Watson, Ian - Novel 08 by The Gardens of Delight (v1.1) Page B

something
monochromatic, almost flat, of no significance save for that streak of fear,
that thin vein of gold pulsing across it through the air to the next bush. How
do these flowers get fertilized when there aren’t any insects? What sustains it
all? This thought melted in the liquid gold of fear ... A unicorn is a paradox
animal, which never lived till now except in the imagination. ‘God’ the
superbeing is a paradox as well—perhaps to Himself? Is hunting the unicorn the
same as hunting for God? Golden fear dazzled him like a shaft of the living
sun. A flower of fear blazed up from torn turf. Anger grew beside it. He
stamped the fear flat, he burnished his hunting stick
in the anger.
                 A
great rhododendron thrashed about ahead as if something was hurling itself
from side to side in the midst of it. Flowers fell. There were snorts and
whinnies; there were snarls, then a great roar.
                 Jeremy
snatched hold of Sean’s arm—just as the unicorn tumbled into the glade, rolling
and stabbing. Claw marks drew lines of blood down its flanks. A lion leaped
after it— and it was such a huge beast, with an imperial mane, a thrashing
fly-switch of a tail and bared yellow teeth.
                 “I’ve
ridden on that one’s back!” gabbled Jeremy. “It purred. It was tame!”
                 Catching
sight of the three people, the lion promptly swatted the unicorn to one side
with its forepaw. The unicorn recovered, hesitated—as though wishing to protect
them . . .
                 Protect
them? Never! It had led them a dance—right into ambush! It had goaded the lion
into a rage!
                 Skittishly,
dripping blood, the unicorn scampered off. In place of the
graceful, mischievous beast stood ... a kind of dragon-power.
                 Sean
held out his stick, snarling himself. For a moment he saw himself as the ridiculous
caricature of a lion-tamer that he was. Was this beast the dragon-lion in
himself? Was the murder in its heart only the anger in his
own heart at the unicorn? The hounds of Rage and Fear tore the sly fox
thoughts apart in their jaws.
                 Suddenly
Jeremy fled; he took off. But the lion didn’t chase after him. Nor was Jeremy’s
scheme to distract it. Old Van der Veld was merely saving his
own skin. That was why his skin was constantly saved for him . . . and
why he remained: the perpetual witness. Maybe the Captain Van der Veld of old
would have stood his ground. His younger avatar, however, had been schooled in
discretion. Perhaps the new Jeremy was remembering what it was like in Hell . .
.
                 Muthoni
shrank up against Sean’s side. Or had Sean shrunk up against hers? He wasn’t
sure.
                 “Do
you understand me, lion?” he bellowed.
                 The
beast snarled back.
                 “Aren’t
very articulate, are you?” he sneered. No, the old brain wasn’t—the old brain
preceded language and reason. But it still made itself known through fantasies
and nightmares. Here was nightmare, then: the beast in man. And it wasn’t a
dream.
                 Think
sane! Think the dream away! Banish it! Sean stood his ground. He stared the
lion in the eyes. Don’t like that, do you? Yes, stare it out! That’s how to conquer
a predator’s gaze. Conquer it!
                 No
predators here, in the Gardens . . . except when . . . I’m the predator, informing the lion how to react . . .
                 Just
briefly, he knew again that it was less important what he did at this moment than what he thought about it— otherwise his own
dream-brain would gobble him up!
                 The
fear sang skeins of gold around him ... a net for trapping lions, a stick for
stabbing them through the throat.
                 Dry
throat, needs blood. Teeth. Grinding
together. Biting. Rending .