He paused, sweating and shaking. Could he really go through with this? Rip his own flesh? He glanced again at the Sonalby troopleader, and again the boy smiled approvingly, urging him to continue. A low but rising growl from the audience warned him he must decide quickly.
"As for me, warriors, I shall fight as one of you, in the ranks."
He turned and took up that odious knife with a shaking hand. He poked the edge with his thumb and knew he would have to strike very hard to make a visible cut—it must be visible. To his horror, he felt a stirring in his groin, a rising thrill of sexual excitement. What foul perversion was that?
In a quick gesture of revulsion, he cut. It felt like molten iron poured on his skin. He had never known real pain before. It was frightful, worse than he had ever imagined. But at least it had banished the deviant surge of lust. He felt panic in its place. Hot blood trickled down his ribs. He was bleeding!
He stared doubtfully at the salt. That would be a hundred times worse. Could he bear even that? Supposing he screamed? Frozen in terror between fear of pain and fear of bleeding, he looked again to his inspiration.
Again that nod, that smile. I know how you feel, the steady blue eyes said. A thousand men and boys have done it already.
Golbfish grabbed a handful of the gritty stuff and did it. Gods, gods, gods! Agony coursed through every nerve, every vein. He bit hard on his lip. He would faint! He must faint! Then the torment slowly faded to a fiery burn. He was still bleeding. Not so much, but still bleeding. Unable to suppress a moan, he took another handful and the torture came again. He blinked at the tears.
"Come,” said the boy softly.
Golbfish staggered back to his own spear and shield. His head swam when he stooped, but he managed to lift them. He tottered down the steps behind his new leader. A hundred astonished Sonalby faces stared up in amazement at the unexpected recruit. The whole, vast congregation had frozen into statues.
The boy barked an order. The warriors snapped their spears to their shoulders. Another word and they spun around to face the other way. One error and those poles would have tangled in chaos, but there was no error. A third order, and they began to march. Their commander followed, and Golbfish tottered along at his side, struggling to keep in step.
He might die in battle, the rigors of training might kill him, but he had survived the ceremony! He stole a glance sideways at the lanky youth who had inspired his dramatic gesture. He felt a strange conviction that his newfound leader would look after him. He had found a friend. He had found someone he could trust.
20
"SO WHAT DID SHE LOOK LIKE, THIS GODDESS?” ALICE DEMANDED.
"Didn't get much of an eyeful,” Edward said. “She was there and then she was gone. You've seen one goddess, you've seem them all."
The two of them were strolling through St. James's Park, Edward casually swinging her overnight bag. It was a beautiful autumn afternoon. They had lots of time, and a straight line from Lambeth to Paddington would take them through the fairest parts of London—over Westminster Bridge, past the Houses of Parliament, across St. James's Park, Green Park, and Hyde Park. Then they would be almost there.
It was wonderful to have Edward back, after three years of wondering and worrying and almost but not quite giving up hope. He was more than just a cousin. He was her foster brother, her only living relative. She had not yet plumbed all the changes in him—strength and firmness of purpose. The schoolboy honor would be more deliberate and perhaps more practical, but no less firm.
This should be a marvelous day, a day to savor and remember, yet she could not shake off a creepy sensation that she was being followed. She glanced behind her once in a while, although reason told her that any follower could hide amid the milling crowds.
Edward noticed, of course. “What's the matter? You're jumpy as a grasshopper."
"Guilty conscience. I ought to be at work."
"They'll hold the war for you. What sort of work do you do, anyway?"
"Can't talk about it. Official Secrets Act.” If he were to guess that pianists made good typists and very few secretaries in London could type Kikuyu, he would not be far off.
Policemen bothered her. She kept thinking they were staring at her.
Half a dozen young men walked past talking loudly. Edward glanced back in surprise. “Americans?"
"Canadians, I expect. On leave."
He shook his head disbelievingly. “The whole world at war! It's mind-boggling."
"They all seem to come to London,” she said. “I don't know how they stand it—a few days in civilization, knowing they have to go back to the trenches, to be scarred and tortured—or killed."
Edward said nothing.
"That wasn't exactly tactful of me, was it? Edward, are you sure your duty is here?"
He looked down at her quickly, then away. He pointed. “Never thought I'd see guns in London. Antiaircraft, I suppose?"
"Answer me!"
He frowned. “Of course my duty is here! You know! We weren't born in England, you and I, but this is our native land. Nextdoor isn't."
"But you know you can achieve something worthwhile there, in your storybook world, because of that prophecy! Here you may just become another number, one of millions."
"I will not be less than those millions!"
"But you could be one in millions."
He scowled. “Alice, can't you understand? You might have talked me out of it before, but now I've seen what it's like! Those men carried me for hours across that hell, and I saw. I had never imagined war could be so horrible. I had never imagined anything could be so horrible. But now I've seen it. Now I know. I have to go back there! I can't run away now."
That seemed a very stupid, masculine way to think. “We have to win the war,” she said. “It's cost so much that we can't stop now. But I don't know that you belong in it.” Or D'Arcy, either. “We aren't all called to serve in the same way. You don't pull carts with racehorses."
"You don't make pets of them, either."
They paced on. The park was surprisingly crowded. She took his hand, though she had promised herself she wouldn't. He squeezed her fingers without looking down at her.
"What amazes me,” he said after a while, “is how you all seem to accept my story. I'd have expected you to have me locked up in Colney Hatch as a babbling loony."
"You carry conviction. You always did. Have you ever told a lie in your life?"
"Course I have! Don't be ridiculous! Everyone has."
"About anything important?"
He took some time to answer, staring woodenly at nothing. “Lying isn't important. Betraying friends, now ... that's worse."
"I won't believe you ever have."
"Well, that's where you're wrong!” he snapped. “Twice! That damned prophecy keeps trying to make me a god.... And I keep thinking of Holy Roly.... Telling people what they must do—what's right and what's wrong!” He looked down, and she was astonished to see that his eyes were shiny with tears.
She reminded herself that something had changed him and to pry might be needless cruelty. This day was much too precious to spend quarreling. “Tell me what magic feels like?"
He smiled. “That's impossible! Like describing color to a blind man. When you have mana you know it, but I can't say how. It's a little like having a bag of money, so you can feel the weight of the coins. You're a great pianist—"