“Robert, I think he’s lost his mind.”
“He has eyes, Marie, and you don’t.”
“What do you mean by that? And why do you keep looking out that window?” Quite slowly, the man turned to face us. For a moment he looked at Agia and me, then he turned away. His expression was the one I have seen our clients wear when Master Gurloes showed them the instruments to be used in their anacrisis. “Robert, for goodness’ sake tell me what’s wrong with you.”
“As Isangoma says, the tokoloshe are here. Not his, I think, but ours. Death and the Lady. Have you heard of them, Marie?”
The woman shook her head. She had risen from her seat and opened the lid of a small chest.
“You wouldn’t have, I suppose. It’s a picture—an artistic theme, rather. Pictures by several artists. Isangoma, I don’t think your Proud One has much authority over these tokoloshe. These come from Paris, where I used to be a student, to remonstrate with me for giving up art for this.” The woman said, “You have a fever, Robert. That’s obvious. I’m going to give you something, and you’ll feel better soon.”
The man looked toward us again, at Agia’s face and my own, as though he did not wish to do so but found himself unable to control the motion of his eyes. “If I am ill, Marie, then the diseased know things the well have overlooked. Isangoma knows they’re here too, don’t forget. Didn’t you feel the floor tremble while you were reading to him? That was when they came in, I think.”
“I’ve just poured you a glass of water so you can swallow your quinine. There are no ripples in it.”
“What are they, Isangoma? Tokoloshe—but what are tokoloshe?”
“Bad spirits, Preceptor. When man think bad thought or woman do bad thing, there is another tokoloshe. He stay behind. Man think: No one know, everyone dead. But tokoloshe remain until end of world. Then everyone will see, know what that man did.”
The woman said, “What a horrible idea.”
Her husband’s hands clenched the yellow stick of the windowsill. “Don’t you see they are only the results of what we do? They are the spirits of the future, and we make them ourselves.”
“They are a lot of pagan nonsense, that’s what I see, Robert. Listen. Your vision is so sharp, can’t you listen for a moment?”
“I am listening. What do you want to say?”
“Nothing. I only want you to listen. What do you hear?” The hut fell silent I listened too, and could not have not listened if I had wanted to. Outside the monkeys chattered, and the parrots screamed as before. Then I heard, over the jungle noises, a faint humming, as though an insect as large as a boat were flying far away.
“What is it?” the man asked.
“The mail plane. If you’re lucky, you should be able to see it soon.” The man craned his neck out the window, and I, curious to see what he was looking for, went to the window on his left and looked out as well. The foliage was so thick that at first it seemed impossible to see anything, but he was staring almost straight up past the edge of the thatch, and I found a patch of blue there.
The humming grew louder. Into view came the strangest flier I have ever seen. It was winged, as if it had been built by some race that had not yet realized that since it would not flap wings like a bird in any case, there was no reason its lift, like a kite’s, could not come from its hull. There was a bulbous swelling on each argent pinion, and a third at the front of the hull; the light seemed to glimmer before these swellings.
“In three days we could be at the landing strip, Robert. The next time it comes, we would be waiting.”
“If the Lord has sent us here—”
“Yes, Preceptor, we must do what the Proud One wishes! There is none like he! Preceptress, let me dance to the Proud One, and sing his song. Then it may be the tokoloshe will depart.”
The naked man snatched her book from the woman and began to beat it with the flat of his hand—rhythmic claps as though he played a tambour. His feet scraped the uneven floor, and his voice, beginning with a melodic stridulation, became the voice of a child:
Agia said, “I’m leaving, Severian,” and stepped through the doorway behind us. “If you want to stay and watch this, you can. But you’ll have to get your avern yourself, and find your way to the Sanguinary Fields. Do you know what will happen if you fail to appear?”
“They’ll employ assassins, you said.”
“And the assassins will employ the snake called yellowbeard. Not on you, at first. On your family, if you have any, and your friends. Since I’ve been with you all over our quarter of the city, that probably means me.”
The chant continued, but the chanter knew we were going: his singsong held a note of triumph. I waited until Agia had reached the ground, then followed her. She said, “I thought you’d never leave. Now that you’re here, do you really like this place so much?” The metallic colors of her torn gown seemed as angry as she herself against the cool green of the unnaturally dark leaves. “No,” I said. “But I find it interesting. Did you see their flier?”
“When you and the inmate looked out the windows? I wasn’t such a fool.”
“It was like no other I’ve ever seen. I should have been looking at the roof facets of this building, but instead I saw the flier he expected to see. At least, that’s what it seemed like. Something from somewhere else. A little while ago I wanted to tell you about a friend of a friend of mine who was caught in Father Inire’s mirrors. She found herself in another world, and even when she returned to Thecla—that was my friend’s name—she wasn’t quite sure she had found her way back to her real point of origin. I wonder if we aren’t still in the world those people left, instead of them in ours.” Agia had already started down the path. Flecks of sunlight seemed to turn her brown hair to dark gold as she looked over her shoulder to say, “I told you certain visitors are attracted to certain bioscapes.”
I trotted to catch up with her.
“As time goes on, their minds bend to conform to their surroundings, and it may be they bend ours as well. It was probably an ordinary flier you saw.”
“He saw us. So did the savage.”
“From what I’ve heard, the further an inhabitant’s consciousness must be warped, the more residual perceptions are likely to remain. When I meet monsters, wild men, and so forth in these gardens, I find they’re a lot more likely to be at least partially aware of me than the others are.
“Explain the man,” I said.
“I didn’t build this place, Severian. All I know is that if you turn around on the path now, that last place we saw probably won’t be there. Listen, I want you to promise me that when we get out of here, you’ll let me take you straight to the Garden of Endless Sleep. We don’t have time left for anything else, not even the Garden of Delectation. And you’re not really the kind of person who ought to go sightseeing in here.”
“Because I wanted to stay in the Sand Garden?”
“Partly, yes. You’re going to make trouble for me here sooner or later, I think.”
As she said that, we rounded one of the path’s seemingly endless sinuosities. A log tagged with a small white rectangle that could only be a species sign lay across the path, and through the crowding leaves on our left I could see the wall, its greenish glass forming an unobtrusive backdrop for the foliage. Agia had already taken a step past the door when I shifted Terminus Est to the other hand and opened it for her.