from his carry bag.
From it a man's voice spoke: “Hello, whoever, whatever you are. I've waited a long time for this. My whole life has led to this. The locals call me Meph, but that isn't my name. That was the name of the alien who gave me this drug: Mephistopheles. Who says aliens have no sense of humour? I thought being able to see the future would help get me to the stars. I had the wings added—I should have known better. If they had called me anything, the people here should have called me Icarus. Though it was The Bubble that did this to me, not the sun.
"Poor Gabriel thought I wanted a spell, but you're what I wanted—to bring you here."
—?—
"People always behave as if the future can be changed. It can't, any more than we can change the past. Maybe some species can, but it's beyond us. It took me forever, all the time these mud-brains thought I was a harmless loony, to realise that.
"I wanted you to have this device. Don't sample me—the drug will screw up your systems, you'll be more badly affected than I am. We're not geared to remember in both directions, any more than we can have two conversations simultaneously.
"I may be only a little player in whatever drama you're acting out, but even we crowd members have our stories, if anyone will listen. Remember me by this. It's all we want, isn't it, any of us really? It's why we have kids, rule the world, do anything, to be remembered. It's our small immortality."
Meph opened his arms wide and lifted his eyes to the stars, offering his throat to the spellhound. “So take me now; don't feel pity. It's been an interesting life."
The spellhound unsheathed its claws, slashed once, and before the man had crumpled to the ground, picked up his recorder and collected Gabriel's corpse.
* * * *
Every night, where a shadowy figure used to wait in vain for his girl, someone else now stands in front of her father's shop. Her feet turn in at angles, and one leg is so badly misshapen, it would hurt any normal woman to stand there, so still and small. She looks forward with as much impatience as she can feel for the day when her body disintegrates. Waits for death, the way she used to wait for him when she was alive. Feet planted apart as she stands in the golden-lit square, she waits, if necessary, for all eternity. She has nowhere else to go, nothing else to wait for.
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7
The summer sun blazed above the courtyard, heating the ceramic tiles until they were too hot to touch. Coconut palms, pines and lemon eucalyptus waved languidly. Hillocks of ryegrass separated them at their base, all of which conspired to hide the courtyard walls from casual glances. Duff sat further back in the shadows, sipping a drink, but Sinhalese lay stretched out with a small game on a board by her side, on the margin between the shade of the courtyard walls and full sun, soaking up the ultraviolet rays like a lizard warming her blood and bones.
Sinhalese stretched languorously. “Mmm, it's so much nicer here than at Frehk. Why can't we live here all the time?"
"You know why, poppet.” Duff sighed. “The City of Light is for play; Frehk is for work. Besides, if you lived here all the time, the novelty would wear off. Half the reason you enjoy it so much is that you don't spend all your time here."
She pouted. “S'pose so.” She brightened. “We should have a party. Bring some of the plebs from Frehk to amuse us."
"Mmm.” He didn't sound as if he were completely sure if it was a good idea. “Perhaps we will."
The rumble of distant engines shook the ground, and flowerpots fell from the courtyard walls to smash on the stones.
The paving slabs in the courtyard lifted slightly, then scattered upwards and outwards in hundreds, thousands of pieces.
"A sneak attack!” Sinhalese said, more excited than scared.
"Thought they'd evade the wards.” Duff breathed deeply, then paused. “Let's see what they want. The sending will have drained it anyway."
* * *
From it a man's voice spoke: “Hello, whoever, whatever you are. I've waited a long time for this. My whole life has led to this. The locals call me Meph, but that isn't my name. That was the name of the alien who gave me this drug: Mephistopheles. Who says aliens have no sense of humour? I thought being able to see the future would help get me to the stars. I had the wings added—I should have known better. If they had called me anything, the people here should have called me Icarus. Though it was The Bubble that did this to me, not the sun.
"Poor Gabriel thought I wanted a spell, but you're what I wanted—to bring you here."
—?—
"People always behave as if the future can be changed. It can't, any more than we can change the past. Maybe some species can, but it's beyond us. It took me forever, all the time these mud-brains thought I was a harmless loony, to realise that.
"I wanted you to have this device. Don't sample me—the drug will screw up your systems, you'll be more badly affected than I am. We're not geared to remember in both directions, any more than we can have two conversations simultaneously.
"I may be only a little player in whatever drama you're acting out, but even we crowd members have our stories, if anyone will listen. Remember me by this. It's all we want, isn't it, any of us really? It's why we have kids, rule the world, do anything, to be remembered. It's our small immortality."
Meph opened his arms wide and lifted his eyes to the stars, offering his throat to the spellhound. “So take me now; don't feel pity. It's been an interesting life."
The spellhound unsheathed its claws, slashed once, and before the man had crumpled to the ground, picked up his recorder and collected Gabriel's corpse.
* * * *
Every night, where a shadowy figure used to wait in vain for his girl, someone else now stands in front of her father's shop. Her feet turn in at angles, and one leg is so badly misshapen, it would hurt any normal woman to stand there, so still and small. She looks forward with as much impatience as she can feel for the day when her body disintegrates. Waits for death, the way she used to wait for him when she was alive. Feet planted apart as she stands in the golden-lit square, she waits, if necessary, for all eternity. She has nowhere else to go, nothing else to wait for.
[Back to Table of Contents]
7
The summer sun blazed above the courtyard, heating the ceramic tiles until they were too hot to touch. Coconut palms, pines and lemon eucalyptus waved languidly. Hillocks of ryegrass separated them at their base, all of which conspired to hide the courtyard walls from casual glances. Duff sat further back in the shadows, sipping a drink, but Sinhalese lay stretched out with a small game on a board by her side, on the margin between the shade of the courtyard walls and full sun, soaking up the ultraviolet rays like a lizard warming her blood and bones.
Sinhalese stretched languorously. “Mmm, it's so much nicer here than at Frehk. Why can't we live here all the time?"
"You know why, poppet.” Duff sighed. “The City of Light is for play; Frehk is for work. Besides, if you lived here all the time, the novelty would wear off. Half the reason you enjoy it so much is that you don't spend all your time here."
She pouted. “S'pose so.” She brightened. “We should have a party. Bring some of the plebs from Frehk to amuse us."
"Mmm.” He didn't sound as if he were completely sure if it was a good idea. “Perhaps we will."
The rumble of distant engines shook the ground, and flowerpots fell from the courtyard walls to smash on the stones.
The paving slabs in the courtyard lifted slightly, then scattered upwards and outwards in hundreds, thousands of pieces.
"A sneak attack!” Sinhalese said, more excited than scared.
"Thought they'd evade the wards.” Duff breathed deeply, then paused. “Let's see what they want. The sending will have drained it anyway."
* * *
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