Arcadia (52 page)

No, it's nice. It's like tucking you in when you were little. I love you too. Night night now. See you in the morning.

“Night night.”

Night.

“Night.”

  *  *  *  

Later on he goes back out to the fountain. Silvia hasn't moved. He's been watching her through the window by the phone.

“Silvia?”

She doesn't answer.

“Can you stand up?”

She doesn't answer, let alone stand up. Rory looks up at the owl. It doesn't fly off anywhere to show him where to go next.

He waits awhile. No one comes along to tell him what to do. There's no god now, good, bad, or indifferent. There are no talkative foxes. There don't even seem to be any insects.

His mother is dead.

It's the end of the road.

He wonders whether he's actually dead now too. There were some apple trees back by the big house but you can't live off apples and blackberries forever. If nothing goes on happening it doesn't matter about food anyway, you can't just keep eating and doing nothing else and say that's the same as being alive.

Or he wonders whether he's like Silvia. She's not dead, as far as he can see, but she's not alive anymore either. When he speaks to her or pokes her she either ignores it or frowns a little and looks aside with that look of someone who's trying to remember what they were just doing.

He wonders how his mother died.

  *  *  *  

At some stage he gets an idea.

He's been thinking about his mother, and the phone which lets you talk to dead people, and thinking of that must in turn have made him think of what the old man said about the Valley, which then made him think of all the other things “they” say about the Valley, and he remembers the one about the well which cures every illness of body or soul, and that sets him wondering whether Silvia would go back to being herself if she was cured, which makes him think about whether he could find the well, and that's when he gets the idea.

The last time he remembers coming up with an idea, it ended up with his getting accidentally kidnapped. If he hadn't had that idea, he thinks, he'd still be on Home, with (probably) his mother, waking up in Parson's every morning and going to bed there every night, working day after day with the women so they could all stay alive another week, another season, boring, tiring nonstop work, until they got too old or too few in number.

He stands up.

“I'll be right back,” he tells Silvia.

The owl coughs,
whuk whuk whuk
. It doesn't follow him.

I
t's not clear what time of day it is. Fitful sunlight washes over the grassy path. It might be afternoon light but he can't be sure. He stops by the clothed skeleton. He's extremely nervous now. This often happens when you have an idea, he's noticed. You don't actually grasp what's involved until it's right in front of you, and then it suddenly all looks very different.

“Hello?” he says.

The grotesque thing—halfway between an extremely ugly miniature man and a chunk of a rotting branch, with a bit of toad thrown in—pops up from the ground as if from a concealed hole. “Travelers!” it cackles. “Game of ch—Hold on. Weren't you just here?”

“Yeah,” Rory says.

It limps closer on warty leg-things. “Not dead yet?”

“Apparently.”

“Or mad? A lot of them go stark raving bedlam first.”

“I'm OK.”

The creature swivels around, making a sniffing noise. “Something funny must be going on.”

“Do you still want that game?”

“Say what?”

“That game. With the dice. Do you still want it?”

It goes motionless.

“What are you saying?” it says, very suspiciously.

“I'm up for it now.” Rory's feeling a bit sick. This is now feeling like the worst idea in the universe. “If you are.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Long as it's fair. No cheating or anything.”

“Cheat? Me? At the game of chance? What would be the point of that? I always win anywaghhagghh.” The last word becomes an extended cough. “
Aghkk aghkkk
. Excuse me. That is to say. I always winnow out any possibility of, ahem. Foul play. Yes.”

Rory shoves his hands deep in his pockets and closes his eyes for a moment.
Bad
god,
he thinks.
Help me out now and I'll give you . . .
His left hand bumps into something. It's Amber's little silver crucifix. He'd forgotten he still had it.
That,
he thinks.
OK?

“Are you really the irritating little squirt who wouldn't play before?” Rory doesn't feel this deserves an answer. The thing hops closer and appears to study him from below Rory's knee height. “It seems unlikely.”

“Well, I want to play now.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“You said you'd answer three questions.”

“Three? Three? No, no. What on earth do you take me for?”

“Yes you did. You said three.”

“That's absurd.”

“Well, you did. I'm not playing otherwise.” He makes as if to walk away.

“Two,” the thing says hurriedly.

“Three questions, or I'm going.”

“Oh all right, curse you! It hardly matters anyway, since you won't—” It does a thing like clearing its throat. “Anyway, never mind that. So, on your way back, are you? Did you find what you were after?”

“What would I have been after?”

“How should I know? The fountain of youth. The philosopher's stone. The golden apples of the Hesperides. The secret of perpetual motion. The healing waters. The room where all your wishes come true. The perfect cocktail. Whatever you people”—it kicks the skeleton's foot, loosening a small toe bone—“come in here to find. Was it as remarkable as advertised?”

“Can you find anything you want in the Valley?”

“In a manner of sp— Wait! Ah ah ah! Aren't you the slyboots! Trying to slip a question in without”—it extrudes a kind of arm, holding the tiny cup, and rattles whatever's inside it—“playing.”

Rory takes a deep breath and grips the crucifix in his pocket. “I'll play,” he says, “but I have to know it's fair. No cheating.”

“Of course it's fair! We each roll the same pair of dice, in plain view, we count the pips together. How could anyone possibly cheat?”

“Then how come you said you always win?”

“I said no such thing.”

“Yes you did. You nearly did. It's what you were going to say, it's obvious.”

“That's a cruel aspersion. Do you really mean to impugn my honesty? I'm not like you lot. None of your lies from me. I'm incapable of them.”

“What, lying?” He remembers the fox saying the same thing; at least, he thinks it was the same thing.

“Precisely.”

“OK, then. If you can't lie. Do you always win?”

There's a rather stunned silence.

“Go on. Answer. I'm not playing unless you answer. Do you always win this game?”

“Yes,” it admits, as sheepishly as a thing with no resemblance at all to a sheep can manage. “I always win.”

His hand feels sweaty. “How come?”

“I don't know! And that's enough free questions!”

“You must be cheating. It can't be fair if you never lose.”

“Sir. Look.” It hops onto the skeleton's skull, making bones in the neck click softly. “Watch. Come down so you can see. I entreat you.” It pats out a smooth area on the coat covering the skeleton's back, arranges itself in a crouching down sort of way, and motions with its bulbous version of a hand. Two tiny white dice spill out over the coat and come to rest. Each one's smaller than a cuff button but the black pips are clear and Rory can read them easily enough: a two and a six. The creature scoops them up and casts them again: two twos. It keeps throwing them as it talks. “See? Random! Entirely random! Stay and watch as long as you like. I'd defy the most warped of mathematical prodigies to discover any trace of a pattern in the throws. Two dice, one total. Add the pips up and look. Higher sometimes, lower sometimes, more usually towards the middle, which is as you'd expect, so the science of statistics tells us, not to mention plain common sense. See? See? Try them yourself. Go on. Pick them up. Roll the bones.” It hops down and backs away as if to encourage him. Rory sits beside the skeleton and picks up the dice between his fingertips. “As many times as you like.” He drops them. Six and four. “If you can discern any power other than mere blind chance directing the fall of the dice, you're welcome to accuse me of whatever fraud you please.” It's almost like playing with grains of sand, but they roll and stop just like any other dice he's ever used. Six and three, three and five, double ones, three and four. “There! Look at those last four throws. Imagine that had been the game. The first thrower would have won the first, the second the second. Luck, I'm telling you. Luck!”

“Who goes first when you play the game?”

“It doesn't matter, does it? That's precisely my point!”

“But you always win.”

It sniffs.

“I must just be very lucky,” it says.

Rory's remembering what it said when he arrived:
something funny must be going on.

“Tell you what,” he says. “I'll play, but I get to roll both times.”

“What? That's hardly fair.”

“You just said it doesn't make any difference. If it's just luck, who cares who's rolling?”

“But where's the fun in that?”

“Technically, I suppose, but—”

“Yeah, well, that's the deal. I throw both times. I'll do it for you first, then for me. We do it again if it's a draw. Highest or lowest wins?”

“Highest, of course, but—”

“Highest wins, OK. That's the deal. Otherwise.” He drops the dice again. Two and three. He makes himself glare at it, as assertively as he can. It's a bit more like a person close up, though it would be a miniature person made out of splinters, pus, flaps of snakeskin or fish scales, and the rind of rotting fruit. “No game.”

“It's a poor deal,” the thing mutters.

“You'd better take it if you want a game. I don't think anyone else is coming by here anytime soon.”

“All right all right all right! Have it your way. Satan's skunks. I fully expect your soul to be as bitter and shriveled as an old pea. All right, then. If you're going to take all the fun out of it you might as well get on with it.” It clumps back on top of the skull to get a better view. “Go on.”

Rory's been concentrating so hard on arguing with it that he somehow missed the fact that he now has to play. “OK,” he says.

“Not really. But, whatever.”

“Ready?”

“Of course I'm ready.”

“First throw's for you.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Highest total wins.”

“Yes yes yes yes! I've already agreed to your blasted deal, haven't I? This is poor sport.”

“Right.”

He closes his eyes, thinking again of the bad god, and rolls.

“See? Just lucky.”

He opens his eyes. He bends close to the dice and peers at them in case he's somehow reading the pips wrong. Five and six.

He wonders what it's like having your soul eaten. Will it be quick?

“Normally at this point I'm capering with delightful anticipation. But watching my good fortune fall from someone else's hand takes all the fun out of it, I don't mind telling you. I'm not sure I wouldn't rather have not played at all. Well, hurry up.”

His fingers are clammy and won't grip properly. He fumbles the tiny dice as he gathers them up again.

“And don't try running away, or any nonsense of that sort. I've seen it all before, believe me. You won't be able to avoid your turn. Which is particularly satisfying in this case, I must say, since we're playing by your blasted rules.”

“Destroyer,” Rory whispers. “Accept my offering.”

“Excuse me?”

He rolls.

“Right. That's that. Lie down, please, and open your mouth.”

Rory opens his eyes. He rubs them. He blinks. He counts the spots again.

“I won,” he says.

“You may also want to keep your eyes sh— What?”

“I won.” He hunches right down and looks at the dice very, very carefully, to make sure they really are showing double sixes. The thing wasn't even paying attention. It crooks over the dice too.

“Twelve,” Rory says. “You only got eleven. I win.”

The thing doesn't move.

Helper,
Rory thinks.
Thank you
. He feels like if he stood up he'd take off and fly like Lino.

“You can't have,” the thing croaks.

“But I did.”

“It's . . . It's . . .” The thing springs down off the skull and begins hopping around in the grass, shrieking. “I lost! I lost the game! Unprecedented! Intolerable! I demand an inquiry!”

“So,” Rory says. “That's three questions.”

“Play again?” it wheedles. “Rematch?”

“No.”

“Double or quits?”

“No.”

“Six questions if you win again. Go on.”

“Deal's a deal. You agreed.”

“Ten questions.”

“No.”

“Twenty! A hundred! As many as you like!” It's choking on its own rage. “You won't win anyway. You can't possibly. A thousand! Ask whatever you want and I'll stake your soul against it. Anything you want!”

“When you've quite finished,” Rory says.

“
Raaahh
!
” it squeaks, and smashes a limb down on the skeleton's head, which shatters. It chases fragments of bone around the path, kicking them. “
Raaah raaah raaah
!
”