by Phillip Mann
“I am the one,” said Odin.
19
ON BENNET
Love-making over, Laurel and Pawl lay tangled together, breathing deeply, enjoying their contact, aware where flesh met flesh.
“Now we build,” murmured Pawl. “You must work with me. Veritas was a sad world. I think there are many sad worlds in the Paxwax domain. The spirit of the leader filters down. The cruel appoint the cruel, the mean beget the mean, the hearty enjoy the hearty. Likewise, goodness spreads. It is contagious.”
“Hush, philosopher.”
“I will be a great ruler or nothing. I will make a great change in the air. How lucky we are to have one such as Odin for a friend. But can you imagine what it would be like to call a Hammer a friend? We will create that future. And if the other Families don’t follow, let them be hanged.”
That morning they slept late. Outside the windows of the Tower, the Homeworld came alive and bustled. Gardeners planted and pruned. Bakers glazed their loaves. Builders continued to expand the maze of buildings. The bright sun burned away the dew and filled the valleys with mist. Everything functioned. Everything was pleasing and normal.
And that same morning, Peron returned to Pawl’s Homeworld. He looked tired and had lost a lot of hair, but otherwise seemed unchanged. With him he brought vivantes from Pettet and Raleigh, along with his own notebooks and the valuable sketchbook given to him by Tank.
He sat with Pawl and Laurel in the Tower for the entire morning, telling of his adventures, trying to give them some idea of the things he had seen.
“But why didn’t you bring back vivantes from these worlds? Then we could have seen everything,” said Laurel.
“Vivantes didn’t work. We tried. All I have is my own notes and what is stored up here –” he tapped his forehead – “and this sketchbook. I’m even beginning to distrust my own memory. You see, finally, it wasn’t what we did so much as what we thought, and what happened to our minds. None of us will ever be the same again.”
“And how is Pettet now?’’
“Shaken. Raleigh is looking after him. He will be all right, but neither he nor Haberjin will ever journey out there again.”
“And where are the planets now?”
“Still there. No one knows why. No one knows why they came. No one knows when they will sink back again down into Emerald Lake. Perhaps they never will.”
Pawl mused. “You have had an exciting time, Mr Peron. You make me envious. I wish I’d been along.”
“I’m glad you weren’t,” said Laurel. “You might have seen me and I don’t think I could stand the competition.”
The men laughed. But Laurel was serious. “I think it sounds like a terrible world.”
Pawl picked up Tank’s sketch pad and studied his drawing of the tree. The page was covered with doodles. In the spread canopy of the tree was a face. Pawl remembered it from the Way Gate above Lumb.
“That is the face of John Elliott,” he said.
“Yes. Tank never said so, but I think he believed that the spirit of Elliott had entered the tree.”
“Some tree. And what are these other doodles?”
“I think they are faces Tank saw.”
“What? Friends? Relatives?”
“He never said. Perhaps they were just people created in his imagination. I never knew what was going on in his head. I never knew what he was going to say next. He was a very strange man. Very lonely, I think. In some ways I think that is why he liked Thule.”
Pawl set the drawings aside and looked at Peron. “And at the end you say you saw yourself. Why was that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve tried to work it out. I was a very lonely child. I was my own best playmate. Perhaps the tree was grasping at anything in my memory. But it frightened me, I can tell you.”
“I can imagine. Well, you are safe and sound now. And there is a lot of work to do. I would like you to write down as complete a record as you can of everything you have seen. We’ll send a copy to Pettet. It might make him feel better.”
“I don’t think he’ll want reminding. When we got back he just hung on to Raleigh. Wouldn’t let her out of his sight.”
“Sensible man. I wish all men would do the same,” said Laurel. “I’ve had enough of mysteries. I suggest you two give it a rest for a while. Forget about Erix and Ultima Thule. There is a lot of living to be done here and now. Time to dwell on memories when we are old.”
“She’s right,” said Pawl and closed the sketch book with a snap. “But at a later date, when you’ve had time to get your thoughts together, Peron, we’ll talk some more.”
Peron nodded. “Whenever you wish. But for me it will be a pleasure to get back into the vivantery. I have had enough of adventure. I want a simple predictable life for a while.”
He departed, leaving Tank’s sketchbook with Pawl.
“And what plans do you have for today?” asked Pawl when Peron had gone.
“Plans,” said Laurel, as though the word amused her. “Plans. Yes, I have plans. There are many things I haven’t decided yet. But for today I shall go riding again. I shall head back down to where you and Clover Shell have been planning to build that sea garden. I’ve had a look at all the Way crates. I think Clover would like me to take an interest don’t you? It would help to keep her sweet.”
“I think Clover would be most appreciative if you took an interest. She went to a lot of trouble composing that sea garden. She said she wanted it to be as close a replica of your Homeworld as she could make it.”
“Ah,” said Laurel. And there the matter rested.
Pawl spent the next few hours in close consultation with Wynn. The bio-crystalline computer was now an invaluable aide. He checked the state of his empire. More and more it seemed that Wynn could sense the direction of Pawl’s mind and the action it suggested was the same as that which Pawl would have chosen.
“Wynn, can you play Corfu?”
“I know the rules. But I have never played. Do you wish to play?”
“Just a game or two.”
Pawl found a board and set up the pieces. Wynn lowered a vivante camera until it hovered opposite Pawl. The single eye glowed red.
Pawl opened and the game lasted five moves before Wynn was trapped. “Let us concede,” said Wynn, “that I do not have a highly creative intelligence. But I am thorough and I rarely make the same mistake twice.”
The second game lasted for eight moves and the third game for nine moves.
They played for a further hour and a pattern emerged. Pawl won every game except one, and in that game he let his concentration lapse. Usually he won in fifteen or so moves. “Just long enough to bring a strategy into effect,” commented Wynn. “We must play more. Without special skills I may never beat you. Then again, I am willing to learn so that I can be a worthy opponent. You are a fine and subtle player.”
Pawl left the pieces set up. Though he did not enjoy Corfu, he had wanted to test himself. Wynn was not a master, but it was no fool either, and he had beaten it with ease. This disturbed him when he thought of the Hammer.
Outside Pawl wandered through his courtyards and gardens. Autumn was giving his small island Homeworld a special beauty. The beams of the sun were noticeably lower and created strange surreal shadows. Brown leaves crunched under his feet. Flowers just blooming were particularly brilliant to attract the attention of the last wandering insects. Pawl sniffed. Somewhere a wood fire was burning, joining its smoke with the smell of the dying blossom.
In his youth he had known crazy seasons prompted by his father’s activities at his weather machine. Since the destruction of the weather machine the island had settled into its natural climate.
The original founders of the island had chosen well. It enjoyed the richness of each season. Pawl wondered how deep the snow would be during winter.
He found himself outside the dome which housed the Paxwax burial chambers. He entered and immediately found himself in a warm, moist atmosphere. Here was silence
and peace.
With him Pawl carried his notebook. He found his way to an old Ngaio tree, whose branches rose and then dipped to rest on the ground before lifting into the sky. Beneath the tree was a bench. The leaves hung down like a green waterfall.
Just as he was about to sit Pawl heard a sound that started like a growl but ended in a sob. Only a few yards from him something crashed through the low lavender and rhododendron bushes. The old face of Punic appeared between the branches. One of its eyes had lost its magnetic guides and it now gazed up at an oblique angle as though looking for crows. The other eye, still moist and brown, regarded Pawl.
“Come on Punic,” said Pawl. “Come and sit down.” The old mechanical dog, no longer able to run or climb stairs, shambled out from the shrubbery, its tail swinging jerkily. It made elaborate pretence of sniffing and then turned in a circle three times and flopped on to the ground with a crunching of gears. Pawl could hear the old dog whirr and tick.
“Rest Punic,” said Pawl. “Head down on the ground. There are no spare parts for you. Do you know that? You’ve outlived them all. Even the company that made you.” For answer the dog yawned, showing its gleaming ferro-plastic teeth, and then it snapped at an imaginary fly.
Pawl made himself comfortable, one foot resting on the dog, and opened his notebook. The previous night he had lain awake long after Laurel had fallen into a deep and noisy sleep. He had heard the old grandfather clock call softly “Four o’clock, Master Pawl, and all’s well.”
Four o’clock. What do you say to yourself at four o’clock? Better not tell lies then. Let the vanity of the day have its rest. Four o’clock is a time for truth.
Propped up in bed Pawl had begun to write.
Sitting now in the quiet shade he began to write again. He did not know that it was to be his last poem.
What was that noise beyond the dome? Punic growled deep in his throat and shambled to his feet. Pawl set his book to one side.
Outside the dome there was shouting, and the drumming of horses’ hooves and someone calling his name. There were many voices, all agitated. Something was wrong.
Pawl summoned up the Odin’s image, but there was no gentle response. Odin was “closed down”, apparently. Then there was someone running through the funereal garden. A man.
Pawl stepped out and faced him and the man pulled up with a cry.
“Master Pawl. I was coming to fetch you. There’s been an accident. By the sea. You’d better come.”
20
ON BENNET
Odin was lying in wait.
Since that first violent meeting with Laurel part of his mind had never left her. He was with her when she slept and in her lovemaking. This dreadful intimacy gave him a curious strength. Her death would be his death. He was not a cold assassin; he needed to love his victim.
He followed her in his mind as she stepped gaily down to the stables and joked with Red. He knew the moment she mounted the grey and felt her stroke its mane. Then she was off. Odin knew where she was heading. He waited in the trees above the cliffs.
Laurel of course knew none of this. Who asks themselves why at a particular time they feel happy? Laurel enjoyed the sun on her back and the lazy drone of the bees and the solid sound of the horse’s hooves as it walked along the grass path. She felt contentment. Each day she was more aware of the life stirring inside her body. It was autumn now. In the spring she would bring forth a child. That seemed very right.
Odin moved with care. When Laurel stooped to pluck a flower from the hedge he joined with her effort and twined about her delight in the colour. All so easy when the victim is unaware and the senses are open. Laurel breathed Odin in with the scent of the flower. For a moment she felt giddy and then it was past. She thought nothing of it. Odin took her mood and gently amplified it. She began to sing. She sang one of Pawl’s songs that he had written to fit an old Thalattan melody.
Taking our time from the waves in the sea.
Catch me. Oh you can’t catch me.
Pressing hands in the dark brown sand.
See the waves come but you can’t catch me.
When had he written that? On Lotus-and-Arcadia, shortly after they became lovers. She could remember the day but little else. She turned the horse off the path and into the wood which ran beside the coast.
Odin went too far. He released deeper energy in Laurel and she squirmed in the saddle. She had suddenly so much energy and nowhere to place it. She stood up in the stirrups. I want to shout. I want to scratch bark with my fingers. I want to tear meat with my teeth. I want to dig in the earth and bask in the sea.
Such energy was dangerous to Odin. It came from primeval depth. While he guided that energy he also envied it.
Laurel sat down with a bump and the horse stopped in surprise. Laurel looked about. Everything was new-minted and sharp-edged. If she closed her eyes she could feel her blood surge. Between her legs she could feel the flow of the horse as it edged forward. She saw it push through bracken that blazed like green fire.
She slipped from her horse and breasted the ferns, feeling them trail over her bare arms. The shadows were pools of blue water through which she waded. She listened to the fiery song of the birds. Looking up she saw the branches of a tree bend and reach down and stroke her hair with long brown fingers.
Beneath her feet was the rattle of dry leaves and the crackle of twigs.
“A twig is only a dwarf log,” said Laurel to herself and felt proud of the thought. It was profound. “I must tell Pawl that. He will put it in his little book along with all his other thoughts.”
Leading the horse by the bridle, Laurel broke from the wood and climbed a short bank before the high cliffs.
Little Odin was waiting.
“Why, Odin. Isn’t today wonderful? Don’t you feel it is special?”
“Very special.”
“I have never felt happier. But why are you so far away from the house? Pawl may need you. He has a lot of worries at present.”
Odin did not reply. But in one surgical move he pre-empted her senses.
Laurel climbed to the top of the bank and looked down over the cliffs to the sea. She should have seen the red algae which covered the ocean and the Maw cruising as they ate. Instead she saw a pale lemon and blue sea stretching for miles until it was lost in a shimmer of haze. It was the sea of her girlhood, the sea of her long dead Homeworld.
Out in the bay she saw someone break the surface and beat the sea with his hands and then wave; it was her father.
She waved back, her arm high above her head.
She left the horse at the hill top and scrambled down the steep cliff. She slipped and rolled and kicked up dust and started small avalanches of sand and pebbles, until she stood dishevelled on the beach.
On the foreshore the sun was hot. It turned the rock pools to pans of molten copper. Quickly she stripped, pulling at her clothes impatiently, tearing her buttons, kicking off her boots. She entered the water hungrily, like a woman climbing into bed with her lover.
Her arms dug deep, pulling her through the shallows, out to where the weed rose. Somewhere she knew her father was ahead of her, diving like an otter.
She was a girl of twelve again, intent on catching Dapplebacks which swam with a lazy pulsing motion across the sea bed. She would catch some for breakfast, and she and her father and Paris would eat them grilled over charcoal. Somewhere distant in her future was a man with coiled dark hair and deformed legs and eyes that burned a curious yellow. Pawl was little more than a form without a name. To her girl’s mind he was a dream lover who would come to her in a shower of starlight and carry her off to his palace under the sea where they would live happily ever after.
Laurel dived. The sea princess dived, pulling under the surface with strong strokes. And when she was deep under the water she turned on her back and stared up at the silver surface and watched the silver bubbles rise from her mouth.
Odin struck.
He made her breathe out and then
breathe in. For a moment the shining surface darkened as though a shadow had passed over the sun.
For Laurel there was a hurting, a fighting, a panic. For a moment she knew herself, and in her mind she screamed for Pawl. But then her vision clouded again. She saw her father diving down through the clear water. He was smiling and laughing. He breathed in and out, blowing water through his mouth to show how easy it was. He held her hands tightly while her hair billowed round her face.
Laurel breathed again and darkness closed over her. The last sound she heard was the surf breaking against the headland.
*
Odin’s work was done. There was no longer any consciousness he could hold on to, just a lingering warmth. The body bobbed to the surface, face down, for one last time, and then sank.
And in that same moment, Odin began to die. He felt his stone, the heart of his consciousness, begin to shrivel like a plum that is placed on a hot griddle. He discovered a great truth: that the will to kill is a two-edged sword which strikes both victim and assailant. And it hurt and hurt and hurt. There was nowhere he could hide, for he could not hide from himself. In that one moment he saw his life become rotten. He wanted to die, but could not. He knew that the path of bitterness upon which he was now embarked would have to be travelled over time and time again until fate took pity on him.
Wearily he gathered his fibres about him. He hugged the garment of the Inner Circle close. He cursed the day he had ever heard the name of the Inner Circle. Slowly he began to work his way through the autumn wood. Faintly he heard voices of humans. Seaweed gatherers. It would not be long before the body was discovered.
The abandoned horse trailed its reins by thistle and dogplant as it patiently cropped the coarse sea grass.