The nurse walks him out into the blazing sun, across the road, and down onto the sand of the Copacabana.
The people on the beach stare at the old man, bald and rotten, in his antique pyjamas, gazing about him with colourless once-brown eyes through bottle-thick dark-rimmed spectacles.
He stares back at them.
They are golden and beautiful. Some of them are asleep on the sand. Most of them are naked, or they wear the kind of bathing attire that emphasises and punctuates their nakedness.
Rajit knows them, then.
Later, much later, they made another biopic. In the final sequence the old man falls to his knees on the beach, as he did in real life, and blood trickles from the open flap of his pyjama bottoms, soaking the faded cotton and puddling darkly onto the soft sand. He stares at them all, looking from one to another with awe upon his face, like a man who has finally learned how to stare at the sun.
He said one word only as he died, surrounded by the golden people, who were not men, who were not women.
He said, "Angels."
And the people watching the biopic, as golden, as beautiful, as changed as the people on the beach, knew that that was the end of it all.
And in any way that Rajit would have understood, it was.
CHAPTER 12: The Daughter of Owls
From The Remaines of Gentilisme amp; Judaisms
by John Aubrey, R.S.S. (1686-87), (pp 262-263)
I had this story from my friend Edmund Wyld Esq. who had it from Mr Farringdon, who said it was old in his time. In the Town of Dymton a newly-born girl was left one night on the steps of the Church, where the Sexton found her there the next morning, and she had hold of a curious thing, viz.:-ye pellet of an Owle, which when crumbled showed the usual composition of an Hoot-owle's pellet, thus: skin and teeth and small bones.
The old wyves of the Town sayed as follows: that the girl was the daughter of Owls, and that she should be burnt to death, for she was not borne of woeman. Notwithstanding, wiser Heads and Greybeards prevayled, and the babe was taken to the Convent (for this was shortly after the Papish times, and the Convent had been left empty, for the Townefolke thought it was a place of Dyvills and such, and Hoot-owles and Screach-owles and many bats did make theyr homes in the tower) and there she was left, and one of the wyves of the Towne each day went to the Convent and fed the babe amp;c.
It was prognostickated that ye babe would dye, wch she did not doe: instead she grew year onn and about until she was a mayd of xiiii summers. She was the prittiest thing you ever did see, a fine young lass, who spent her dais and nights behind high stone walls with no-one never to see, but a Towne wyfe who came every morn. One market daie the good-wife talked too loudly of the girl's prittyness, amp; also that she could not speak, for she had never learned the manner of it.
The men of Dymton, the grey-beards and the young men, spoke to-gether, saying: if wee were to visit her, who would know? (Meaning by visit, that they did intend to ravish her.)
It was putt about thus: that ye menfolk would go a-hunting all in a company, when the Moon would be fulle: wch it beeing, they crep't one by one from theyr houses and mett outside the Convent, amp; the Reeve of Dymton unlocked the gate amp; one by one they went in. They found her hiding in the cellar, being startled by ye noyse.
The Maid was more pritty even than they had heard: her hair was red wch was uncommon, amp; she wore but a white shift, amp; when she saw them she was much afrayd for she had never seen no Men before, save only the woemen who brought her vittles: amp; she stared at them with huge eyes amp; she uttered small cries, as if she were imploring them nott to hurte her.
The Townefolk merely laughed for they meant mischiefe amp; were wicked cruel men: amp; they came at her in the moon's light.
Then the girl began a-screaching amp; a-wayling, but that did not stay them from theyr purpos. amp; the grate window went dark amp; the light of the moon was blockt: amp; there was the sound of mighty wings; but the men did not see it as they were intent on theyr ravishment.
The folk of Dymton in theyr beds that night dreamed of hoots amp; screaches and howells: amp; of grate birds: amp; they dreamed that they were become littel mice amp; ratts.
On the morrow, when the sun was high, the goodwives of the Town went through Dymton a-hunting High amp; Low for theyr Husbands amp; theyr Sonnes; wch, coming to the Convent, they fownd, on the Cellar stones, ye pellets of owles: amp; in the pellets they discovered hair amp; buckles amp; coins, amp; small bones: amp; also a quantity of straw upon the floor.
And the men of Dymton was none of them seen agane. However, for some years therafter, some said they saw ye Maid in high Places, like the highest Oke trees amp; steeples amp; c; this being always in the dusk, and at night, amp; no-one could rightly sware, if it were her or no.
(She was a white figure:-but Mr E. Wyld could not remember him rightly whether folk said that she wore cloathes or was naked.)
The truth of it I know not, but it is a merrye tale amp; one wch I write down here.
CHAPTER 13: Shoggoth's Old Peculiar
Benjamin Lassiter was coming to the unavoidable conclusion that the woman who had written A Walking Tour of the British Coastline, the book he was carrying in his backpack, had never been on a walking tour of any kind, and would probably not recognise the British coastline if it were to dance through her bedroom at the head of a marching band, singing "I'm the British Coastline" in a loud and cheerful voice while accompanying itself on the kazoo.
He had been following her advice for five days now and had little to show for it, except blisters and a backache. All British seaside resorts contain a number of bed-and-breakfast establishments, who will be only too delighted to put you up in the "off-season" was one such piece of advice. Ben had crossed it out and written in the margin beside it: All British seaside resorts contain a handful of bed-and-breakfast establishments, the owners of which take off to Spain or Provence or somewhere on the last day of September, locking the doors behind them as they go.
He had added a number of other marginal notes, too. Such as Do not repeat not under any circumstances order fried eggs again in any roadside cafe and What is it with the fish-and-chips thing? and No they are not. That last was written beside a paragraph which claimed that, if there was one thing that the inhabitants of scenic villages on the British coastline were pleased to see, it was a young American tourist on a walking tour.
For five hellish days, Ben had walked from village to village, had drunk sweet tea and instant coffee in cafeterias and cafes and stared out at grey rocky vistas and at the slate-coloured sea, shivered under his two thick sweaters, got wet, and failed to see any of the sights that were promised.
Sitting in the bus shelter in which he had unrolled his sleeping bag one night, he had begun to translate key descriptive words: charming he decided, meant nondescript; scenic meant ugly but with a nice view if the rain ever lets up; delightful probably meant We've never been here and don't know anyone who has. He had also come to the conclusion that the more exotic the name of the village, the duller the village.