursing himself again when he realised how beautiful she was. Then she said, ‘Maybe it is. I know more about your feelings than you imagine. I’m not the guilty one here.’
She departed. Dwllis shut the door immediately and returned to the chamber off the hall, in which Etwe stood. Crimson Boney lay on a divan.
Dwllis stopped to observe them both. Somehow, the remembered picture of Cuensheley at his door overlaid the real Etwe: he saw drifting blonde fuzzlocks trailing rainbow ribbons, a figure somewhat more slender than it used to be, two bewitching blue eyes, a classic oval face. For a moment he realised that he was a fool to ignore Cuensheley. There was nothing to fear. Then the insight vanished, crushed by the acquired behaviour of forty desolate years.
Abruptly he turned and hurried up the stairs to his own chamber. There he tore off his clothes and, automatically, put them out for Etwe to wash. ‘What am I doing?’ he asked himself. He was not that old Dwllis. He never could be again. His previous, perfect self had been shattered by Cuensheley. He must either face the new circumstances or withdraw. And he knew only cowards withdrew.
He slept until evening.
He took pains in dressing, choosing his pale violet undershirt, black padded jacket, black kirtle with blue leggings and a pair of stout plastic shoes. The leggings and his socks were almost impossible to put on one-handed, but he persevered. Cuensheley’s locket he threw into a corner, but in the end he put it in his pocket. Then he returned to work.
An intense twelve hours followed. Eschewing simple nouns, he tried to coax from Crimson Boney and the translator – he refused to call the new pyuton Etwe – any simple sentence, but the task of finding gnostician words for such abstracts as ‘the’, ‘a’, ‘it’ and the like was too difficult. Symbolic systems were linking, but there were many levels of organisation yet to go.
He refused to give up. Though he and Crimson Boney shared simple nouns they were yet to communicate in depth. And yet he knew that Crimson Boney was aware of his purpose. The gnostician wanted to talk. As time passed, Dwllis wondered what had made
Crimson Boney leave the Archive of Selene and rush to stay at the Cowhorn Tower. The image of a pike came to his mind.
CHAPTER 15
When he was ready, Dwllis insisted that he go to the Baths alone. He did not want Cuensheley around when he presented Subadwan with what he had discovered.
He had never been to the place before. He considered public bathing a decadent and unnecessary waste of time, particularly if, as he had heard, persons of both sexes bathed naked. He found himself worried about entering the Baths because the potential for embarrassment was great, and he feared embarrassment almost as much as he feared anger. Embarrassment was equivalent to shame: to ostracision.
At the entrance he shouldered past lunar students and pushed through the double doors. High walls painted pastel blue and decorated with maps of starfields greeted him. The hall floor and ceiling were tiled, and the sound of his motion, and that of the shutting door, reverberated for many seconds. ‘Hello?’ he said. As he waited he noticed skittering at his feet a pair of bathkins – small, lithe creatures kept here to ensure the building remained free of pyuter vermin expelled by the bursting blisters of Westcity.
A woman approached – a lesser, Dwllis judged. ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘What do you want?’
‘Good afternoon my good woman,’ he replied. ‘I am here to speak with the madam Subadwan.’
‘I’ll go get her.’
‘No matter,’ Dwllis said, following, ‘just lead me to her if you would be so kind.’
‘She expecting you, eh?’
‘She is indeed.’
Dwllis was led to a chamber set with luxurious divans, in which Subadwan sat. ‘Thank you, Calminthan,’ she said as the woman departed. Subadwan looked wan. Her clothes were fresh and pressed but they lay awkwardly, as if the body underneath was recovering from injury, and her whole manner was of a tired, dejected woman.
‘Good afternoon, Lord Archivist,’ Dwllis began. He indicated the bank of memories under his arm. ‘This case contains the stories you asked me to collate.’
‘Thank you,’ Subadwan said. ‘What, um… what did you find?’
‘Some curious things.’
Subadwan nodded. ‘Well, tell me some of them.’
Dwllis sat opposite the Lord Archivist, opening his case. The screen edges formed themselves, their plastic strips dovetailing and merging to create four corners. Into this space Dwllis poured liquid to make the screen. Random rainbow pixels shimmered, then expanded like oil on water to form the opening screen. Dwllis pressed pads, said, ‘Begin,’ then watched numbered red circles appear. He requested number one.
‘Beginning my research,’ he said, ‘I saw that there had been worship of Gaya before Cray was built. Did you know Gaya was somehow related to an Emerald Goddess? Emerald being a word used to denote a variety of green.’
‘How could humans have been here before Cray?’
‘It only makes sense if my theory of a previous city is followed,’ Dwllis replied. ‘This earlier city is implied by the antique memories that I collate, but it remains mysterious.’
‘Does this Emerald Goddess appear in any of the tales of Cray’s origin?’
‘No. That story speaks vaguely of stellar fish. But it is clear that five hundred years ago worship of the Emerald Goddess changed, splitting into three large factions and a fourth smaller one.’
‘These factions,’ Subadwan asked, ‘what were they?’
‘They seem to be linked to age. One was the faction of the Chthonic Aspect – deep, underground, with a young idol central in the imagery. The second was of the Vivid Aspect, with a middle-aged idol. The third was of the Wise Aspect – old, profound, perhaps a little sad. The fourth faction was the runt, as it were, and was devoted to the Male Aspect.’
‘That could be the druids,’ Subadwan said.
Dwllis had considered this possibility already, but thought it unlikely. ‘Possibly,’ he said.
‘Tell me more of these idols.’
Dwllis selected new information via his screen. ‘The Chthonic Aspect was perhaps the most dangerous of the four. It seems to represent the darkness of the pre-formed mind, the unconscious perhaps, with its primal desires, raw sensations, and its simple outlook. This idol is young, dark-skinned, recently entered into puberty, with a manner of arrogance – yet she was deadly, and at the same time sombre.’
‘Noct,’ Subadwan said.
Dwllis stared at her. ‘I am sorry, Lord Archivist?’
‘Noct,’ said Subadwan, louder. ‘Sounds like Noct.’
Dwllis looked down at the pyuter screen. ‘If your guess is correct, then what is to follow must be put into a new framework. Noct she is. The Chthonic Aspect… which means that Noct is the sister of Gaya.’
Subadwan did not seem shocked. ‘I realise the implications. Do continue.’
Dwllis did. ‘The Vivid Aspect – which clearly is Gaya – was the middle-aged aspect, pinkly voluptuous, begging your pardon madam, with a vital and overly emotional outlook. Her sigils and fetishes were blue.’
‘Green,’ Subadwan corrected.
‘Green?’
‘Gaya’s blue
was originally green.’
‘Quite fascinating. Now, the Wise Aspect–’
‘Selene.’
‘–was old and pale, with a round face. Wrinkled, she was, with white sigils. She was skilled in the telling of tales with profound meanings. Yes, Lord Archivist, Selene that would be. It would seem that Noct, Gaya and Selene are all sisters, descended if you like from the early, pre-Crayan Emerald Goddess.’
‘And the fourth faction,’ said Subadwan, ‘the Male Aspect, was that tiny bit of masculinity within the Emerald Goddess. A druid once told me that his sect was derived from mine. At the time I believed him only with my mind, not with my heart, but now… Gaya love me, how the Triad would change if that fact became known.’
‘Reeve Umia would suppress it instantly,’ Dwllis said.
‘He would. But only we two know at the moment.’ Subadwan paused, then added, ‘We two are custodians of dangerous knowledge.’
Dwllis’s mind spun with possibilities. ‘Lord Archivist,’ he said, ‘I bring knowledge too of the Emerald Goddess, gathered, as was all the previous material, by my predecessors. The Emerald Goddess was ancient, fat and fertile if I might be so bold, and she represented the very Earth we stand on. Your religion is the spiritual successor of that most ancient of cults.’
Subadwan nodded. ‘I am the rightful leader of this city! All religions should accept Gaya as pre-eminent.’ Subadwan stood and began to pace around her divan. ‘Noct has with her arrogant thrusting taken over this city, made it her own. Noct and the Triad are one, aren’t they? It should be Gaya and the Triad are one. This constant darkness is her sombre spirit. We have to bring her down to make Cray a place fit for everyone to live in.’
‘I would not advocate war,’ Dwllis said nervously.
Subadwan sat. ‘I can’t help wanting to do something to make Cray better. It’s a horrible city. Often I hate it, I can’t help that. Gaya save me, to think that I left my own father and then became the Lord Archivist of Gaya. What an irony!’
Dwllis was alarmed at the course the conversation was taking. He had expected Subadwan to be shocked, but he had not expected quite this conclusion. The thought of Subadwan and the Archive of Gaya attempting a coup made him shudder, especially with the Archive of Selene so volatile and agitated by the arrival of Pikeface. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘you have two enemies of considerable power, namely this upstart demagogue Pikeface, whom I consider far more dangerous than the doddery old Tierquthay, and of course Reeve Umia, who has the entire weight of the Triad behind him. Surely you must accept your position as it is now?’
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