smaller until it was little more than a circle of black.
It was almost gone when the angel spoke again, a note of surprise in his voice. “Hello,” he said, peering into the darkness. He reached through the gap, hand disappearing into the black, and took hold of something, pulling as though he was hauling on ropes despite the fact that Fool could see nothing.
“Can we go?” said Catarinch. Wambwark made a low rumbling, a fissure opening in its face and a foul smell emerging with the noise. Bugs fell from the fissure, landing in its chest and tumbling to the ground, where they rolled and started back toward it. Its cape flapped, hat rippling, as it waited.
“As my colleague says, we have work to do. We do not wish to be here any longer than we have to be,” said Catarinch. The scribe, hunched beside it, tucked itself tighter down, made itself something even smaller.
“I apologize for the delay,” said Benjamin, “but I will be a moment longer.” He pulled in the invisible thing again, making hand-over-hand movements. Whatever it was, it took a few seconds longer to draw in through the opening, and then it was done and Benjamin stroked and moved and the doorway shrank to nothing and was gone.
“Welcome to Heaven,” said Benjamin.
“Your greetings have already been acknowledged,” said Catarinch. “Angel, we have no desire to exchange more pleasantries.”
Benjamin stood, straight, still smiling, and said simply, “Of course. Let us go.”
Benjamin led them down the slope, away from the crowd, toward a path upon which an open-topped transport was waiting. The five of them climbed into it, the seats thick and accommodating, and it moved off without sound and without an apparent driver. It did not move fast but meandered, the road they were on changing direction frequently, first this way and then that, doubling back and bending as though it had no real destination, was a thing created for travel rather than arrival.
During the journey they passed some of what Fool assumed were Heaven’s equivalents to the boardinghouses, the Orphanages, the Houska—a huge fairground filled with carousels and rides, more fields, this time filled with crops as well as people, buildings that Fool couldn’t identify, and others that made him feel like he knew them even if he could not quite place them or their function. He had never seen them before, they had no true equivalent in Hell, yet still he felt he should recognize them. He rubbed his head, closed his eyes, and tried to remember, but nothing came.
In the darkness behind his eyelids, Fool heard music. It was distant, impossible to recognize, sounded like singing one moment and hundreds of instruments without voices the next, from the beating tattoo of drumming to the rising lilt of flutes to the throaty roar of trumpets and horns.
I’ve never heard flutes,
he thought,
so how do I know they’re flutes? Or trumpets or horns?
There was no music in Hell, except for the occasional songs that the workers sang, the rhythms providing a beat for the workers to carry out their tasks to. Fool didn’t know what flutes sounded like, yet he did, the information there in his head, growing like some tiny bud, opening, knowledge expanding. He groaned, unable to help himself, heard the music again, this time strings, guitars, and lutes, and then voices again. Thousands of them, thousands of voices, layered and singing different things yet somehow complementing each other, song after song after song, each voice carrying its own tune, creating its own themes, the sound of Heaven.
It was beautiful.
Fool opened his eyes and found Benjamin watching him. The angel smiled more broadly, but didn’t speak. The music stopped, or at least fell away to something that almost disappeared past the cusp of his hearing.
Looking around, Fool found that the landscape had changed. Now the road was running alongside the edge of a gray and moving sea, waves rolling in and out against a sandy
It was almost gone when the angel spoke again, a note of surprise in his voice. “Hello,” he said, peering into the darkness. He reached through the gap, hand disappearing into the black, and took hold of something, pulling as though he was hauling on ropes despite the fact that Fool could see nothing.
“Can we go?” said Catarinch. Wambwark made a low rumbling, a fissure opening in its face and a foul smell emerging with the noise. Bugs fell from the fissure, landing in its chest and tumbling to the ground, where they rolled and started back toward it. Its cape flapped, hat rippling, as it waited.
“As my colleague says, we have work to do. We do not wish to be here any longer than we have to be,” said Catarinch. The scribe, hunched beside it, tucked itself tighter down, made itself something even smaller.
“I apologize for the delay,” said Benjamin, “but I will be a moment longer.” He pulled in the invisible thing again, making hand-over-hand movements. Whatever it was, it took a few seconds longer to draw in through the opening, and then it was done and Benjamin stroked and moved and the doorway shrank to nothing and was gone.
“Welcome to Heaven,” said Benjamin.
“Your greetings have already been acknowledged,” said Catarinch. “Angel, we have no desire to exchange more pleasantries.”
Benjamin stood, straight, still smiling, and said simply, “Of course. Let us go.”
Benjamin led them down the slope, away from the crowd, toward a path upon which an open-topped transport was waiting. The five of them climbed into it, the seats thick and accommodating, and it moved off without sound and without an apparent driver. It did not move fast but meandered, the road they were on changing direction frequently, first this way and then that, doubling back and bending as though it had no real destination, was a thing created for travel rather than arrival.
During the journey they passed some of what Fool assumed were Heaven’s equivalents to the boardinghouses, the Orphanages, the Houska—a huge fairground filled with carousels and rides, more fields, this time filled with crops as well as people, buildings that Fool couldn’t identify, and others that made him feel like he knew them even if he could not quite place them or their function. He had never seen them before, they had no true equivalent in Hell, yet still he felt he should recognize them. He rubbed his head, closed his eyes, and tried to remember, but nothing came.
In the darkness behind his eyelids, Fool heard music. It was distant, impossible to recognize, sounded like singing one moment and hundreds of instruments without voices the next, from the beating tattoo of drumming to the rising lilt of flutes to the throaty roar of trumpets and horns.
I’ve never heard flutes,
he thought,
so how do I know they’re flutes? Or trumpets or horns?
There was no music in Hell, except for the occasional songs that the workers sang, the rhythms providing a beat for the workers to carry out their tasks to. Fool didn’t know what flutes sounded like, yet he did, the information there in his head, growing like some tiny bud, opening, knowledge expanding. He groaned, unable to help himself, heard the music again, this time strings, guitars, and lutes, and then voices again. Thousands of them, thousands of voices, layered and singing different things yet somehow complementing each other, song after song after song, each voice carrying its own tune, creating its own themes, the sound of Heaven.
It was beautiful.
Fool opened his eyes and found Benjamin watching him. The angel smiled more broadly, but didn’t speak. The music stopped, or at least fell away to something that almost disappeared past the cusp of his hearing.
Looking around, Fool found that the landscape had changed. Now the road was running alongside the edge of a gray and moving sea, waves rolling in and out against a sandy
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