Watson, Ian - Black Current 01 (35 page)

 
          
He
recoils, brows knit, offended.

 
          
"I'm
sorry, Hasso, we're all on edge. Pardon my tetchiness."

 
          
"That's
all right. I understand. So
then
—"

 
          
A
sudden scream from the direction of the waterfront cuts across the babble.
Momentarily the hubbub dies—then it rekindles, doubled. People leap up and
crush into the alley.

 
          
"Wait
here! I'll be back." And off goes Hasso, too.

 
          
Before
long, bedlam is spreading this way. A murky red light leaps up above the
rooftops. Somebody cries, "Fire!" Then a huge crash deafens me, and
the fairy candles dip in unison to a hot breeze.

 
          
Hasso's
soon back, out of breath.
"Armed men.
Must be the
west! Come on: to the Spire!" He seizes my arm.

 
          
But
I resist. "My dear boy, I couldn't climb that Spire to save my life."

 
          
"That's
exactly what—! Nelliam, I'll help you. I'll carry you up."

 
          
"No,
you must go on your own. I'd burden you; rob you of your chance. But promise me
something. Promise that you'll be true, up there."

 
          
"True?"

 
          
"Observe!
Stay aloof! Record whatever happens. Now
go.
Go! Or I'll get angry with you."

 
          
He
dithers.
Of course.
But ruin and terror are racing closer
every moment.

 
          
So
then he leaves me. Though not before, absurdly, passionately, he kisses my
wizened brow.

 
          
I
refill my glass from the beaker.
Such a shame to waste good
wine.
I sip, and I wait.

 
          
Though
death, when it comes, is by no means as blithe and quick as I expected.

 
          
Nor
yet so final, either. . . .

 
          
At
about this time I begin to detect something. For some reason my attention isn't
being distracted by my sojourn in the £«-store, so much as sharpened. Maybe
that's because I have just been Nelliam, who is no one's fool. Maybe it's
because the real significance of events shows clearly—luminously—through these
lives, as never was during life itself.

 
          
From
the comer of my mind's eye I catch a glimpse of what the Worm is doing with me
while the "entertainments" are going on. It's using me as a kind of
shuttle in a loom, to weave weft and warp together into a new design, a
different and superior pattern.

 
          
It
occurs to me that this might make me instrumental in what
sort
of God it becomes. I might gain some kind of influence over
it.

 
          
So,
during my next slice of life, as a fisherwoman of Spanglestream, I do my best
to ignore the pageant. This isn't easy. As soon ignore your own life while
you're busy living it! The proprietor of the life I'm reliving suspects she's
being snubbed. But then she cottons on (I think).

 
          
Time
and again, I present a certain image to myself. I make this image the fiery
centre of my attention.

 
          
And
this image is . . . But wait; not yet.

 
          
One
day while I'm out in the fishing smack hauling in nets heavy with hoke, a hand
reaches into my life. The hand hangs in mid-air like a fillet of white fish,
fading off at the wrist. . . .

 
          
When
I grasped that hand, sky and stream and fishing smack all dissolved at once
into a foamy violet fog.

 
          
I
sat up in the luminous chalice. It was
Raf
, my
blanched zombi, who held my hand.

 
          
He
helped me up, though I didn't feel particularly weak. On the contrary: quite
perky! Perching on the lip of the basin, I decided that the Worm must have nourished
me well and kept my limbs toned up while I'd been resting in the bowl. Unless
my period of dream- life had seemed far longer than it really was.

 
          
"How
long did I spend in the £fl-store,
Raf
?
Hours?
Days?
Weeks?"

 
          
He
shrugged. "I've been away dreaming again."

 
          
"And
is the current a God now?"

 
          
"I'm
not sure. It's . . . different. Maybe when a God's bom, it's only a baby God to
start with, and needs to grow up?"

 
          
That
special image was still rooted in the heart of me. I concentrated intently on it.

 
          
Worm, I thought, how goes the war?

           
Faint images flickered before my
eyes; I couldn't make much sense of them.

 
          
Worm!
I presented that special image to
it.

 
          
With
my inward ear I heard a groan of acquiescence. Victory! I
had
succeeded in printing that special pattern in the new fabric,
in one comer at least.

 
          
I
hopped down from the lip. "Okay," I told
Raf
,
"I'll be on my way." I hoisted the bottles.

 
          
"What
do you want those for?"

 
          
"Mustn't leave litter!
Especially not
in a God!"

 
          
"Oh,
it can absorb them. Dump them."

 
          
Yes,
when its body thinned out again ... He was right. So I dropped the bottles,
which would only get in the way. Let the guild dock my pay, if they dared.

 
 
          
*
* *

 
          
Raf
and I parted at
Opal
Island
. The tunnel end of the cavern was still
shrunken, but no more so than before. The fronds kept out of my way.

 
          
I
regained the dark exit. The helmet lay where I had abandoned it, but of the
rope there was no sign; and the tunnel was pitch-black. I fiddled with the lamp
to no effect,
then
cursed myself for a fool. The
solution was simple.

 
          
Worm: light up the tunnel!

           
And presently the walls glowed
faintly blue.
Grudgingly; but enough to light my way.
That I should be able to reach the mouth was a precondition of that special
image I'd fed the Worm. Thirty paces along, I spotted the rope.

 
          
Maybe
it had been jerked along when the Worm's jaws clamped shut. Or maybe the crew
of the
Yaleen
had begun to haul it in
... I tugged the rope experimentally three times, but nothing happened.
Was the boat still waiting?
I laughed.
Because it didn't matter; didn't matter in the slightest.

 
          
Before
long I reached the end of the tunnel, where the rope led over the ledge and
angled down a dark hole.

 
          
Worm, light your throat!

           
Light glowed faintly, and I rather
wished it hadn't. Originally I had rushed right through the Worm's gullet in
darkness, arriving almost before I knew I'd left. Now that I could see what
faced me, claustrophobia loomed. I would have to dive head-first down the hole.
Suppose I got stuck, would the Worm obligingly hiccup me out?

 
          
No
point in brooding. Down I went. Fast, for the sides were slippery. I writhed
round the bend, and hauled rope hand over hand.

 
          
Up.
Up. Above me in the dim light I could see the rope sprouting from the lid of
the tube like a tap-root. I couldn't see any sign of a seam. Squirming tight up
against the lid, I prised.
In vain.
And maybe when the
lid did split open the rope would run free and I would slide back down again.

 
          
An
image appeared in my mind: of a trapdoor which only opened one way—and only
when a weight bore down on it.

 
          
Now you tell me!
I hung in despair,
punching feebly overhead.

 
          
A
second image blossomed: of the Worm's chin ducking underwater; its jaw
cracking open while one comer of its mouth continued to clench the rope (in an
askew grin, which seemed directed at me); then tons of river water pouring in.

 
          
If that was the only way. . . .

 
          
I
braced myself as best I could. Clutching the rope in both hands, I shut my
eyes, held my breath.
Okay, do it!

 
          
The
tube tipped forward.
Squelchings and gluggings, offstage.
A few preliminary drops dripped down my face,
then
suddenly a deluge drenched and battered me. I was nearly swept away.

 
          
Somehow,
somehow
I clawed hand over hand up
through that waterfall . . . And I was still underwater. Why, oh why, hadn't I
brought that bloody helmet? If I didn't get some air soon I was going to
explode.

 
          
Dizzyingly
my world tilted upwards.
Higher and higher.
I hung on
for grim death as the river drained down past my eyes and nose. I spluttered
,
gulped air, blinked—and I could see a great wedge of
daylight.

 
          
The
throat had closed up tight again, leaving a shallow slop of water on the floor
of the mouth. It was lucky for me no stingers were flapping about, but none had
entered with the flood. (Maybe the Worm could control them?)

 
          
Lying
hunched where I was in one comer of its jaws, I spied river.
Sky
and clouds.
A chunk of boat—with one welcoming saffron word: my name.

 
          
I
jerked my head about a few times to knock the water out of my ears. I heard no
familiar voices outside, but this hardly surprised me. Given the muting effect
of our anchorage, any cries of alarm would have been quickly stifled.

 
          
Okay, Worm. Open wide!

           
As the jaws unglued, I staggered
erect. I tore strands of drool out of my way and stepped forward to the lip.
The rope, still dripping from its sudden dunking, sagged over the gap of water
to the capstan. Since I had stood here last, the boat had ridden back more
than twenty spans, dragging its anchor, and half-turned.

 
          
The
crew were
all lined up, staring at me.

 
          
"Hi there!"
I shouted. "What date is
it?"

 
          
After
goodness knows how many days of whispers, now at my shout a dam of pent-up
noise broke open. Laudia, Delli, Sparki and Sal began to babble questions; but
Peli bellowed, "Shut up!" louder than any of them, and answered me.

 
          
Seven
days had passed since I'd gone inside.

 
          
A week of war.

 
          
"Right,"
I called, "I'm going to stop the war! And here's how—•"

 
          
I
told them; and they gasped. But I think Peli and Sal believed me, at least.