less, and you should
be able to understand!”
Weavil gave a
chirp of disgust. “Pure claptrap!”
Baus tsked and
shook his head. Over the course of the disputation, there came a
period of existentialist talk in which Weavil finally postulated
that life was not simply a struggle for survival, but that every
man, woman was out for himself, nothing more.
Baus shivered
at such a simplification and tended toward a more global, unified
spectrum of thinking, based upon the view that the many beautiful
things in life were like pure art and literature and needed to be
placed on a higher plane of order, beyond the crass hands of human
conflicts. Ministered to and expressed with a fine tool of earnest
need, they remained protected. To this end, Weavil voiced only a
sneering refutal.
Baus thought
the reaction ungracious. He peered at his friend with a sidelong
concern. Weavil looked far too small for the burdens he carried.
What to do? The manikin, head bowed with tiny hands twitching, must
glower and lick his wounds as needed. Baus was not so easily
discouraged by Nuzbek’s thaumaturgy. Somewhere there existed a
solution to the problem of immediate escape—which meant it was
there for discovery . . .
Scanning the
prison wall for the hundredth time, he found the rampart
insurmountable—if anything, it was spiked in the remote quarter
with higher and more jagged glass. Over the north-east junction,
limbs of hazelwood sprang, but far out of reach—a discouraging
fact. A barely discernible murmur of distant waves swirled about
the bluffs. The languid moan of the wind brought a chill to his
bones. How it twinged Baus’s heart to hear such plaintive windsong!
To be free and roam the beaches once again! He had taken his
pleasures for granted—but no longer!
Baus paused,
frowning. Near a dip in the land, over on the wall . . . there was
a large oblong crack outlined in the pale slate. A stone—perhaps?
Maybe a foot in diameter—perhaps dislodged by age . . .
Baus stirred
himself. He glanced both ways, held his breath. To ensure that
Skarrow or Tilfgurd was not looking his way, he side-slipped over
to the wall and peered cautiously about. Cramming his fingers into
the crack, he attempted to jar the stone loose.
No luck. The
impediment was immoveable. He could not displace the stone, but if
perhaps a small person like Weavil could slide through unhindered .
. .
The hope was a
longshot. It would take heavy tools and significant labour to
dislodge such a rock. Not impossible, but hardly a facile task . .
.
Another
disheartening thought: Weavil may squeeze through the crevice, but
Heagram, far away, perhaps a mile or more, was accessible only via
the grim woods, densely thicketed with crag-thistle and
blisterweed. Doubtless the terrain would pose an insurmountable
difficulty to Weavil’s mobility. How could his shrunken comrade
hope to transport himself through the brake before any of the
guards discovered his absence?
The dilemma
was real. Baus accepted his plight with solemnity. Escape seemed as
lofty as instant riches, quite possibly as impossible as
impossibility itself.
With a dull
reminder of this misfortune, Baus returned to the monotony of his
clam-shucking. Occasionally he mumbled curses or glanced at the
wall, but these gestures did not help. A new line of reasoning
entered his brain. For example, this evening could he bandy words
with Graves to see what could be done about this cock-eyed
sentence? What were a few miserable cils, after all?—The smallest
bite on the Captain’s foot was Weavil’s crime—a picayune prank.
Were not Nuzbek’s infractions all the more serious?
After dinner,
the prisoners took time to digest their cold onion pudding and
stewed yams to reflect upon the day’s labour. Leisure hours were
few and Baus took opportunity to request an audience with Graves
through Tilfgurd. Baus received a brief consultation with the
Captain and inside the office, he confronted him on the issue of
his
be able to understand!”
Weavil gave a
chirp of disgust. “Pure claptrap!”
Baus tsked and
shook his head. Over the course of the disputation, there came a
period of existentialist talk in which Weavil finally postulated
that life was not simply a struggle for survival, but that every
man, woman was out for himself, nothing more.
Baus shivered
at such a simplification and tended toward a more global, unified
spectrum of thinking, based upon the view that the many beautiful
things in life were like pure art and literature and needed to be
placed on a higher plane of order, beyond the crass hands of human
conflicts. Ministered to and expressed with a fine tool of earnest
need, they remained protected. To this end, Weavil voiced only a
sneering refutal.
Baus thought
the reaction ungracious. He peered at his friend with a sidelong
concern. Weavil looked far too small for the burdens he carried.
What to do? The manikin, head bowed with tiny hands twitching, must
glower and lick his wounds as needed. Baus was not so easily
discouraged by Nuzbek’s thaumaturgy. Somewhere there existed a
solution to the problem of immediate escape—which meant it was
there for discovery . . .
Scanning the
prison wall for the hundredth time, he found the rampart
insurmountable—if anything, it was spiked in the remote quarter
with higher and more jagged glass. Over the north-east junction,
limbs of hazelwood sprang, but far out of reach—a discouraging
fact. A barely discernible murmur of distant waves swirled about
the bluffs. The languid moan of the wind brought a chill to his
bones. How it twinged Baus’s heart to hear such plaintive windsong!
To be free and roam the beaches once again! He had taken his
pleasures for granted—but no longer!
Baus paused,
frowning. Near a dip in the land, over on the wall . . . there was
a large oblong crack outlined in the pale slate. A stone—perhaps?
Maybe a foot in diameter—perhaps dislodged by age . . .
Baus stirred
himself. He glanced both ways, held his breath. To ensure that
Skarrow or Tilfgurd was not looking his way, he side-slipped over
to the wall and peered cautiously about. Cramming his fingers into
the crack, he attempted to jar the stone loose.
No luck. The
impediment was immoveable. He could not displace the stone, but if
perhaps a small person like Weavil could slide through unhindered .
. .
The hope was a
longshot. It would take heavy tools and significant labour to
dislodge such a rock. Not impossible, but hardly a facile task . .
.
Another
disheartening thought: Weavil may squeeze through the crevice, but
Heagram, far away, perhaps a mile or more, was accessible only via
the grim woods, densely thicketed with crag-thistle and
blisterweed. Doubtless the terrain would pose an insurmountable
difficulty to Weavil’s mobility. How could his shrunken comrade
hope to transport himself through the brake before any of the
guards discovered his absence?
The dilemma
was real. Baus accepted his plight with solemnity. Escape seemed as
lofty as instant riches, quite possibly as impossible as
impossibility itself.
With a dull
reminder of this misfortune, Baus returned to the monotony of his
clam-shucking. Occasionally he mumbled curses or glanced at the
wall, but these gestures did not help. A new line of reasoning
entered his brain. For example, this evening could he bandy words
with Graves to see what could be done about this cock-eyed
sentence? What were a few miserable cils, after all?—The smallest
bite on the Captain’s foot was Weavil’s crime—a picayune prank.
Were not Nuzbek’s infractions all the more serious?
After dinner,
the prisoners took time to digest their cold onion pudding and
stewed yams to reflect upon the day’s labour. Leisure hours were
few and Baus took opportunity to request an audience with Graves
through Tilfgurd. Baus received a brief consultation with the
Captain and inside the office, he confronted him on the issue of
his
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