Not here, he thought. Not in this blind and circumscribed place — it isn ’t at all suitable.
Recalling the higher slope which had afforded the good view to the east, he retraced his steps along the bed of the ancient stream, walking slowly now and emitting occasional sighs. When he reached the slope he sat on the ground with his back to an agreeably shaped boulder and arranged his robe in neat folds around his outstretched legs.
The world of his last day was laid out before him. The triangular outline of Mount Opelmer floated low in the sky, seemingly detached from the horizontal ribbons and speckled bands which represented Ro-Atabri and the derelict suburbs on the shores of Arle Bay. Closer and lower was the artificial community of the Skyship Quarter, its dozens of balloon enclosures an illusory city of rectangular towers. The Tree glittered in the southern heavens, its nine stars challenging the sun’s brilliance, and at the zenith a broad crescent of mellow light was spreading insensibly across the disk of Overland.
The whole span of my life and work is in that scene, Lain mused. I have brought my writing materials and should try to make some kind of a summation… not that the last thoughts of one who precipitated his own demise in such a ludicrous fashion would be of much interest or value to others… at most I could record what is already kno wn — that pterthacosis is not a bad death… as deaths go, that is… nature can be merciful…as the most horrific shark bites are often unaccompanied by pain, so the inhalation of ptertha dust can sometimes engender a strange mood of resignation, a chemical fatalism… in that respect at least, I appear to be fortunate… except that I am deprived of feelings which are mine by ancient right…
A burning sensation manifested itself below Lain’s chest and spread radial tendrils into the rest of his torso. At the same time the air about him seemed to grow cold, as though the sun had lost its heat. He put a hand into a pocket of his robe, brought out a bag made of yellow linen and spread it on his lap. There was a final duty to be performed — but not yet.
I wish Gesalla were here…Gesalla and Toller… so that I could give them to each other, or ask them to accept each other… irony piles upon irony… Toller always wanted to be different, to be more like me… and when he became the new Toller, I was forced to become the old Toller… to the final extent of throwing down my life for the sake of honour, a gesture which should have been made before my beautiful solewife was ravaged and defiled by Leddravohr… Toller was right about that, and I — in my so-called wisdom — told him he was wrong… Gesalla knew in her head that he was wrong, and in her heart that he was right…
A stab of pain in Lain’s chest was accompanied by a bout of shivering. The view before him was curiously flat. He could see more ptertha now. They were drifting down towards the plain in groups of two and three, but they had no relevance to what was left of his life. The dream-flow of his fragmentary thoughts was the new reality.
Poor Toller… he became what he aspired to be, and how did I reward him?…with resentment and envy…I hurt him on the day ofGlo’s interment, only able to do so because he loves me, but he responded to my childish spite with dignity and forbearance… brakka and ptertha go together…I love my “little brother#148; and I wonder if Gesalla even yet realises that she too… these things can take such a long time…of course brakka and ptertha go together — it’s a symbiotic partnership… only now do I understand why it was not in my heart to fly to Overland…the future is there, and the future belongs to Gesalla and Toller…could that be the underlying reason for my refusing to ride with Leddravohr, for choosing my own Bright Road?… was I making Toller’s way clear?… was I excising an unbalancing factor from the equation?…equations used to mean so much to me…
The fire in Lain’s chest was becoming hotter, expanding, causing him to struggle for breath. He was sweating profusely and yet his skin felt deathly cold, and the world was merely a scene painted on rippling cloth. It was time for the yellow hood.
Lain lifted it with clumsy fingers and drew it over his head — a warning to anyone who might come by that he had died of pterthacosis and that the body was not to be approached for at least five days. The eye slits were not in the right place, but he allowed his hands to fall to his side without adjusting them, content to remain in a private universe of formless and featureless yellow.
Time and space ran together in that undemanding microcosm.
Yes, I was right about the cave painting…the circle represents a ptertha… a colourless ptertha… one which has not yet developed its specialised toxins…who was it who once asked me if the ptertha used to be pink?… and what was my reply?… did I say the naked child is not afraid of the globe because he knows it will not harm him?…I know I have always disappointed Toller in one respect, by my lack of physical courage… my disregard for honour… but now he can be proud of me… I wish I could be there to see his face when he hears that I preferred to die rather than to ride with… isn’t it strange that the answer to the riddle of the ptertha has always been visible in the sky?… the Tree and the circle of Overland, symbolising the ptertha, co-existing in harmony… the brakka pollination discharges feed the ptertha with… with what?…pollen, green and purple, miglign?…and in return the ptertha seek out and destroy the brakka’s enemies… Toller should be protected from Prince Leddravohr… he believes himself to be equal to him, but I fear… I FEAR I HAVE NOT TOLD ANYONE ABOUT THE BRAKKA AND THE PTERTHA!… how long have I known?… is this a dream?… where is my lovely Gesalla?… can I still move my hands?… can I still…
Chapter 17
Prince Leddravohr picked up a looking glass and frowned at his reflection. Even when resident in the Great Palace he preferred not to be attended by body servants, and for his morning toilet he had spent a considerable time in honing a brakka razor to a perfect edge and softening his facial stubble with hot water. As a result, annoyingly, he had pared away too much skin at his throat. There were no real incisions, but droplets of blood were oozing through the skin, and no matter how often he dabbed them away more appeared in their place.
This what comes of living like a pampered maiden, he told himself, pressing a damp cloth to his throat and postponing the act of dressing until the bleeding had stopped. The mirror, made from two different kinds of glass bonded together, was almost totally reflective, but when he faced the window he could discern its brilliant rectangles through the glass sandwich, apparently occupying the same space as his own body.
It’s only appropriate, he thought. I’m becoming insubstantial, aghast, in preparation for the ascent to Overland. My real life, the only life that has any significance, will be over and done with when… His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running footsteps in the adjoining apartment. He turned and saw in the doorway of the toilet chamber the square-shouldered figure of Major Yachimalt, the adjutant responsible for communications between the palace and Skyship Quarter. Yachimalt’s anxious eyes took in the fact that Leddravohr was naked and he made as if to back out of the room.
“Forgive me, Prince,” he said. “I didn’t realise.…”
“What’s the matter with you, man?” Leddravohr snapped. “If you have a message for me, spit it out.”
“It’s a signal from Colonel Hippern, Prince. He says a mob is gathering at the main entrance to the Quarter.”
“He has a full regiment at his disposal, hasn’t he? Why should I concern myself with the activities of a rabble?”