Six pale, naked bodies lie on a trestle table. The constable, his back to the window, quaffs deeply from an ale pot. Beyond him sits the landlord, talking, one plump, pasty hand resting on the thigh of the dead Tong Ye.
It is time.
There is a click, the brief flare of a tinder. Inside, the constable half turns, disturbed by the noise. Then, from the quayside, comes a shout.
The landlord starts up, spilling his beer. "What in the gods' names is that?"
"Fuck knows! We'd best go see, neh?" And, setting down his mug, the constable follows the landlord through the open door.
The room is empty now. From beneath the sill comes a gentle, crackling hiss as the oil-soaked cloth ignites. And then the crash and tinkle of breaking glass, the sudden flare of oil as the bottle shatters on the stone flags inside the room. At once the legs of the trestle table catch. Flames lick the frayed edge of grease-spattered curtains, gnaw hungrily at the dry timber of the door frame. In a moment the room is ablaze, the pale skin of the corpses gleaming brightly in the garish, unnatural light. As the camera closes in, the flesh of the nearest begins to sweat and bubble.
The camera moves back, clearing the blackening sill, then climbs the outer wall, up into darkness. Here, in the upper rooms, more than forty men are sleeping; half the crew of the merchantman, spending their last night ashore.
The camera moves out, over the smoldering inn. Farther along the quay the guard has turned, facing the innkeeper and the constable.
"The junks!" he cries. "The junks are leaving!"
Out in the center of the estuary the three Han vessels have doused their mooring lights and are moving slowly toward the mouth of the river. There is the noise of oars being pulled through the water, the sound of singsong Han voices calling encouragement to the rowers.
For a moment the three stand there, staring outward, then, as one, they rum, conscious of the growing light at their backs, the sharp hiss and pop and crackle of burning. The heat. The sudden stench . . .
The landlord, his mouth agape, takes a step toward the burgeoning light. As he does, a figure dashes past him, black cloak flapping, a spill of golden hair gleaming, flashing in the infernal light.
"No!" he cries. "For the gods' sakes, woman, don't! The bugger's dead. . ."
He takes two faltering steps toward the heat, then stops. It is too late. For an instant the black of her cloak is framed against the brightness of the opening, then she is gone.
Thick smoke drifts across the water. The whole of the inn is on fire now, flames leaping from the timbers of the roof, piercing the restful dark above the town. There are screams—high-pitched, agonized cries—and then nothing. Nothing but the furnace-roar of air and flame, of cracking beams and the splintering of glass.
In the alleyway, a tall, silvered figure moves slowly through the haze, like something glimpsed in dream, its smooth, high-domed head gleaming like a mottled egg, its torso smooth, sexless, veined like polished marble. And its face... its face is featureless save for two tiny button eyes that gleam amid the swirl of smoke and light.
At the charred window it stops, leaning across the sill to stare through layers of thick, choking smoke into the fire-blackened room, then climbs inside, bare feet sizzling on the red-hot flags. A moment later it returns, a limp, dark figure in its arms.
At the front of the inn a crowd has gathered. As the figure emerges from the alley a great gasp goes up. Of surprise, and disbelief, and awe. It is the crippled man. John Newcott's boy. The loner. They watch him come on, stumbling now, close to collapse, his clothes smoldering, the limp form of the woman cradled in his arms.
As he reaches the edge of the crowd, two men come forward, taking his burden from him.
The camera eye moves closer. A man's lined and bearded face winces, pained by what he sees. He looks up, tears in his eyes, meeting his fellow's gaze, then shakes his head. The camera turns,
looks down into the ruined face of the woman. Slowly it moves inward, until the charred and blistered surface of her flesh fills the screen.
And then darkness.
ON THE FAR SIDE of the estuary a lone figure crouched in the deep shadow beneath the trees, staring across at the happenings on the waterfront. For a moment he was still, concealed amid leaf and long grass, then, with a strangely decisive movement, he started down the steep slope, making his way between the trees to the water's edge.
There he paused, staring out again, his large, dark eyes filled with the light of the distant fire. Then, with the faintest shudder, he reached down, untying the rope that secured his boat, and stepped into the hollowed trunk, pushing out from the bank with a quick, practiced motion.
For a moment he did nothing, letting the boat glide out into the current, his head turned, his eyes drawn to the distant blaze, a mixture of fear and fascination making him crouch there like a frightened animal, the short wooden paddle clutched defensively against his chest; then, stirring himself, he dug the paddle into the flow and turned the boat, steering a course parallel to the bank.
This changed things. Up ahead of him, out in the central darkness of the river, the junks were leaving. What's more, the merchantman was making no attempt to pursue them. It was still there, at anchor in the offing, its load untouched.
The man grinned crookedly. His scarred fingers scratched at his neck, then combed long, lank hair back from his face. Satisfied, hedug the paddle deep into the flow, once and then again, switching from side to side, hastening his strokes, knowing that it was urgent now.
IT was LATE. Ben stood there at the water's edge, looking out across the bay, the satisfaction of a solid day's work like a physical presence in his blood. He closed his eyes, relaxing. For a moment it was perfect. For one brief yet timeless moment he lapsed out of himself, melting into the eternal blackness of the night. Then, with a tiny shudder, he returned to himself, conscious of something lost. Of something denied him.
He turned, looking back at the low, familiar outline of the cottage, embedded in the hillside. A light was on upstairs, in Meg's room. From where he stood he could see her, moving about inside, brushing out her dark long hair, then turning to study herself in the mirror. He smiled, then let his gaze move upward, over the thatched roof of the cottage, following the narrow road that climbed the hillside. Beyond the line of cottages—dark now; sensed more than properly seen—the land climbed steeply. At its summit, silhouetted against the paleness beyond, was the old church of St. George's. Beyond that, less than half a Zi distant, the City began again, a huge wall of whiteness, vast and monumental. Ben shivered, then turned full circle, aware suddenly of its presence, there on every side of him, encircling and containing the valley—containing him—like the walls of a giant box.
Reducing cottage, town and trees, roads, walls and human figures. Reducing all to toys. Toys in a giant playbox.
The moon had sunk beneath the edge of the wall. For a moment his eyes traced the silvered line where the whiteness of the wall met the black of the sky, then he turned back, facing the bay.
Out on the river it was dark, the surface smooth, like a mirror; a huge lens, reflecting the vastness of the star-filled night.
What was it like, that immensity? What did it feel like? Was it just a simple nothingness, a lapsing out? Or was there something beyond that brief moment he had experienced just now? Something more to be had?
He turned from the water, climbing the hill, making his way across the lower meadow, away from the cottage, toward the sapling oak that marked his father's grave.
Today he had felt close to it. Had felt at moments almost as if he could reach out and touch it. Standing there among the figures on the waterfront, he had caught the briefest, most transient glimpse of it, there in the raging fire's heart. And for a moment the unnameable thing had been there, on his lips, almost articulate, like a scent. But when he had opened his mouth to utter it, it had flown, ineffable as ever, evading all attempts of his to bring it back.