the moonlight
and dreamt of Lin: a fraught, sexual, loving dream.
Chapter Seven
The Clock and Cockerel
had spilt out of doors. Tables and coloured lanterns covered the
forecourt by the canal that separated Salacus Fields from Sangwine.
The smash of glasses and shrieks of amusement wafted over the dour
bargemen working the locks, riding the sluicing water up to a higher
level, taking off towards the river, leaving the boisterous inn
behind.
Lin felt vertiginous.
She sat at the head of
a large table under a violet lamp, surrounded by her friends. Next to
her on one side was Derkhan Blueday, the art critic for the Beacon. On the other was Cornfed, screaming animatedly at Thighs Growing, the
cactacae cellist. Alexandrine; Bellagin Sound; Tarrick Septimus;
Importunate Spint: painters and poets, musicians, sculptors, and a
host of hangers-on she half-recognized.
This was Lin’s
milieu. This was her world. And yet she had never felt so isolated
from them as she did now.
The knowledge that she
had landed the job, the huge request they all dreamed of, the
one work that could see her happy for years, separated her from her
fellows. And her terrifying employer very effectively sealed her
isolation. Lin felt as if suddenly, without warning, she was in a
very different world from the bitchy, game-playing, lively, precious,
introspective Salacus Fields round.
She had seen no one
since she had returned, shaken, from her extraordinary meeting in
Bonetown. She had missed Isaac badly, but she knew that he would be
taking the opportunity of her supposed work to be drowning himself in
research, and she knew also that for her to venture to Brock Marsh
would anger him greatly. In Salacus Fields, they were an open secret.
Brock Marsh, though, was the belly of the beast.
So she had sat for a
day, contemplating what she had agreed to do.
Slowly, tentatively,
she had cast her mind back to the monstrous figure of Mr. Motley.
Godspit and shit! she had thought. What was he?
She had no clear
picture of her boss, only a sense of the ragged discordance of his
flesh. Snippets of visual memory teased her: one hand terminating in
five equally spaced crabs’ claws; a spiralling horn bursting
from a nest of eyes; a reptilian ridge winding along goats’
fur. It was impossible to tell what race Mr. Motley had started out
as. She had never heard of Remaking so extensive, so monstrous and
chaotic. Anyone as rich as he must be could surely afford the best
Remakers to fashion him into something more human—or whatever.
She could only think that he chose this form.
Either that, or he was
a victim of Torque.
Lin wondered if his
obsession with the transition zone reflected his form, or if his
obsession came first.
Lin’s cupboard
was stuffed with her rough sketches of Mr. Motley’s
body—hastily hidden on the assumption that Isaac would stay
with her tonight. She had made scrawled notes of what she remembered
of the lunatic anatomy.
Her horror had ebbed,
over the days, leaving her with crawling skin and a torrent of ideas.
This, she had decided,
could be the work of her life.
Her first appointment
with Mr. Motley was the next day, Dustday, in the afternoon. After
that, it was twice a week for at least the next month: probably
longer, depending on how the sculpture took shape.
Lin was eager to begin.
**
"Lin, you tedious
bitch!" yelled Cornfed and threw a carrot at her. "Why are
you so quiet tonight?"
Lin scrawled quickly on
her pad.
Cornfed, sweetheart,
you bore me.
Everyone burst into
laughter. Cornfed returned to his flamboyant flirtation with
Alexandrine. Derkhan bent her grey head towards Lin and spoke softly.
"Seriously,
Lin...You’re hardly speaking. Is something up?"
Lin, touched, shook her
headbody gently.
Working on something
big. Taking up a lot of my mind, she signed at her. It was a
relief to be able to speak without writing every word: Derkhan read
signing well.
I miss Isaac, Lin added
and dreamt of Lin: a fraught, sexual, loving dream.
Chapter Seven
The Clock and Cockerel
had spilt out of doors. Tables and coloured lanterns covered the
forecourt by the canal that separated Salacus Fields from Sangwine.
The smash of glasses and shrieks of amusement wafted over the dour
bargemen working the locks, riding the sluicing water up to a higher
level, taking off towards the river, leaving the boisterous inn
behind.
Lin felt vertiginous.
She sat at the head of
a large table under a violet lamp, surrounded by her friends. Next to
her on one side was Derkhan Blueday, the art critic for the Beacon. On the other was Cornfed, screaming animatedly at Thighs Growing, the
cactacae cellist. Alexandrine; Bellagin Sound; Tarrick Septimus;
Importunate Spint: painters and poets, musicians, sculptors, and a
host of hangers-on she half-recognized.
This was Lin’s
milieu. This was her world. And yet she had never felt so isolated
from them as she did now.
The knowledge that she
had landed the job, the huge request they all dreamed of, the
one work that could see her happy for years, separated her from her
fellows. And her terrifying employer very effectively sealed her
isolation. Lin felt as if suddenly, without warning, she was in a
very different world from the bitchy, game-playing, lively, precious,
introspective Salacus Fields round.
She had seen no one
since she had returned, shaken, from her extraordinary meeting in
Bonetown. She had missed Isaac badly, but she knew that he would be
taking the opportunity of her supposed work to be drowning himself in
research, and she knew also that for her to venture to Brock Marsh
would anger him greatly. In Salacus Fields, they were an open secret.
Brock Marsh, though, was the belly of the beast.
So she had sat for a
day, contemplating what she had agreed to do.
Slowly, tentatively,
she had cast her mind back to the monstrous figure of Mr. Motley.
Godspit and shit! she had thought. What was he?
She had no clear
picture of her boss, only a sense of the ragged discordance of his
flesh. Snippets of visual memory teased her: one hand terminating in
five equally spaced crabs’ claws; a spiralling horn bursting
from a nest of eyes; a reptilian ridge winding along goats’
fur. It was impossible to tell what race Mr. Motley had started out
as. She had never heard of Remaking so extensive, so monstrous and
chaotic. Anyone as rich as he must be could surely afford the best
Remakers to fashion him into something more human—or whatever.
She could only think that he chose this form.
Either that, or he was
a victim of Torque.
Lin wondered if his
obsession with the transition zone reflected his form, or if his
obsession came first.
Lin’s cupboard
was stuffed with her rough sketches of Mr. Motley’s
body—hastily hidden on the assumption that Isaac would stay
with her tonight. She had made scrawled notes of what she remembered
of the lunatic anatomy.
Her horror had ebbed,
over the days, leaving her with crawling skin and a torrent of ideas.
This, she had decided,
could be the work of her life.
Her first appointment
with Mr. Motley was the next day, Dustday, in the afternoon. After
that, it was twice a week for at least the next month: probably
longer, depending on how the sculpture took shape.
Lin was eager to begin.
**
"Lin, you tedious
bitch!" yelled Cornfed and threw a carrot at her. "Why are
you so quiet tonight?"
Lin scrawled quickly on
her pad.
Cornfed, sweetheart,
you bore me.
Everyone burst into
laughter. Cornfed returned to his flamboyant flirtation with
Alexandrine. Derkhan bent her grey head towards Lin and spoke softly.
"Seriously,
Lin...You’re hardly speaking. Is something up?"
Lin, touched, shook her
headbody gently.
Working on something
big. Taking up a lot of my mind, she signed at her. It was a
relief to be able to speak without writing every word: Derkhan read
signing well.
I miss Isaac, Lin added
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