‘And me?’ Kirsten asked. ‘Has he said anything about me?’
The old monk cocked an eyebrow at her.
‘Oddly enough, Fräulein,’ he said, ‘he didn’t mention you, at least not while I was there. But I didn’t stay very long. The sight of peasant superstition spilling out of an unbalanced mind is a spectacle I find particularly unedifying.’
The dry irony of his voice was actually reassuring. There was a solidity about Brother Simon. Here, you felt, was a man who would react to what was in front of his eyes, no more and no less. And he’d certainly seemed stolid earlier, in the courtyard, refusing to give in to emotional weakness when the thing that was in front of his eyes had terrified everyone else who saw it.
‘One thing is certain,’ Paul said, looking at Stephen. ‘You must avoid Philip. If he’s so fixated on you we’ll never calm him down while you’re there.’
Stephen knew he was right, but he didn’t want to let Kirsten face the maddened monk either. Paul would try to defend her if it came to violence, but when all was said and done he was a monk, and Stephen didn’t believe he’d use physical means. He realised suddenly that he himself had decided to shoot Philip if he had to, if Philip tried to use his own gun on any of them. It seemed the situation might reach a point where there was no other option. Yesterday in the library he’d hesitated to use the pistol; today he’d no intention of making the same mistake, especially if Kirsten was threatened. He felt a sudden fierce protectiveness towards her.
The abbot seemed to guess what he was thinking.
‘I won’t let Philip hurt Fräulein Herzenweg,’ he said. ‘You have my word on that.’
Stephen stood undecided.
‘There is much to be done,’ Simon said. ‘Whatever is happening, the sick people must be tended to. Why don’t you help me do that?’
Stephen was torn. But facing Philip might bring on the very crisis they all feared.
‘All right,’ he said to Simon.
‘Good,’ Simon said. ‘You can help me get the food ready. Come.’
Stephen took a last look at Kirsten.
‘Be very careful,’ he said.
‘I got on well with Philip until yesterday,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe he’ll hurt me. Anyway, Paul will protect me, won’t you, Paul?’
The abbot’s smile didn’t look very genuine, but his voice was sincere.
‘I will,’ he said.
Stephen followed Simon towards the kitchen wing. On the way Simon scanned the courtyard.
‘There should be a pistol here somewhere,’ he said.
‘I got it already. It’s in my pocket.’
Simon smiled for the first time since Stephen had met him. It was a grim little smile that suited what Stephen had seen of his personality.
‘You’re a sensible boy,’ Simon said.
When they reached the kitchens, Simon pointed out a great iron pot of cold broth on the big cooking range. ‘If you start heating the broth,’ he said, ‘I’ll go and check on the patients.’
‘Do you normally look after them?’
‘Normally,’ Simon said, ‘I look after the bell-ringing. It’s a foolish practise in my opinion, but it’s a standard thing with us. But now of course things are not normal. Since all this began I’ve been doing most of the feeding. Luckily even the most disturbed of our patients eats with no trouble. Thomas helps sometimes, but he’s young, and the patients are … well, at best they’re very strange. Mostly I have Thomas fix the food, and I dispense it.’
After Simon left to go upstairs, Stephen found matches in a drawer and lit the burner under the pot. Then he looked in cupboards till he found one full of bowls. He put four of them on a big tray and went looking for spoons. He was worried about Kirsten. He’d been foolish to let her face Philip without him. The thought of the broth reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. He felt suddenly weak, almost nauseous. The weight of the morning’s events seemed to hit him all at once. He sat weakly on to a chair by the table. His head throbbed.
Then the shot sounded. It was muffled by the stone walls, but some part of Stephen’s mind had been listening for it all along.
He jumped up and ran. Behind him he heard the clatter of the chair hitting the stone floor. Somewhere ahead he heard Simon’s hurried steps descending the stairs. Stephen didn’t wait for the old monk. He ran on, pulling the little pistol from his back pocket as he went.
27. The Body in the Refectory
The second shot rang out as Stephen crossed the courtyard. At the sound of it he ran faster. Behind him he heard Simon call out, but he didn’t look back. Then another voice hailed him. He couldn’t make out the words it said, but its effect on him was as immediate as it was bizarre – he stopped in mid-run, frozen, with one foot raised. He couldn’t make his body move at all.
Only his head could move freely. He turned to look for the owner of the second voice. He saw the man who’d been driving the car, the friendly stranger. He was walking unhurriedly towards Stephen, his hands in his coat pockets.
‘You can’t interfere,’ he called out. ‘It’s not allowed.’
Simon came up behind Stephen at a trot, carrying his shotgun. He passed him with a puzzled glance, but didn’t stop. As Simon disappeared through the doors of the bell-tower the driver reached Stephen and gently touched his arm. Stephen could move again. He glared at the driver, who stood looking calmly at him.
‘I’m sorry,’ the driver said. ‘But you mustn’t interfere in anything that happens between the monks.’
‘And what if it’s Kirsten who’s been shot?’ Stephen spat angrily.
‘Then it doesn’t really matter.’
The cold-bloodedness of the remark almost made Stephen gasp. But he was distracted by the sight of Kirsten herself coming into the courtyard. She was almost staggering, but there was no sign of a wound. She was crying as she came up to them, her face ugly with distress.
‘Paul’s been shot,’ she sobbed. ‘I think he’s dead.’
The driver clicked his tongue. ‘Oh my!’ he said. ‘More complications!’
Stephen turned on him like a dog.
‘Complications?’ he hissed. ‘That lunatic has shot the abbot, and you call it a complication?’
Kirsten caught his arm.
‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘It was you who started it.’
‘Me?’
‘Well, it was an image of you. I know you weren’t there, but … but you were. You just appeared, standing beside me, and Philip panicked. He tried to shoot you.’
Stephen was appalled.
‘No!’ he said. But it must be true. He remembered his weakness in the kitchen. So it had been more than simple shock or hunger.
‘The bullet seemed to hit the thing,’ Kirsten said. ‘But it had no effect. Paul hadn’t seen the image. He thought Philip was firing at me. He grabbed Philip and tried to wrestle the pistol away from him. The gun went off, and Paul was shot in the chest.’
‘And the image?’
‘It just disappeared. It stood there for a moment, looking at Paul as he fell. Then it just … it just went out, like a light.’
Simon came back out. His face was tight.
‘The abbot is alive,’ he said, ‘for now. But Philip is gone again.’
Stephen couldn’t accept that Paul lay dying a few metres away. He’d expected Philip to turn violent, but not against the abbot. It could only have been an accident.
‘Where did Philip go?’ he asked Simon.
‘When I got there he was kneeling over the abbot, sobbing. Telling him he was sorry, if you please. It’s a bit late for that, I told him. I took a look at Paul, and Philip ran off.’
‘And Thomas?’
Simon made a face.
‘I saw no sign of that foolish boy at all.’
‘And Paul’s alive?’ Kirsten said. She sounded like she didn’t believe it.
‘Not for long,’ Simon said. ‘It’s a serious chest wound, and he�
�s losing a lot of blood.’
‘Can’t you do anything for him?’
Simon shook his head.
‘We have first-aid equipment here, but nothing that would cope with wounds like this – you don’t get many gunshot wounds in a monastery, you know.’
The driver had listened to all of this in silence. Now Kirsten stood in front of him and looked harshly into his bland guarded eyes. Her face was still wet with tears, but the news that the abbot wasn’t actually dead seemed to have galvanised her. The driver looked back at her mildly.
‘You must do something,’ she said to him.
He shook his head.
‘That’s not possible,’ he said. ‘I cannot interfere.’
‘You’ve already interfered,’ she said. ‘That’s what started all this, isn’t it?’
He looked sharply at her. So did Stephen. Did she know something, or was she guessing?
‘If you can help the abbot,’ Simon said, ‘then you must do it.’
He too spoke mildly, but he hefted his gun meaningfully. The stranger ignored him, keeping his eyes on Kirsten’s. His eyes had lost their mask of blandness now.
Kirsten stared back at him with a look every bit as hard as his own.
‘Do it,’ she said – ordered, rather.
‘This is very bad,’ the driver said. ‘You don’t realise what you’re asking me to do.’
Without breaking eye contact, Kirsten pointed at Stephen.
‘The appearance of his image was directly responsible for Paul being shot,’ she said.
The driver turned and considered Stephen thoughtfully. It struck Stephen that the man was taking the whole matter of the double very calmly.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ the driver said. ‘This really is very bad. And just when everything seemed to be going so well too.’
‘The abbot is dying,’ Kirsten said insistently. ‘If you can sew a man’s head back on then you can help a man with a gunshot wound.’
‘It’s not the same thing at all, at all!’ the driver snapped. ‘Maybe I could help him, and maybe I couldn’t. It’s never been tried. We only need these bodies for short-term purposes. Presumably the abbot would require his for rather longer.’
Stephen felt his skin crawl at the words, but the others showed no reaction. Kirsten held the driver’s stare.
‘You have to try,’ she persisted.
The driver exhaled slowly through his teeth. For the first time since his arrival he seemed unsure of himself.
‘I’ll have to talk to my colleague,’ he said.
‘Do then,’ said Kirsten. ‘And hurry.’
The man gave a shrug. Then he turned and without another word went back across the courtyard.
28. Agents in Debate
‘You’re joking,’ I said to my friend.
‘The girl is right,’ he said doggedly. ‘This would never have happened but for our interference.’
I glared across to where the Sug sat glowering at us.
‘Their interference, you mean,’ I said.
‘That makes no difference to her. And she has a point. Besides, he helped us. We have certain obligations.’
It would have been too much to expect that the Sug would stay out of it.
‘You’re insane,’ he growled. ‘It is not permitted to interfere with human affairs. Let them all shoot each other if it come to it, the more the merrier.’
My friend raised a contemptuous eyebrow.
‘You can always rely on a Sug for a reasonable contribution to a debate,’ he sneered. ‘My friend here is right – it was your people who got us into this mess. If the human dies it will be as a direct result of your interference in our legitimate business. Who are you to talk about rights and wrongs?’
The Sug flushed. While my friend was gone I’d tried to coax some conversation out of him, but he’d only grunted responses to my remarks. Still, I was starting to feel some little bit of sympathy for him. His truculence wasn’t merely because his mission had failed. It wasn’t even simply the presence of humans. These things would have been bad enough, but the nature of this place itself was making him uncomfortable. Even the sleepy, formless sort of power it was giving out now would be unpleasant to him. What I felt as a lightness in the air he’d experience as something very close to pain.
Now he cracked. His reserve broke, and he spluttered almost incoherently.
‘How were we supposed to know what it was like here now?’ he demanded. ‘It’s completely poisoned with their human foulness! My creatures were mad from the moment we arrived. They tried to kill me as soon as I materialised. I was so sick I thought I was dying – not just the body, but me! Nobody warned me to expect anything like that!’
I felt some real pity for him. A very small bit of pity, admittedly, but pity nonetheless. After all, he too was only an agent, and he must have genuinely suffered. It was a measure of the Sugs’ toughness that he’d managed to stick it out at all.
But my friend just snorted.
‘Listen to yourself!’ he jeered. He imitated the Sug in a high, whining voice, ‘Nobody told me! How was I supposed to know!’
Then he resumed his own flat tone.
‘Your people could have known in the same way that we know,’ he said, his voice frigid with anger. ‘By learning. But oh no, the Sug are too proud, too squeamish. They’d prefer to sit sulking in a corner of Nowhere for ten thousand years and think up ways to interfere with us! If you’d asked, maybe we’d have shared our information with you – but again, no, the Sug ask no favours of anyone. So, as usual, you learn the hard way, too late, and you make it hard for everyone else too. And when it goes wrong you find someone else to pin the blame on – also as usual. Send an agent here for the first time in two thousand years, and then have the gall to be surprised that it’s changed! Well, excuse me, but I never heard anything so preposterous!’
The Sug hung his head and said nothing. I stood up.
‘Enough squabbling!’ I said. ‘We have to decide what to do, and soon. The human is dying.’
I looked to the Sug again.
‘When we’ve done here,’ I said, ‘we can erase every sign of our presence. We can erase memory of us from the humans’ minds. Those outside the barrier haven’t a clue what’s happening in here. We can leave them with a mystery, regrettable though that is. What we can’t leave is a dead human, not if we can possibly help it. That’s not for their sake, it’s for our own.’
The Sug winced at the mention of the barrier. It was too tangible a proof of the power we now had in the world.
‘You can wipe out their memories?’ he asked. ‘You can really do that, selectively?’
I understood his doubt. Erasing memories is no great trick. The tricky bit is to do it without turning your subject into a vegetable. Such delicate work wasn’t really a Sug type of thing, though among my people the Sug were famous for their selective memories.
‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘We can.’
‘And you really think you can help the human?’
‘I’ve no idea. There’s no technical reason why not. It’s only a body after all.’
‘I must admit I’d like to help the human anyway,’ my friend said. ‘I’ve had a look inside him. He’s a good man.’
The Sug made an automatic sound of disgust at the very idea. To him the concept of a ‘good man’ was a contradiction in terms. I was a bit shocked myself to hear the note of grudging respect in my friend’s voice. He doesn’t hate humans, anymore than I do. In many ways they’ve progressed a lot since the old days, and anyway hatred is a wasteful thing. But there’s a distinct difference between not hating humans and feeling something positive towards them. They’re a dangerous species, without manners or even much self-respect, even harder to like than the Sug.
‘This arguing is just wasting time,’ I said. ‘Do I take it we’re going to help if we can?’
‘Yes,’ my friend said.
I looked to the Sug again.
‘You can lodge
a formal objection,’ I said.
The Sug looked shocked. Any objection he raised would of course have no weight. But I was treating him with the kind of formal courtesy the Sug delight in. And I was offering him a way to save face – nobody could blame him for anything that might come of our actions if he lodged a formal protest beforehand.
The Sug mightn’t have expected the courtesy, but in the end it was me who was surprised. He didn’t take the easy way out.
‘No,’ he said bitterly. ‘I find the action you intend most distasteful, but you’re right. The Sug made a big mistake here. We were foolish to do it. Only you can do anything now to rectify the error. If you think assisting the human will improve the situation then you must try to help him. In fact, as a representative of the Sug race I’d like to formally request your assistance in the matter.’
It was a remarkable statement coming from a Sug. A historic statement, in fact. His people and mine had agreed on very little in the last ten thousand years. If you got right down to it, we weren’t exactly chummy before that either. In all of our histories there was only one big thing – apart from the obvious – that we’d successfully collaborated on, one thing we’d managed to persuade them to do. And though they’d kept the agreement made then after their fashion, they’d never really forgiven us for it. Which was, of course, just like them.
I loosened the bandages on my neck until I could slide the crystal pebbles out. The quartz veins were burning brightly now in the dull stone, nearly purring with their full power. The Sug eyed them nervously. They had nothing like this, and they coveted this power even as they feared it.
‘They’re very bright now,’ the Sug said.
‘Of course,’ said my friend, his voice gentle. ‘They’ve come home.’
Home. The word had a unique aching beauty. When any of us, even a Sug, says the word in any language, you can hear the loss and yearning in their voice. We who had no place in the world to call our home had strayed here where once we had walked. And these crystals, which had been born in this very place, were going to be used – with the consent and encouragement of a Sug – to help a human.
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