The Whispering Swarm by Michael Moorcock Page A

not all part of the same brotherhood?’ Did he mean himself and the monks, or the monks and the Alsacian congregation, or the entire human race? ‘Aren’t we all presently drifting in troubled waters? Once the scale of the Creator’s plan is known and our power is recognised we shall understand its function thoroughly. Do you know what it is?’
    The orrery was still mesmerising me. I was reminded of a description I’d read in the H.G. Wells novel. My eyes were transfixed. ‘It’s some sort of time machine, isn’t it?’
    He smiled again. ‘Oh, if life were so simple! It’s merely a model. As I said, it lacks the refinements of the prince’s great orrery. But you can imagine the light sphincter and how it works to draw and expel the ectoplasm creating a perfectly balanced cosmos. We cannot begin to demonstrate here the suggestion, as yet unpresented in any coherent way, concerning the infinity of such objects of balance and the meaning of Scripture in their respect.’
    â€˜Scripture?’ I was growing dizzy again. I leaned back in my chair. Now even the whizzing spheres and weaving rods were hard to distinguish.
    â€˜Believe me,’ he said, ‘you must not fear that we are practising the black arts. We take our plans from Scripture. We know too much to want to meddle in those. We are trying to save all we value. No soul was ever sold here. No bargain was ever struck between man and devil. The only bargains we make are honourable.…’ His voice now seemed indistinct. ‘And they are usually with the Creator or His agents in the best accomplishment of His will.’
    I missed much of the meaning of what he said. I tried to rise. I still found it difficult to get up from my chair. I sat down again. He had changed the subject. ‘No doubt she loves you as much as she ever did.’
    â€˜Who loves me?’
    The old man frowned and glanced around him, puzzled. ‘Ah. I am so sorry. Your mother?’
    But I knew he didn’t mean my mother.
    â€˜The prince knows a better method but this gives a certain verisimilitude to our model.’ He reached in and sprinkled something into the elaborate mechanism. ‘This will help you understand why we were so glad you came to us all those years ago.’
    I was absolutely baffled. ‘What do you mean, Father? I came here a few hours ago, at your invitation. Out of curiosity. And before that…’
    He was hardly listening. His expression was wonderfully benign. ‘Your curiosity helps you see the roads. Soon you’ll learn to walk them. The time is upon us. Those hunters have increased the frequency and intensity of their attacks. We have to get our Treasure to a safer place. The Green Knight cannot. His prophet needs him. So you shall help us.’ His voice seemed to come from some distance off. I wanted to ask more but the beautiful machine drew my attention. Darkness flowed through the Cosmolabe forming shapes I almost recognised. I feared I was being hypnotised.
    Time passed quickly and, in spite of feeling increasingly ill, I remained sitting, transfixed in front of that astonishing arrangement of gold, brass, ebony, silver, platinum and ivory. I watched clusters of crystals, some like diamonds, others like rubies, emeralds, sapphires. I peered deeper into the thing. I saw shapes, faces. I had no power to move and I didn’t care. I was helpless. I thought I heard another, drawling voice. Perhaps I was imagining the entire experience. Was this astonishing concoction of alchemy and baffling cosmic theory actually created to reach deep into my inner self? Must I believe I owned a soul before I could see it at all?
    I tried to break the connection by imagining the tarot deck until all I saw in my mind’s eye were the cards. The swords and the cups, the wands and the pentacles became webs and rods and planets and suns whirling before my eyes.
    I still heard Father