A Beautiful Shade of Blue


‘Yes! Yes, love! Well done!’ someone was shrieking. ‘Rage, that’s what we’re looking for! Let me feel your anger!’

Yana dreamt she was in her studio painting a picture while a team of visiting sponsors watched over her shoulder. She hurled paint at the canvas with increasing desperation, aware that she had lost control of the composition long ago.

‘Good! Good! More red! The colour of anger, the colour of new blood!’ One of the sponsors was bellowing in her ear as though determined to rupture the drum.

‘But not too much red,’ put in another. ‘Remember the décor. We want it to blend.’

‘To hell with blending!’ screamed the first. ‘We’re paying for art, not interior design! We want something that says to our clients, We dare! We dare!’

‘Could you put something shocking in the bottom left hand corner? There’ll be a rather unsightly water dispenser to the right of the picture, and we need to distract our clients’ attention from it, to draw away their eyes, as it were…’

‘Don’t listen to him, love, he’s a philistine. We want you to feel free to unleash the rage that made you famous. This year everybody who’s anybody in the city is looking for the return of raw power to the canvas. We’ll supply the publicity. You supply the terror. Terrify us again!’

She was aware that she had used up all the colours on her palette. She looked around for more tubes of paint, but could see nothing but plates full of macadamia nuts and half-empty glasses of champagne.

‘Almost finished, love? I’m only asking because we’re expecting the delegates from Tokyo at twelve, and of course they’ll want to see the finished picture.’

She mumbled something about more paint.

‘Paint, love? Why didn’t you say so? You can have all the paint you want. Come with me to the factory and choose the hues for yourself.’

As she turned away from the painting she noticed that there were hundreds of tiny, boneless creatures squirming under the oily surface like maggots in rotting flesh.

Accompanied by a crowd of sponsors she hurried out into the street. Together they all rushed along a few inches above the pavement, without any visible means of propulsion. All around them the city was in flames. Groups of women carrying babies and pulling small children by the hand darted round the corners of tower-blocks. Soldiers followed them. Cars exploded by the side of the road. A man ran up to a shop window and threw a brick through it, then ran away. Alarms went off up and down the street, and as he ran the headlights of the cars he passed began to flash, while car-alarms wailed in sympathy with the electronic shrieks from the vandalized building. A posse of policemen burst out of a side-alley and closed in on the fugitive. The last she saw as she rushed away was a mass of truncheons and shiny boots rising and falling where the man had been.

Now she found herself in a street lined with glass buildings and empty of people. Newspapers blew along it opening and closing, revealing and concealing silently raving headlines and grainy photographs of bewildered teenagers with enormous breasts. A tank rolled forward at the other end of the street: she heard its tracks crack the tarmac.

Just as her crowd of sponsors hurried her through sliding doors in one of the glass facades she noticed that a little girl had wandered into the path of the tank, clutching a doll. ‘Wait!’ she shouted, and struggled to free herself from the hands that gripped her by the elbows.

‘No time, no time!’ barked the sponsors in unison. And now she was inside the factory, and the noise blotted out her memories of the street, all but the ache of loss that always grew more acute as her dreams went on.

High overhead, a network of steel girders defined an invisible glass roof. The net was held in place by thick steel pillars. Lower down, metal walkways led from pillar to pillar, along which ambled men in overalls with long steel poles in their hands. Conveyor-belts moved between the walkways, with elongated sacks dangling from hooks at intervals along them. Now and then one of the men leaned over the metal railings and used the prong at the tip of his pole to shift a sack that had drifted too close to one of its neighbours. On the concrete floor below the conveyor belts vast witches’ cauldrons bubbled and fumed. From the streams of brilliantly coloured liquid that ran down the sides, she guessed they were full of paint.

‘You see, this is where the paint comes from,’ said one of the sponsors, rushing her up a metal stairway onto a platform near a vat full of dark red pigment. ‘We have every conceivable shade of black and brown, a wide range of yellows and greens, a somewhat limited supply of azure – it’s very expensive to produce – and of course a lot of red. Would you like to see how it’s done?’

She had no wish to see how it was done, but her tongue (which had been sluggish since the dream began) refused to obey her. The sponsor signalled to a nearby foreman with a moulded plastic helmet. The man leaned out over the railing as the others had done and with a twist of the little claw at the end of his pole snared one of the dangling sacks. A deft slicing movement, and the sack split open.

Inside hung the naked corpse of a young black woman. Her eyes seemed to gaze mournfully at them as the belt jerked her past.

‘There you have it,’ said the sponsor. ‘A fine rich chestnut, wouldn’t you say? This particular colour-source is destined for that vat over there, where it’ll be separated, melted down and carefully strained. Our colours are renowned the world over, and now you know the secret of their brilliance. Nothing like animal products for putting life into paint. Some might say it’s cruel, but our methods are really very humane, and there honestly isn’t any substitute for good old-fashioned flesh and blood. We import much of our yellow ochre from Southeast Asia, so that’s why the tubes cost more – we have to pay tax on our carbon footprint. The green is relatively simple to produce: we simply wait for the bodies to fester, then extract the mould. Ultramarine, cobalt and indigo we have to distil from our sources’ eyes, and as you can imagine it’s difficult to get hold of cheap azure eyes in the current state of the global economy. As for red; well, red is the easiest of all. If you please, foreman?’

The foreman moved to the other side of his walkway and reached out for another sack.

This one wriggled and kicked as he split it open. Tarek hung inside. As soon as he saw her he started to yell: ‘Yana! Yana, for pity’s sake! Help me!’

Tarek was moving in long jerks towards the vat of dark red paint near the platform she stood on. As he approached, a circular blade on the end of a jointed metal arm emerged from a tangle of machinery and stretched out lazily to greet him. She turned to the sponsor. ‘For God’s sake! That’s my husband! There’s been a terrible mistake!’

‘No indeed,’ said the sponsor, turning to her. ‘We want you to give us rage. We need the power of rage to lift the economy out of recession. Your husband will help you supply us with what we need.’

And now she saw that the sponsor had no eyes, only gaping holes with ragged edges. ‘You see, we all have to make sacrifices,’ he explained with a sidelong smile. ‘My eyes were a beautiful shade of blue, I tell you. A beautiful, beautiful shade of blue.’

The Mouse Messiah


…died since our ship touched down on this planet, eighteen days ago. The nature of the disease hasn’t been diagnosed: we know only that it occurs instantly on contact with the atmosphere, and that there’s no known cure. I’ve been confined to my quarters since nine this morning, when I re-entered the ship with a gash in my suit. If it really is a disease… to me it seems more like a heightening of the senses to the pitch of madness. I’m running a temperature that would have killed me hours ago, if it weren’t for the drugs.

Through the glass door of my cubicle the crew regard me with contempt. The accident need never have occurred if I hadn’t ignored our botanist’s advice and got too close to a sword-plant. But I was always the joke member of this expedition. After all, why should a priest have been assigned to a ship without Christians aboard, its destination a planet without intelligent life-forms? A bureaucratic slip at head office, perhaps; or a cruel prank played by some peevish atheist, who gigglingly transferred my name from one list to another without a thought for the years I would waste on this pointless mission. There’s no-one on the ship but miners, technicians, scientists, military personnel – every one of them a committed materialist, with a zealot’s passion for debunking the notion of transcendence. And there’s nothing on the planet at all. Just a wealth of newly-discovered minerals, which we shall mine, and a species of rodent, like rabbit-sized mice, which we shall of course exterminate as an accidental side effect of our mining operations. In my situation Saint Francis would have preached to the rodents, but we all wear helmets for fear of infection. Our helmets and suits are not decontaminated; we’re not afraid of infecting. Each time we step out of the air-lock we unleash a swarm of alien bacteria, enough to set off a thousand epidemics among the flora and fauna of this fragile ecosystem.

So the mice are doomed, unless some miracle interposes itself. But why should this concern us? We have our own body-count to fret over: the fact that three valuable crewmembers have died since touchdown, and that a fourth entirely useless crewmember is about to follow them. We’re already beginning to view this planet with hatred, and to treat its victims as traitors, feckless collaborators with an invisible army of hostile micro-organisms committed to wiping out all human life. The sooner we rid ourselves of both, the safer we shall feel.

So here I lie in this bare room, making the smooth walls bulge. This is a skill I’ve acquired since falling ill: I can alter my surroundings with a glance. The only ornament in my room, a crucifix, stretches and bleeds whenever my eyes light upon it. Tiny gaps between the panels on the floor expand and contract as my gaze sweeps across them. My hands lie inert on the sheets and my mind is mostly empty; but not for lack of power. Not at all! On the contrary: I’m afraid that if I move, say, my foot just a quarter of an inch I might punch a hole in the side of the ship, even as I buckle the walls with sight alone. And if a thought should cross my mind – a real thought, I mean, not this burbling stream of consciousness, this aimless interior chat – it might rend the walls of my understanding and scorch me with intolerable light. So I lie inert in this naked berth, sweating with the effort to contain my energies, trembling with force withheld.

The door shoots aside to admit the captain, a tall woman with hair so thick with product it looks enamelled. Her helmet flashes as she enters, almost detonated by my vision. At the press of a button a seat slides out of the wall; she sits. I struggle with the muscles round my mouth, not because I’m trying to speak, but to stop them wrenching my jaw into a mighty yawn that would swallow her helmet and all. I haven’t spoken to her more than a dozen times in the course of this expedition, intimidated by her height, her authority, the rigidity of her coiffure.

‘Any better, padre?’ she asks the wall. Inside her helmet she has formed a decision, like another chamber in her skull. With infinite gentleness I shake my head. The room leaps from side to side, shimmering with fear of my hidden strength.

‘You understand, of course, that I have no choice,’ she says harshly. ‘We can’t go back to the station with the plague on board. It’s simply too contagious. Doc reckons it could work its way through an unprotected human population within hours; through the race as a whole in the time it takes for the slowest of our ships to reach the Outer Reaches. Even as it is, we’re going to have to go through the most rigorous decontamination procedure in history before we can dock at the station. It’s my duty to begin that procedure now, before we leave this planet. I’m afraid you’re going to have to stay here, padre.’

No reaction. You can see from her face that she thinks I haven’t understood a word, that I lost her drift before she’d finished her final, punitive sentence. As she speaks, her harsh voice over the intercom above my pillow grows gentler, more thoughtful, as if trying to soften the cruelty of duty with its maternal inflections.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, Padre? Any messages you want me to take back to your friends, your family? We’ll leave you with supplies, of course. But is there something else you need?’

I say nothing, but I’m touched.

My mind is almost tempted out of hiding by the captain’s kindness. I can feel it pushing against its restraints, swelling, burgeoning, growing. Be careful! Once free of my skull it will continue to expand till it fills the ship, crushing furniture and people against the vessel’s inner membrane as it thrusts itself into every corner, eager to make the most of its fine new cranial cavity. With a violent effort I force it back into the skull’s narrow casement, commanding it to retreat like a swollen snail into its shell. For a while its tender horns explore the bony walls of its enclosure, probing for weaknesses, shoring up fragile areas with its mental secretions. I satisfy myself that my head is sound, that the bulk of my new-found power may be safely contained there. Then one by one I allow the horns to steal forth into the open.

Good God! The sky!

My mind gives a dreadful lurch, almost dissipating itself into the limitless acreage of heaven before I take hold of it again with a grip of iron. Its mollusc foot once anchored in my skull, I dare tentatively to look around, take stock of my situation.

I’m on a stretcher, and the stars jump from horizon to horizon with the stretcher’s motion. They are carrying me in a straight line from the ship to the place where they plan to maroon me. Apart from sword-plants, the planet supports little vegetation: only many-coloured lichens carpeting the rocks and patches of crawling fruit-vines bristling with spikes the length of nails. The heart-shaped fruits burst beneath my bearers’ boots, spattering their suits with bloody liquor. We are making for the highest point in the vicinity, a hollow mound of rock eaten away by the acid rain so that it’s pocked full of holes. From one angle it resembles a crumbling snail, from another a skull.

Now and then rodents trot from the shelter of the thorns and stare at us with alien eyes. We know nothing about these creatures. The only biologist on board is a botanist, who advises us on the dangers posed by sword-plants and refuses to waste his attention on the little quadrupeds. Once I tried to interest him in the question of why they like to stare at us with such apparent interest. I have a theory of my own, I said. Somewhere I’ve read that there was a species of rodent on earth called a groundhog, long extinct, which used to sit along the verges of highways absorbing vitamin D from sunshine through a kind of plate in the top of its head. Perhaps the rodents here absorb energy through their eyes, so that they’re literally drinking us in as they watch us crashing about the surface of their planet, fiddling with our equipment, clearing paths through the foliage, gesticulating at one another and shouting through our intercoms. That would be a nice thought, wouldn’t it, I said: that we’re giving them, as it were, a visual feast, even as we spread the germs that will eradicate their species? The botanist just glared at me and returned his attention to a lichen he was trying to chip away from a boulder. I suppose he thought my theory as stupid as my faith; but it comforts me now as they carry me past a row of staring rodents. What a sumptuous banquet they must be getting from the heat that radiates from my feverish body! It would be strange and pleasing if I should finally get a proper function only after I’ve been abandoned to die on an alien planet!

We reach the hollow mound by picking our way between crazier and crazier rock formations, some leaning so steeply that the stretcher-bearers hunch their shoulders in anticipation of an avalanche. Happily, though, we arrive unharmed at one of the skull’s decaying cavities. As we enter, the roof arches overhead like the roof of a mouth. The cave is deep, the floor uneven. They set me down in a corner, at such an angle that by the merest twist of the neck I can peep out of the cave-mouth and scan the twisted land beyond. By my right hand they place a plastic picnic hamper full of goodies. At least, that’s how I like to imagine it: stuffed to the brim with honey-roast ham, chicken drumsticks, pickles, cheeses, raspberries and cream, a dozen kinds of freshly-baked bread. In fact, of course, it contains only nutrition tablets, water tablets, and painkillers – enough of these to kill an ox. If I swallow the painkillers I shall be able to leave the other tablets for the next poor unfortunate to be marooned in this cave.

They place my battered old bible gently on the lid of the hamper. Then they gather round in awkward silence, hands clasped as if holding hats, heads bowed in a show of reverence they never managed at the daily act of worship. With the hint of a smile I raise two fingers in blessing, then inch them towards the bible on the hamper. I prod the spine, striving to open my lips and offer it as a gift. But the stretcher-bearers have gone; I must have taken longer than I intended.

My mind again retracts to wrestle with its power. This time I’m no longer a mollusc: I stand knee-deep in a pitch-black chamber full of echoes. Somewhere something flounders in the water, its splashes magnified by the high curved walls. Somehow I must reach that floundering thing before it drowns, discover its identity. A shower of acidic rain hisses down outside the cave, each drop raising a wisp of vapour where it hits the ground.
A flicker by the cave-mouth. A rodent sits there gazing at my face. Has it come to absorb another dose of my body’s warmth through its giant pupils? Another rabbit-mouse hops to its side; a third, a fourth. Dropping to all fours, the mice approach me paw by paw in a dance too complex to be followed by the uninitiated.

Now and then they sit up again and stare at me with alien eyes. Each time I find my thoughts distributed in dialogue.

RODENT: Are you sick?
MAN: I think so.
RODENT: So were many of our people.
MAN: What was their sickness?
RODENT: An epidemic brought by you, the creatures with two heads.
MAN: Aren’t you afraid I might infect you?
RODENT: Don’t be afraid. Our Queen is coming. She cures all disorders.

The conversation has gone this far before I know I’m neither dreaming nor delirious. Our speech isn’t made of words: it’s a mutual understanding. I hear the scrabble of claws on the rocky floor, the uneven sound of my breathing, but nothing else is audible over the intercom. An extraordinary warmth washes over me, an ecstasy of a wholly unfamiliar kind, as I bask in the sudden consciousness of full communion. We are speaking together without the use of tongues, rolling back the intervening ages since the fall of the Tower of Babel! After so long without speaking to anyone, the joy of this easy exchange is almost past bearing.

The first rodent has reached my boot and sniffs at it, nose a-quiver. I long to take off my glove and touch its fur, but fear that my hand will crush it into lifelessness.

MAN: Tell me about yourselves.
RODENT: We are the little dancers, we dance the star-dance among the piercing thorns. And you?

We believe, I’m about to say – some of us believe – that this lump of pallid flesh shares natures with infinity. But in my mind-vault I’ve finally reached the floundering thing and am struggling to lift it from the water, poor sodden mouse. It’s the magnitude of my next question, not the heightened power of my body and mind that dries up my tongue at the root. How share my faith with creatures who don’t share my humanity, to whom parables are nothing, comparisons mere confusion? Our minds have touched for an instant; but where on earth, or off it, can our souls connect?

Fever makes my head ache, but the pain in my heart is worse, because the love of those who have shared your skull is the deepest love of all. I remember the rodents’ Queen, the one who cures disorders. Perhaps one might draw a parallel from that?

MAN: Tell me about your Queen. What is her nature, what rooms does she inhabit?
RODENT: There is no telling, there is no knowing, there is only showing. She is here, she will give you comfort.

As we speak, more rodents gather at the cave-mouth looking in, then spill forward, more and more until the floor is crawling with rabbit-mice. Like the lichen on the tottering rocks they are all colours – purple, orange, emerald green, magenta – and they range in size from six inches to three feet. The multitude divides down the middle, leaving a gangway from the entrance to the soles of my boots. There’s no sound apart from the patter of claws, but the thoughts of this mighty gathering eddy and mingle like the voices of massed choirs. A light, sunshine I guess reflected from the steaming puddles outside, flashes from the cave-mouth. And now there’s a rodent scuttling down the passage as if on a sunbeam, a delicate white rabbit-mouse with a glint of gold on the top of her head, on the place where the groundhog absorbs the rays of the sun. Every mind in the assembly bows down low, every rodent’s nose touches the ground between its foreclaws in honour of their tiny Queen.

Again words lack. I know the Queen shares natures with infinity, that she travels through this many-coloured Gethsemane towards some rodent passion as terrible as Calvary. I know that there is pain in her heart as there is in mine, that ahead of her lies sorrow, torture, despair and death, and that she can see the path ahead with appalling clarity. Wherever there are empty chambers, chaos-filled caskets, lonely cubicles or vaults teeming with isolated lives – there you will find Golgotha, place of the skull. The pain in my body and mind is worse than ever. But her claw touches mine and the doors are flung wide open, every room and closet filled with light.

And once again I’m lying in my naked berth. The captain sits beside the bed, hands propping her forehead (she has taken off her helmet). Between her elbows rests my battered old bible, shut. There are stains on the cover where she has wept, each tear raising an invisible wisp of vapour where it struck the binding.

A smell of burning, traceable to the gun in her holster, pervades the room. I planned to maroon you, padre, she whispers, because I feared you. The heat you radiated scorched my cheek, as if something inside you had grown so huge it was seeping through every pore. So why did you stumble out from behind the crazy piles of rock, scaring me so badly that I pulled out my gun and shot you down at my feet? And then why did you bless me, padre, broken on the broken ground, and press your book like a treasure into my trembling glove?

On the wall the crucifix shivers as if under water. There were suddenly so many rodents, padre, rodents of every size and colour milling about our boots as we carried your corpse to the ship, bursting fruit at every step. And now my crew regard me through the glass door of the cubicle with undisguised contempt, because I’ve murdered you twice over – first by giving the order for you to be marooned, then by blasting a hole in your chest through which the last few fierce convulsions of your heart were clearly visible. Where are you now, padre? Can you hear me at all? Have you found a tongue large enough to speak with? Is there room enough in the universe to accommodate such a tongue?

From the swelling in my skull I fear I’ve caught a touch of your sickness. If sickness it is… I find it more a heightening of the senses to the pitch of madness. Four crewmembers have died since we touched down on this planet, nineteen days ago.

Devilled Kidneys

[Apologies to my Medievalist friends for the liberties I have taken here with history…]


A passer-by might have taken the pair, one with his broad-brimmed hat and sober garments, the other stiff and weathered as a signpost, for some allegorical gatekeeper setting a footsore pilgrim on his road.

‘Aye, master, we’ve our heretics in country parts same as in the city. Take Father Whiting now: as wicked an old sinner as you’d wish to meet in a summer’s day. Not a sentence he lets fall but begins and ends in the foulest heresy. Go you to Father Whiting, master, and you’ll count your pains well bestowed.’

The man in black stared at the peasant with hatred. In these days when heresy was punishable by burning such levity was intolerable. Briefly he wondered whether to sound out the man’s opinions on scripture, knowing that his own long experience could twist the cripple’s answers as vilely as his frame; but there was little to be gained from netting such small fry. Besides, he owed the man a debt of gratitude. This account of Father Whiting tallied in every detail with the intelligence gathered by the church authorities, and the peasant might come in useful at the trial. He dropped a groat into the cripple’s pouch and turned down the lane that had been indicated by the man’s knotty finger. The stranger walked swiftly, despite his limp.

It was a lane whose toils were as devious as an equivocator’s reasoning, he told himself, leading to a garden of paradisal fertility. The presbytery sprouted from the centre like a forbidden tree, concealing no doubt (all gardens held the same association in his mind) its serpent. Such a garden! Bored by botany as he was, the man in black saw in it every variety of flower, tree, herb or shrub he knew and more, flourishing in regulated profusion on either hand. Treading the pebbled path from gate to porch, he heard a burst of high-pitched laughter from an upper window. A patter of feet on a flight of steps, a babble in the hall, and a cascade of children spilled out of the open front door. They converged about his knees as if he were a long-expected visitor and drew him towards the threshold where a tiny woman stood beaming, her arms extended in welcome. Her face was narrow and pointed as that of a mouse; wrinkles radiated from the corners of her mouth like whiskers, and she let out a series of shrill squeaks as she ushered him into the house. In a moment he found himself seated in the kitchen by a blazing summer fire, looking about him in bewilderment (a sensation unfamiliar to the man in black).

The kitchen was dark and spacious, its ceiling criss-crossed by heavy beams, from which hung herbs, onions, pheasants, rabbits, kitchen implements and a large stuffed crow, spreading its tattered wings in simulated flight. A haunch of venison drooped from a metal spike an inch or two from the visitor’s nose. In one corner, a cask lay on its side in a wooden cradle, its vent stopped with a twist of cloth. Dark viscous liquid dripped from the cloth and splashed among the jugs and pots that crowded round the cradle’s feet. Against the wall stood a dresser crammed with pewter, glass and earthenware of every shape and size. A massive cauldron gurgled on the fire; steam gushed from it in gobbets. This was a place congenial to the visitor’s heart, for he loved hot rooms where meat was suspended from hooks.

A tabby cat curled its tail round the woman’s legs as she bustled to fill a jug with ale from the cask. Her hair, a grey mist, betrayed her age, but to the man in black she seemed oddly attractive in the fragrant twilight. ‘And where do you hail from, master?’ she sang out over the bobbing heads of the children. ‘A friend of Father Bernard’s, are you? Or a pilgrim on the road to the Holy Martyr’s tomb? There’s many and many a pilgrim passes through the village once the summer storms are past. Frogspawn and crowsfoot, children, we can’t hear ourselves breathe! Run along into the garden and catch me a dragonfly, won’t you? They haven’t a net,’ she explained as the children trooped out of the kitchen, ‘so that’ll keep them occupied till owl-light.’

When the room was still, the man in black accepted the ale and sipped noisily, shooting his eyes over the household treasures displayed on the dresser. The woman picked up the cat – which looked half as big as herself – and stroked it, her own gaze fixed upon the stranger. When the ale was finished he set the jug on the floor by his chair and stretched his boots across the hearthstone with a satisfied grunt. His cloak was bunched up like wings about his shoulders by the back of his chair. His restless eyes kept wandering to his hostess and darting away again.

‘The children,’ he observed to a fine pewter plate. ‘They belong to Father Whiting?’

‘Gracious, no,’ exclaimed the woman with a needle-sharp laugh. ‘They belong to the Lord. God forbid we should lay claim to the ownership of His children!’

The stranger stared at her a moment, then transferred his stare to a string of onions. ‘That is not what I meant,’ he said. ‘Who gave birth to them? And who is the father?’

The woman laughed again: her laugh was beginning to get on the stranger’s nerves. ‘Bless us, master, I quite mistook! You must think me very dizzy! Let me see now, the father. There’s Molly Wither’s children, the eldest not eight; I wouldn’t care to guess who the father might be. There’s Matty Moon’s daughters I mind when he’s away, and Billy Badger’s three boys; the fourth drowned in the beck. Bless us, Father Bernard has only seven of his own. Only seven, that’s it, with another on the way. Due in the fall, so Fanny Fireside tells me; and she ought to know, for she’s had nine already, and this’ll be the tenth if it lives!’

The man in black drew in his breath with a hiss and raised his eyes to the haunch of venison. ‘Seven, woman?’ he said between clenched teeth. ‘Did you say seven? Father Whiting is a priest of the Church of Rome!’

‘That he is, master, that he is,’ said the woman. ‘And he dearly loves the little children at his knees, just like our good Lord Jesus.’ She never ceased to stroke the tabby cat.

‘And you?’ inquired the stranger, his eyes now sliding down the poker. ‘What is your position in this household?’

‘The dear preserve us, master,’ cried the woman, her little black pupils drilling into him. ‘What position does any woman stand in to her husband?’

Here the man in black removed his hat, which he had refused to take off in the porch, and mopped his brow with a black silk handkerchief. ‘A husband,’ he repeated. ‘Do you know nothing of priestly vows? Does he?’

The woman smiled. ‘Father Bernard knows only his vows to God, master,’ she said.

The man in black revolved the hat in his hands as if inspecting the brim for dust. The priest, he thought, was clearly some sort of fanatic, one of those lollards who denied the authority of Mother Church. His eyes flicked to the woman and at once flicked back to a nail sticking out of the wall above the fireplace.

‘Tell me about the garden, will you?’ he said, with what he hoped was a friendly grin. ‘Where do the plants come from? They must have cost a pretty penny!’

‘How would a simple wench like me know where the plants come from, master?’ asked the woman, her fingers running through the cat’s fur from tail to neck. ‘I always tell the children that the seeds form wherever the sun weeps, but I don’t know the truth of the matter.’

‘Who tends the garden? Father Whiting? Where is he now?’

‘Baptising Sally Moleskin’s daughter, born out of wedlock Wednesday was a week.’

‘Baptising an illegitimate child without a dispensation? The bishop has expressly forbidden it.’ In his mounting excitement the stranger’s eyes darted from tongs to wood-basket, from wood-basket to kettle then back again to tongs. Here, truly, was a catch to weigh in with the heaviest! Before the judgement throne this priestly lunatic would condemn himself ten times over out of his own blasphemous mouth. The prize-money would be prodigious, the conflagration spectacular! Already he was formulating the indictment in his head, listening to the sentence as the Grand Inquisitor pronounced it, basking in the frightened glances of women and children as he approached the quaking heretic to minister the last rites by the light of the torches…

And the woman! Just a passing mention of her relationship with Father Whiting (the bishop wanted all such scandals smothered), an inventory of the contents of this kitchen, a thumbnail sketch of her appearance… trials for witchcraft always drew the crowds. Two such birds with one stone! Preferment beckoned surely this time. This was his lucky day!

And yet, and yet… she was certainly attractive. Although no youngster himself, he too knew the pangs of the flesh, and he was not ill-looking, he thought, in a gaunt kind of way. His eyes stroked the tabby’s fur along with her fingers. What a crowning achievement it would be if he could share her sheets while plotting her destruction! Finger by finger he pulled off his gloves, then rubbed his palms together.

‘My poor dear woman,’ he mumbled to the butter-churn. ‘You are in a sorry pickle, indeed you are.’

Her puzzled gaze made him squirm somewhat. ‘I, master?’ she said. ‘I’m the one as does the pickling hereabouts!’

He gave a nervous bark of laughter. ‘My poor dear woman, in yourself you are as innocent as the sucking babe. But you are fast becoming corrupted. You have no notion of Father Whiting’s wickedness. I must explain.’

‘Explain, master? I’m sure there’s no need to explain. There’s some things need no explaining.’

Once again his eyes made a bound to hers and away. In his fancy the air between them swam like the atmosphere over a fire. He started to twine one of his gloves round the other till they were locked in an inextricable embrace. His lips peeled back from his gums in another effort at a friendly smile. ‘Poor foolish creature,’ he murmured. ‘It is my wretched duty to shatter your illusions. This Father Whiting you so admire – this hedge-priest, this heretic – is an irredeemable scoundrel.’ The space between them tightened as he leaned towards her. ‘A scoundrel, and more than a scoundrel. He is a devil. He has broken every edict human and divine. He has married and begotten children in violation of his holy profession. He has expended money, time and labour on the cultivation of luxuries, which should have been devoted to the pastoral care of his flock. He has flagrantly disregarded the bishop’s edicts. And it would not surprise me if he were a poacher’ – gesturing at the pheasants and the venison – ‘or a practitioner of the Black Arts’ – with a gesture at the crow. ‘In conclusion, woman, Father Whiting is damned to everlasting torment. But this is not the sum of his malignancy. Alas, woman, his most unpardonable crime is this: that he has drawn your hapless self into the trains of his infernal schemes. He has ensnared your soul with lascivious blandishments, glutted your tender flesh with sensuous drafts and the dishes of venery. Unless you change your ways at once, my child, you will find yourself impaled on a spit by his side in the blackest pit of Purgatory. Do you understand your danger?’

He rose several inches in his chair as he spoke, and finally fixed her with a terrible glare, pinning her down as if with red-hot pokers. ‘Oh heavens, master,’ she whispered. ‘Is that so? What shall I do, master? How shall I be saved?’

The stranger held her in his gaze a moment longer, then released her with a shuddering sigh. She was well netted. He reached into the folds of his cloak and drew forth a scroll tied up with red ribbon. ‘You are a good woman at heart,’ he announced as he plucked at the knot with his nails, ‘and you have already taken the first step towards salvation. The second is almost as simple.’ The ribbon dropped to the floor and the scroll flew open in his hands. ‘I have here a precious document entrusted to me by my superiors. It is a simple declaration, nothing to be alarmed at, attesting to my conviction of your innocence. You need only sign along the dotted – but I forget, you do not write. A mark will do, and then I can guarantee your safety.’

He reached the scroll towards her. As her hand closed round it a shudder ran down his spine. She studied the legal script for several minutes with some intensity before he realized she was holding it upside down. He smirked to himself and fumbled once again among his garments.

‘Here is pen and ink. When you have completed the form I must ask you to accompany me to my residence for a short interrogation – you are familiar with church bureaucracy…’ The laughter of children filtered through the leaves at the kitchen window. ‘When the inquisition is over you shall never be troubled again.’

The woman perched on her stool, the scroll in one hand, the pen in the other. The late afternoon sun was screened by a hedge of yew so that the room lay thick with shadows. The cauldron bubbled and belched. A log fell in the fire sending up a flock of sparks. Solitary flames twirled on the tips of twigs, red-hot caverns roared amidst the geology of crumbling wood. A heavy odour clung about the stranger’s nostrils; his forehead glistened with perspiration. Truly the woman had a presence; the air fairly crackled with the electric charges that shot between them.

‘Well, master,’ she said, rising and crossing to the dresser (how catlike every movement!). ‘What a blessing it is that you troubled yourself to visit me in my wickedness! I might never have known I was treading the path to perpetual pain. How can a simple wench repay such kindness?’ A thousand answers jostled at his lips, but before he could speak she had turned to him holding a bowl. ‘Would you care for a drop of stew, sir? Nothing special, but Father Bernard loves it dearly.’

The stranger smirked and smirked. A libation – a thank-offering! And how charming that she should put her life in his hands along with a mess of pottage! ‘With all my heart,’ he said, rising likewise and moving towards the cauldron. As he bent over it, the fire cast shadows like horns from his bushy eyebrows.

‘It is always pleasing to encounter gratitude in my line of work,’ he went on. ‘Too often the instrument is mistaken for the instigator, the slave blamed for the caprices of his master, the effect condemned instead of the cause. You and I and Father Whiting are all of us no more than tools in the hand of that inscrutable craftswoman, Dame Fortune. What a delectable aroma!’ His nostrils dilated. ‘Mine is an unpleasant vocation, certainly, but the job must be done and a strong spirit is needed to do it. Yet to tell the truth, there are moments when it palls on me. Moments when I find myself seized with an irresistible passion for one of those I must betray – be it a frail young monk unable to combat heretical thoughts or a handsome woman like yourself – seized with a passion beyond the comprehension of ordinary mortals. A strange phenomenon, don’t you think?’ The bubbles bulged, swelled and popped like the turbulence in his stomach. ‘Tell me, woman, what is in the stew?’

At this point the woman, who was standing behind him, dropped the bowl so that it smashed to pieces on the floor. In the same movement she bent, seized the stranger by the heels and tipped him over the lip of the cauldron. Gravy slopped into the flames, hissing venomously. As he kicked, his boots flew off to reveal his cloven hooves, his tail disengaged itself from the sinking cloak. Fingers of steam groped up the chimney, fumbled the woman’s pointed features, poked among the fragments on the floor. She stirred the pottage twice before she replied.

‘Devilled kidneys,’ she said.


Search Engine

article-1252250-08578F66000005DC-683_468x312One day she came in to find him sitting at the computer, his face streaming with tears. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ she asked, thinking he had got an e-mail to say that another of his friends was dead. ‘I’ve found the website for my memories,’ he said.

She looked, and saw sunlight spilling from the monitor, lighting up the tracks of his tears on his poorly-shaven cheeks. As her eyes adjusted to the screen’s brightness she glimpsed willows by a river, sunlight glinting on water, tiny insects dancing in the sunbeams, while peals of birdsong and distant bells poured out of the speakers. Everything was as clear and precise as a sudden recollection that catches you unawares when you’re busy with something else. Tears gathered in her eyes too; that kind of precision is reserved for memories of childhood and youth, and is in itself a trigger for nostalgia regardless of the thing remembered. Gently she stretched out her hand and moved and clicked the mouse so that the picture vanished from the screen. Then she shut down the computer.

He sat staring at the silent machine, the storm of his grief subsiding as she held him in her arms from behind. At last he stirred and turned to smile at her. ‘That was extraordinary,’ he said. ‘But why did you switch it off?’

She laughed. ‘I didn’t know the river with the willows,’ she said. ‘It must be something you remember from before we met. I suppose I was jealous, thinking you could grieve so much for the life you led then. Stop living in the past, my love! Now’s the time to be making memories we can share.’

‘But my darling,’ he said, and stood up, rubbing his eyes. The room was dark and empty, but when he ground the heels of his hands into his eyeballs the darkness was filled with sparks of light like tiny insects dancing.

A little later he went into the kitchen and made himself a pot of fresh coffee. Then he came back carrying a steaming, fragrant mug and turned on the computer again. ‘Memories we can share,’ he said, adjusting his glasses. He ran his eyes up and down the list of options, looking for a suitable search engine.

Possible Worlds

UNICORNWhen J99 opened the door to the headmaster’s study she was blinded by the light blazing in from the window behind his desk. She had to stand motionless for a while to let her eyes adjust to the glare; but she was damned if she was going to stand where he could watch her in her ugly new clothes, her raw new body. Shielded by the door, she screwed up her eyes and peered into the room to see if she could make out where he was lurking. Was that him, over by the shelves in the corner with a book in his hand? He had the ability to make himself almost transparent when he chose to, as if he was only ever partly present in any place where he happened to be.

‘Come in, J99, come in,’ he called in his quavering voice, and that too sounded somehow absent, as if the sound was coming from a great distance, from a place where he was terribly busy, though he could spare you a precious minute or two as long as you weren’t too demanding. ‘Won’t you take a seat? I’ve been looking forward to our little chat.’
J99 edged into the room and quickly sat in the huge leather armchair that faced the desk. Like everything else in the school it was worn almost to redundancy, and the deep impression in its seat had clearly been made by a backside much larger than hers; she had to sit forward on the hard ridge at the front of the chair to prevent herself sliding backwards into the smooth bowl in the middle.

The headmaster shut the book he had been studying and placed it carefully back on the shelf. Then he shuffled to the desk and sat behind it, so that it formed a protective barrier between himself and his pupil.

He was a tall, stooped man with a mass of white hair which caught the sunbeams and burned as if on fire. His small round glasses flashed too, and she was dazzled again as she tried to meet his eyes. ‘So, J99. I’ve been reading your plan for a project, and I have to say I’m impressed. Most unusual, my dear. We’ve not had a plan like this in all my years at the school; and I can tell you I have been here for a very long time. A very long time indeed.’

‘Of course,’ he went on, leaning back in his own chair until his head must be nearly touching the window pane, ‘of course it’s quite impossible. It simply can’t be done. But to have thought of it shows an inventiveness, a real originality which deserves some credit. Well done, J99. Well done.’

This was unexpected. When she had shown the plan to her class teacher, Q3, the prim little woman had almost had a fit. ‘Are you quite mad, J99?’ She’d cried. ‘If this is your idea of a joke it’s in very poor taste. Good God, girl: we’ve given you the biggest opportunity you could wish for – the biggest opportunity anyone could wish for – and you throw it back in our teeth like… like rubbish. The headmaster shall hear of this. Now go and stand in the corridor for the rest of the lesson. Use the time to think about what you’ve done.’

Standing in the dimness of the corridor, listening to the soft murmur from the classrooms and shifting her weight from foot to foot as each got tired of bearing her weight, J99 had had plenty of time to think about what she’d done. She also had time to think about her school uniform and how she hated it. A new hole had appeared in her shirt where she’d caught it on the corner of her desk as she left the class: the fabric of shirt and skirt seemed to tear as easily as paper. In fact, they were probably made from paper, since paper seemed to be the one thing they had plenty of in this threadbare institution, and the clothes didn’t need to last long – in most cases, just a few weeks, till the pupils had had their plans approved and moved on. She wondered how long it would take for her plan to be approved. And she wondered what would happen if it was not. Nobody had ever told her what happened then.

Putting her finger through the rent in her shirt, the tip of it brushed her stomach and she jumped as she always did when something unexpectedly touched her flesh. She remembered this feeling from adolescence: the feeling that all your nerves were acutely sensitive, that your skin had been stretched to breaking-point by a recent spurt of growth, that all the defensive layers of your body were peeling off one by one…

She had hated being a teenager, hated it with a passion. When she woke in the sick room and found herself young again – smooth skin, soft hands and stick-thin legs – she had screamed and hit out in rage and horror, and the matron and under-matron had had to hold her down till she was calmer. How dare they do this to her, she shrieked? After all those years of struggle, all the marches, all the verbal fighting and the censorship; after childbirth, divorce, grief, old age, cancer and death; to find the laughter-lines and frown-lines erased, the stretch-marks smoothed away, the scars wiped off – it was as if the School Board had contrived to censor the whole of her past, to remove all trace of who she was in one triumphantly dismissive gesture. And to be subjected once again to the contempt of adults – to have lost even that grudging respect her enemies had given her when they found she would not capitulate, would not be bought… and to return to the state of utter powerlessness, of unfocused desires and seemingly endless frustration… For the first few days after waking she had thought she would go mad every time she met her own eyes in the sick-room mirror, or met the gently condescending eyes of the under-matron. Her disgust with her new young body was even more intense, in fact, than her disgust with her paper clothes.

So why was she behaving like this, she wondered? Why make things difficult for herself? Why not simply do as she was told and escape from this hell-hole as soon as she could?

The headmaster had come round to the front of the desk and was leaning against it, looking down at her with a benevolent smile. People were always looking down at her here. ‘Yes, you have an imagination to die for,’ he observed, and there was perhaps a hint of menace in his words. ‘Think of what you could do with it if you chose! Don’t waste it, J99. Why don’t you use it to put together a workable plan?’

She looked up at him curiously, conscious of the awkwardness of her position, wondering if she should stand up too, put herself closer to his level. Yes, there was menace in his words; but wasn’t there also something else? What was it? Could it be respect? Could it be… fear? ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, ‘but I think the plan I have is workable. Why shouldn’t it be?’

He frowned and folded his arms. In one of his hands he held a silver pen, and now he tapped his mouth with it as if warning himself not to blurt out something rash. ‘I’m sorry, J99, but it really isn’t. You’ll have to take my word for it; I’ve had years of experience with this sort of thing. The plans we approve involve possible worlds, not impossible ones. Take the world you knew, tweak it a bit, improve it in one or two tiny ways – just to make your own life a little more comfortable, a little more fulfilled – and be content with that. What you propose is simply too extreme. Too – how shall I say? – Utopian.’

‘I don’t see why,’ she said. ‘The changes I suggested didn’t involve anything physical at all; just a change of attitude. Why shouldn’t that work? It’s happened before, on my world. Or so the historians tell us.’

‘Not just a change of attitude,’ the headmaster said solemnly, wagging his finger at her so that the silver pen danced before her eyes. ‘What you describe as a change of attitude is in fact a change of heart; a fundamental alteration of the composition of the human body and mind. Let me tell you a story, J99.’ And he settled himself more securely on the desk, placing the pen at his side and folding his hands around one of his knees in a calculated display of relaxation.

‘Not long ago – no more than a hundred years or so – another young woman was sent to me; a girl very much like yourself. Much the same age, and now that I come to think of it, her hair was a lovely auburn just like yours… She came to me with a plan which you might think even simpler and easier to execute than your own. She wanted a world where unicorns exist. That’s all. All her life, she said, she’d dreamed of meeting a unicorn; and now that she’d come to this place and found out she could in theory have her wish, nothing anyone said could put her off. Of course, other girls had dreamed the same thing; every little girl loves the thought of a unicorn, and it’s sometimes taken us weeks to explain to our pupils about the consequences of putting one into your plan; the effect it would have on the ecosystem, on the structure of belief systems, on human culture generally. An intelligent, long-lived mammal with a single very valuable and deadly horn and a predilection for – well – for unmarried women: think of the repercussions such a creature would have on the way people thought and acted throughout the world? Every other girl allowed herself to give up the dream at last, persuaded that a unicorn was not worth the damage it would do to their overall plan, the disruption it would cause in the organization of reality itself. Every other girl who has passed through our hands has finally seen reason.

‘This girl though – J52, her name was: this girl was different. Nothing would do but a world with unicorns, and nothing we said would change her mind. I was not very well at the time – not very alert, not very present; brought low, perhaps, by a fit of ennui, a bout of mild depression, a touch of flu. In the end I let myself be persuaded to approve her plan. It really was quite an ingenious one – as fully conceived as yours – and I thought, fool that I was, that it might be worth trying. We processed it, we had it evaluated, costed and sketched in all its details, then we sent her down to the workshops and waited till the recommended germination period was over. A week after the project was set in motion I sent one of the teachers to see how it was getting on. Shall I tell you what she found?’

J99 shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable. ‘Wonderland?’ she said rudely.

‘No, J99. Not Wonderland. Not any land at all, in fact, nor any world, nor any thing, but a young girl lying on the floor of the workshop, a little putrid – a little smelly – with a round hole in the middle of her chest, just there – ’ and he leaned forward to poke J99 in the sternum, tearing another small hole in her shirt as he did so and almost pushing her backwards into the pit of her chair. ‘A hole just the circumference of an animal’s horn; say the horn of a narwhal.’ He smiled again, and took off his spectacles to wipe them with his handkerchief.

‘We could never use Workshop 7 again,’ he went on. ‘It was permanently damaged. You see, her plan wasn’t viable; her world didn’t work; and the whole school system was thrown off kilter as a result. The generators were drastically overloaded, several fuses blew, and the bio-units in the science lab dipped below optimum temperature for the first time in the school’s history. We only managed to get things back on track after seven years’ hard labour, which involved all the teachers and pupils in the school as well as all the technicians. And the loss of Workshop 7; well, it’s been a disaster. Our production rate has never regained its former levels, and the volume of wastage has increased fivefold. We can’t let it happen again. That’s why we’re so very careful now about the projects we approve. We can’t afford over-ambition. We can’t afford irrationality or self-indulgence. Tried and tested formulae are all we’ll allow. After all, you know the old saying: better the world you know and love…’

‘I never loved the world I came from,’ said J99 sullenly. ‘At least, I loved some parts of it. The trees, you know, and the sunshine,’ and she gestured at the window, beyond which she could now make out the sunbeams streaming between branches. ‘But the way people treated each other; the injustice and the cruelty. I hated that. I hated it almost as much as I hate this place.’

The headmaster clucked his tongue reprovingly. ‘Such negativity!’ he said. ‘You hated your world, you hate this school… And yet you propose to construct your own new personal world on the model of this building, and populate it with the people you’ve met here. Why?’

‘Because this is the place that needs changing,’ said J99. ‘If I made a new world, a perfect one, it wouldn’t need anything doing to it. I’d be perfectly happy, always. But I’d also remember every day my unhappiness in this place, and in the other place I lived in. The other place is too big to change – too big for me to change by myself, I mean. But this place; this is just the right size. I can imagine changing it completely, every inch of it, every atom. And I can imagine the way the people in it could be if it were just a little different. How Q3 and the other teachers could be if they weren’t so utterly miserable, if they weren’t so resentful of the children in their classrooms, of the happiness they’re capable of, of the dreams they’re brave enough to dream of making real. I can even imagine how you could be, if there were no such thing as headmasters.’

This time it was the headmaster who shifted uncomfortably on the desk, trying to maintain his look of casual but kindly disdain. He cleared his throat. ‘J99, I’m frankly disappointed in you,’ he said. ‘I had hoped we could have a lengthy heart-to-heart, a free and open discussion of the things you’ve already discussed with your teacher. But I can see such a thing would be quite useless. You have entrenched yourself in your position, and nothing I or anyone else can say will ever alter that. So I have just one more thing to ask you. Will you draw up a new plan, along the lines recommended by the School Board? Or will you stick to your current plan, even if it risks not being approved? I should tell you in all confidence,’ he added, ‘that there is no chance on earth – this one or any other – that it will proceed to project status. And I think you can guess what the consequences will be if it does not.’

J99 drew her legs up under her and got to her feet. She felt as unsteady as she had when she first woke in the sick room. ‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can guess what the consequences will be. Won’t you tell me?’

The headmaster sprung to his feet with surprising agility and placed his hand on her shoulder. Outwardly, he seemed as casual and courteous as ever. But there was a stiffness and awkwardness about his movements that suggested that he was in an acute state of inner turmoil.

‘I’m sorry, J99,’ he said. ‘The School Board forbids us to disclose that information. You will have to make up your mind without possessing it. Well, what’s it to be? A new world, a perfect one, an exclusive heaven all for yourself; or – disapproval, nullity, rejection? I think you’ve experienced rejection many times in your former life. Do you really want to suffer that again?’

This was J99’s cue to smile. When she smiled, although she didn’t know it, her face looked much older than when it was still. She brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek and relaxed for the first time since entering the headmaster’s study.

‘I’m used to it,’ she said. ‘I’ll stick with the plan I’ve got.’

The headmaster gave a deep sigh and rubbed his eyes under his round glasses. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Leaning across his desk, he struck a brass bell with the palm of his hand. A clear, sweet sound rang out, the loveliest sound J99 had heard in this school full of muted voices and muffled yearnings.

The door opened and the energetic young teacher S26 put his head in. ‘Yes, headmaster?’

‘I’m sorry to say that J99 has made her decision. She will tell you what it is, and I would ask you to do the necessary for her. Well, J99,’ he concluded, holding out his hand for her to shake. ‘I’ve enjoyed our conversation, even if it hasn’t ended the way I’d hoped. I wish you all the best for the future, and if ever you find yourself in this part of the universe again, do look us up, won’t you? We like to stay in touch with our former pupils.’

To J99 it seemed that he had begun to disappear again, and when she put her hand in his she could hardly feel it: it might have been a gust of moist warm air brushing her fingers. As she turned to follow S26 she noticed that the headmaster was now between her and the window, and she fancied that she could see the windswept branches of the forest through the dusty folds of his scholar’s gown.

He stood looking out of the window for what seemed hours, until a sharp knock came at the study door and S26 put his head in again. ‘It’s done, headmaster,’ he chirped with his usual air of vacuous efficiency. ‘I’ve never known a pupil go under so quickly. Her heart seemed to have stopped before I’d pressed the plunger. Shame, I must say. She seemed like such a bright kid when she first woke up.’

‘Have T49 put her clothes in the incinerator,’ said the headmaster without turning round. ‘And her body had better go for recycling. It’s in excellent condition.’

He hardly heard the door close: he was concentrating too hard on controlling the pain he felt in his own throat, where a lump had formed as large and round as an apple. His vision, too, seemed to have gone all blurry; the sunlight really hurt his eyes. Once again he squeezed them under his glasses; squeezed them till coloured lights flashed in the retinas. When he took his fingers away he saw a white horse standing between the tree-trunks. It was hard to tell at this distance, but it looked as though there were something protruding from the middle of its forehead.

Jealous Gods

little-mount-ararat-michele-burgessThe High Priest of the Sun stood on a little hill and lifted high his palsied gloves before the multitude. He was older than the hill he stood on, and somewhere in the course of his many reincarnations had lost the use of his eyes, his ears, his taste-buds and his sphincter muscles. On his head he wore a massive jewel-encrusted crown of seven layers: gold, silver, bronze, tin, wood, glass, and salt. The topmost layer had rather changed its shape in a recent downpour. His robes were made of seven-ply cloth of gold, which rendered them hot and stiff. There was a small bench attached inside so that when he got tired during a ceremony – which he often did – he could seat himself comfortably and still give the appearance of standing upright, supported by the rigid folds of his inner garment. His face was a mass of wrinkles, the sightless eyes deeply recessed in his delicate skull.

When the High Priest got agitated his jawbone sometimes detached itself due to weaknesses in the condylar process and the masseter. So a skilled ventriloquist was standing by, ready to take over his speech in the event of an awkward silence. There was ample room for the ventriloquist in the hollows of the old man’s cloak, which was half a mile long with a pearl to every inch.

The High Priest of the Sun raised high his palsied gloves before the multitude, dropped his jaw so that saliva dribbled down his chin, and nudged the ventriloquist with his foot, warning him to pay close attention.

‘Brethren!’ he cried, in stern and ringing tones. ‘Or children, or sinners, or Chosen Ones – depending on your preference. We are gathered together in this place, as well you know, from every corner of this vast terrestrial orb, or plain, or shell, for an experiment. An experiment on a scale never attempted since the creation – or big bang, or birthing of the world, or hatching of the cosmic egg, whichever takes your fancy. We are all here, emissaries from every known religion, devotees of every known cult, firm in faith and ambitious in design, glorying in the honour of our temples, churches, or sacred geographical features, and inspired by the sight of this, the grandest mountain in this or any other dimension…’

At this point there was a resounding crack, and the High Priest’s chin flapped uselessly on his scrawny neck. Inside the folds of his cloak the ventriloquist gave a start and ruffled hastily through his manuscript.

‘…in …in …in order to participate in a test unprecedented in human history.’

As he spoke, officers picked for the clarity of their voices roared the speech to one another, relaying it to the ears of the millions who had gathered in the shadow of Mount Shi in obedience to the summons of the High Priest of the Sun. One officer shouted to the next what the High Priest was saying, the next bawled the same words to his nearest neighbour, and so on, so that gradually more and more of the priests, shamans, god-kings, acolytes and faithful believers found themselves nodding in agreement, and a ripple of movement, a faint swell of sound ran over the surface of the crowd like a cat’s paw of wind over the surface of a quiet ocean.

‘We are here, worthy brethren, to move Mount Shi.’

A murmur rose from the first to hear this. Then gradually, as the sentence was relayed about the throng, the murmur grew to a rumble, and the rumble to a steady throb that vibrated in the soles of the High Priest’s cork-heeled shoes. The crowd’s anticipation was palpable; and the farthest section of that unprecedented congregation was only beginning to voice it a quarter of an hour after the nearest had fallen silent.

The priest, his gloves still quivering in the air, gave his head a shake to try and relocate his jaw. He must keep his arms extended skywards, for if once he lowered them he would lose the right to continue speaking. But he had remembered something he had omitted from the ventriloquist’s notes. Something important. Something on which their very lives might depend… He shook his head, and nodded it, and wagged it wildly round and round. Drool from his gaping mouth splashed the ventriloquist in his hiding place, but that highly-trained professional had been instructed to ignore the physical symptoms of his master’s decrepitude. Safe in his nest, he rustled his papers importantly and carried on, uplifted with the excitement of addressing so large a multitude.

‘Brethren!’ he cried. ‘Brethren! Our researches indicate that you have all included in the tenets of your religions – enshrined as a saying or a song, a hieroglyph, a rune, or a meaningful gesture – the unshakeable conviction that Faith Moves Mountains. Today we shall test that conviction. Today we shall discover the true religion, the One True God!’

Another half-hour murmur thundered about the plain beneath the snow-capped mass of Mount Shi. Behind the mountain, dawn was crouching ready to brindle the horizon. The clouds flocked by in small pink herds, unconscious of the imminent approach of morning. A few of the faithful chosen souls had fallen asleep where they stood or knelt or lay, patiently waiting for their own particular officer-interpreter to relay the High Priest’s latest words.

‘The experiment will be conducted as follows. Each of you will stand or kneel or lie facing the mountain; and each shall call out, in a stern and ringing voice, the following command (or some suitable modification that conforms to your own theological perspective): IN THE NAME OF GOD, BE THOU REMOVED AND BE THOU CAST INTO THE SEA. If you turn your heads you will see the Ocean of Pish directly behind your backs.’

This news was greeted with a rustle as of wind-tossed leaves in a mighty forest, as every individual turned to get a look at the distant waters glittering between the dark silhouettes of the western hills. Then all eyes turned again to the tiny figure of the Priest, perched on his hummock at the mountain’s feet. The sun was beginning to stretch and yawn behind Mount Shi, scattering rays of light from its tousled mane.

‘As the organizer of this experiment,’ cried the ventriloquist, his voice breaking a little with emotion, ‘I claim the privilege of initiating this holy procedure.’

Together, High Priest and Ventriloquist revolved until they were facing eastwards. Trembling now with faith as well as palsy – trying to dismiss from his mind the nagging anxiety that refused to let him be – the High Priest lifted his sightless eyes to the sheer West Face of the holy peak. He stood up straight in his cork-heeled shoes, raised his arms a little higher and cleared his throat. Then the ventriloquist stepped forth out of the shadow of his cloak, and cried aloud in the sternest and most ringing tones he could muster:

‘Three pounds of tomatoes! A carrot! Take two large onions, chop them to bits, and fry until transparent!’

The officers began to repeat the words, then clamped their lips suddenly shut and looked round in amazement at the High Priest of the Sun. The ventriloquist went bright red, muttered, ‘I beg your pardon… I must have got my notes muddled up…’ and vanished into the protection of the cloak. The High Priest nodded his head and let his arms drop to his sides. His eyes popped out of their sockets, his tongue unfurled itself from between his mottled gums, and slowly, very slowly he subsided into the recesses of his gown. His sphincter muscles gave a final, brief convulsion. His heart ceased to beat, warmth died away in his brain, and his soul departed thankfully, already looking forward to its next incarnation. It thought it would try something more modest this time: a newt, perhaps, or some sort of crawling insect. A creature without voice or ambitions, and highly unlikely to live to a ripe old age.

Meanwhile the ventriloquist, eager to distract attention from his master’s collapse and his own unfortunate part in it, squeaked ‘Your turn now!’ and dived to the ground with his hands over his ears.

There was a long, long pause as the officers explained the situation to the multitude. With uncharacteristic patience, the first to hear the ventriloquist’s invitation waited in utter silence as the word spread abroad. Heads bowed in thought, hands clasped on their stomachs, they concentrated on summoning every ounce of their spiritual energy for the momentous challenge to come. Then, as the last officer barked the three-word phrase to the most distant members of that innumerable assembly, every priest, shaman, god-king, acolyte and faithful believer on the plain before Mount Shi raised his or her head with the fire of fanaticism flashing in his or her eyes. Every religious leader on the earth’s surface adjusted his or her stance minutely, planting his or her feet firmly in the churned-up sand, straightening his or her spine and rising to his or her full height. A million gazes fixed themselves on the snow-covered peak of the mountain. A million throats gave a nervous cough, and a few rocks were dislodged by the sound from the serrated ridge above the High Priest’s promontory. A million voices trumpeted, in a thousand different languages, in the sternest and most ringing tones they could manage, some variation on the command with which they were all so familiar:


It was at this moment that the ventriloquist belatedly realized what the High Priest had been trying to say. ‘One at a time! One at a time!’ he squealed with all his might. Nobody heard him.

With a thunderous groan the mountain gave a heave and cracks ran across its many faces. It rumbled like a very large man with toothache; roared like a beast in intolerable pain; and finally howled in a terrifying all-consuming shriek. Boulders tore themselves loose from their age-old moorings in its flesh, then bounded down as if exulting in their brief mobility and drove furrows through the screaming crowd. A huge crack opened in the earth at the mountain’s feet, and the little hill on which the High Priest’s lifeless form still stood – still attended by the ventriloquist, whose hands were still clamped firmly over his ears – subsided into the depths. More cracks ran across the plain, opening rifts between segments of the crowd into which screaming knots of faithful believers tumbled, clinging to one another as passionately as they had ever clung to their convictions. Pits opened here or there like wounds and the earth’s fiery blood squirted out of them, drenching god-kings and acolytes without discrimination. Dust rose in a choking cloud that clogged the lungs and filled the mouth. Interpreter-officers ran about madly, their mouths wide open as if still discharging their offices, relaying fear from ear to ear till they plunged into an abyss or were crushed beneath a falling lump of granite. Priests, shamans, monks, nuns, prophets, faithful believers, and believers who had been seized with sudden doubt – all found themselves unceremoniously stripped of life and tumbled into a chaotic common burial ground. And Mount Shi began to slide. It slid across the plain, between the western hills and into the seething Ocean of Pish, where it vanished from mortal sight and mind, never to be seen again in this or any other dimension.

As the mountain sank beneath the waves a cloud of steam obscured the sky from horizon to horizon. But before this happened, in the lull before the final storm, the sun appeared in the space where the mountain had been standing.

Dawn came, and the birds in the nearby forest began to sing.

The Islands of the Blessed


The Western Isles mark the outermost bounds of human knowledge. East of their sands I have scanned the world from the wings of experience and found it wanting. Westward lies the sea, and beyond that, some say the world’s edge, others the Islands of the Blessed. But I have different expectations. I am a counter of things: I have numbered the hairs on a man’s shin, the blades of grass in a prince’s lawn, the endless combinations of the clouds – everything can be reduced to figures, and the sum of my calculations I proclaim forthwith: all is vanity. But being of an optimistic cast of mind I am offering life one last chance to prove me wrong before I dispense with it altogether. Here is my plan.

They say there is a pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow; but I am concerned with greater riches. Every day for untold ages a sun has dropped behind the horizon, sometimes as a great gold coin, sometimes a ruby or a diamond. The accumulated treasure beyond the world’s end could buy heaven and earth a thousand times over. But material wealth means nothing to me; the purpose of my journey is different. I mean to travel to that heap of suns and engage in one last dazzling feat of arithmetic, counting them by hundreds and thousands, with the help of my faithful tally stick, until I have found out what I wish to know: the value of existence, the total sum of days and weeks and years, and whether it is worth it, after all. If yes, then I shall fill my leather bag and return to the world to take up a position worthy of my venture: a warrior-king, an archpriest or a prophet. If no – then I shall let the suns consume me, content to vanish from the face of the earth and be forgotten, like my nameless forefathers before the days of tally sticks and coins.

Of all the petty human race the Western Islanders are the pettiest. Thirty-three – no more – have gathered on the beach to see me off, all ignorant of my vision. The white-bearded Headman leans on his decrepit wife among a gaggle of elders. Children hop in and out of my boat where she rests on the greyish sands. They have stocked her with rations enough to last me many weeks, although the dullest eye can see that the horizon is only five hours’ journey distant, and when I have arrived at my destination I do not expect to need corporeal nourishment.

The boatbuilder hangs between his crutches scrutinizing his handiwork, head sunk between his shoulders. The other onlookers are shepherds and fishermen with weather-blackened faces, rosy island girls, hags swathed in shawls with eyes as dull as rocks among the heather. A little way off the village cow crops the bitter sea-grass. A bird bobs on a nearby rock, making the noise of two pebbles clicking together in a schoolboy’s pocket. I long to throw off these barren regions and attain the vivid country of my dreams, where objects stand forth each from each in bold shapes and brilliant colours, all obedient to the eternal laws of geometry. These farewells have been protracted beyond endurance.

The Headman creaks a blessing, good wishes scutter from the elders like stones dislodged by my boots. The boatbuilder, who has grown familiar with me through our shared concern with his craft, nods his crushed head between his props.

‘Aye, aye,’ he whines through splintered teeth. ‘There’s wonders abroad on the bottomless deep. I’ve heard tell of savages ten feet tall with skin black as ebony from head to toe. I’ve heard of pygmies two feet high with bones in their noses who blow poison through tubes and devour little children. There’s tales of the anthropopagi whose heads sprout from their chests, whose eyes can pierce the blackest smoke and whose ears can hear the fall of a grain of salt in another room. There’s talk of the leviathan with stones and trees rooted in his back; of monstrous maneating birds and mermaids with breasts of ice. Aye, aye, we builders of boats might as well mould vessels of butter on bonfires as wear our bones to dust carving the seagull’s flight into hard wood that’ll rot at last among the crabs and oysters.’

Before he has half done I have set my shoulder to the boat’s stern and given her a mighty heave. Shepherds and children rush forward to help drag her to the water and shove her out beyond the breakers. Ripples chop against the hull. In these ungainly regions everything is always knocking against everything else! I shall arrange things better when I return from looking on the order of the suns.

The first real swell snatches at the boat’s ribs. I swing myself on board making the vessel lurch. Pebbles grate beneath the keel; for a moment I fear that the next surge will nudge me ignominiously back to shore. But the shepherds give me a final thrust and the ocean sucks me in.

Looking back I see the people gesticulating wildly, but their voices are already lost on the breeze. Could they not have raised a concerted shout, a song perhaps to cheer me on my way? Disgusted by their inadequacy I stumble forward to curl myself in the foresheets, fixing my attention on the brightness in the west. Waves open their glutinous mouths beneath the belly of the boat and I slither down their tongues, bubbles seething to left and right. An eddy and a swirl, then my face is pointing skywards between fleshy walls of water, a pallid lump of firmament clasped between their writhing lips. To my horror the waves are resolving themselves into human shapes, lifting and dropping on every side. Did I not, then, leave humanity gesticulating on the beach? The boat rushes to meet the clouds, which resemble the flabby buttocks of old men; but it has left part of my stomach stranded on the sea-bed.

Enough of frail mortality! My spirit can break free of this fleshly prison whenever it likes – leaving a safety cable anchored in my skull – and speed ahead of this coracle in the wake of the sinking sun. Only a few short hours and I will have reached the land where golden orbs form patterns on the pavement of eternity, where the houses are pillared with sunbeams and roofed with the crystal of the spheres. If only this boat would settle into a steady rhythm! The sea rises and falls, the boat rises and falls, even the clouds toss like seaweed at low tide. My paltry frame has no conception of its destiny. All at once earth, sea and sky dissolve into a single stream that gushes through my body. The boat swoops westwards on the wings of fate, while I crouch retching over the prow.

Just before dark I glimpse the tip of the island’s highest peak as it drops below the horizon. In a fit of facetiousness I compare its disappearance to that of the sun, and wonder whether there might not equally be a mound of islands lying below the eastern edge of the world like a pile of dung, bearing witness to the folly of creation as the suns bear witness to its glory. The sky spins round my head, spray soaks me to the marrow, boreal winds dash in from every side to spear me, as if the finny folk in these parts have turned harpoonist. I have seen men fish in my time, but never before fish men. I shall have one tale to tell, at least, if I return! Another convulsion jars the boat from stem to stern; but whether it was the sea or my body that caused it I cannot say.

Hours later, the sickness at last releases me. The invisible waves tumble on through the night. Wedged between lobster-pots and a water-butt at the bottom of the boat I wonder how far I have come, how much farther I have to go. Do I dare consume some of my rations? At the thought, something stirs in the place where my stomach once was, and I hastily turn my mind to my approaching transfiguration. Within hours I shall have looked on the greatest hoard of them all and either been scorched to cinders or begun my ascent to immortality. Men who were once my equals will become the lowest order of creation by virtue of their very likeness to my image. The earth shall split open at my footfall, planets fling themselves down in homage. Death shall swing from my belt. Words shall issue from my mouth as flames.

I cannot pinpoint the exact moment at which the prospect of what I shall become stops being attractive. I know only that I have suddenly started to yearn in the darkness for little fires. Peat fires in hearths blackened by the smoke of generations; the flicker of light in the glaze of a simple pot; flakes of flame flashing in the eyes of a family huddled round a blaze at dead of winter. One among their number tells a story: the tale of the great house that lies below the horizon, pillared with sunbeams, roofed with the crystal of the spheres. Shadows shift on the walls as the tale unfolds, and in each heart there is a little bonfire that whispers and dances in response to the speaker’s words. So that no matter how far the mind may stray, whether to the fever-ridden plains of the anthropopagi or to the glass forests of the Arctic alive with a million rainbow hues beneath the Aurora Borealis, there is always a gentle warmth to greet its return, an answering warmth that flares up when the roofs of the tumbledown homestead hove into view.

What welcome can I expect on my return from the sunny country? Will the boatbuilder glance up from shaping the prow of a smack? Will the Headman hobble down to the dunes leaning on his ancient consort and kiss my cheeks with withered lips, as once he did when I blessed his hovel? But this is frailty, wanderer. On your return there will be no more need of welcomes. Spray drenches me, the boat leaps like a hooked fish, and I am awash with sentiment. I should be ashamed of myself. Am I not more than human? Have I not stretched forth my hand to grasp the celestial orb and drawn myself up alongside it in lonely splendour? Yet here I float on the flood, yearning for a flame, a match, a candle. Surely the boat is spinning in circles, an apt emblem for my frailty.

The sky is light again, the sea no different. But look – as I am shrugged on the shoulder of a wave above the sea’s concupiscent rolling – surely that is land I glimpse rising like dawn from the disorder! In my astonishment I loose my grip on the gunwale and sprawl face downwards in the bilges: for stability in this chaos is a greater miracle than a city of golden spheres! When I top the next wave I find myself closer. In desperation I thrust my hand over the side and paddle till my fingers lose all feeling. At the next crest – heaven be praised! I can almost distinguish rock from heather!

How far have I floated? What land is this? Visions spring unbidden from my memory: of the land where rivers run uphill, where the lotus blooms tended by nymphs of unspeakable beauty with ambergris and jasper in their hair. Visions of bejewelled chimeras, unicorns, golden fruit and the armoured basilisk, the cockatrice, the corkendrill and the solitary firebird. The firebird, hatched from the sun! To this I am transformed as I shrug off the darkness. My nostrils snort the wind in quest of some spicy fragrance. My clothes glow with a tropical warmth, encrusted with salt like coral. All it needs is for the sky to turn a deeper blue and I shall know myself to have entered the odoriferous Indian ocean or the balmy waters off the coasts of Afric. As I have not done since childhood, I raise my feeble voice in a squawk of thanks to the powers that drove me hither over the turbulence.

It seems only moments before I am approaching the shore. I have studied it carefully from a distance to make sure it is no leviathan. The skyline is surely too ragged, the shape too irregular for a fish, however monstrous. A savage climate it seems, scourged by hurricanes, beaten by the tide. A land peopled with primitives who will submit without question to the behest of a golden voyager borne in on the ceaseless surf. And I will be their generous lord: for I no longer despise humanity. My heart leaps in my breast, for here, as if at my summons, a band of natives troops down from behind a promontory to congregate on the dunes. Broken shreds of noise stream past on the wind.

And what a band it is! Giants ten feet tall with skin black as ebony, pygmies no more than two feet high who leap about as if eager for human flesh. One creature appears to be swathed from head to foot in white hair; another is an anthropopagus whose face sprouts from his chest and whose legs spring from his shoulders. Ruddy sirens hang like seagulls above the sands, attended by spirits draped in lichen. And what shaggy beast is this that prowls the middle distance? Surely it is the fabulous cameleopard that stalks the African bush? Legs trembling, I stand erect in my ship to salute the fruitful alien soil. Ever closer skims the boat. My heart soars in my breast.

The keel grates on pebbles, water chops against the hull. Giants and pygmies rush into the shallows sending showers of spray about their knees. They seize the gunwales, cheering and shouting, and draw me up onto the sand. My love for these bright beings is beyond endurance.

Somewhere nearby, an angel spins on a stone, making the noise of two pebbles clicking together in a schoolboy’s pocket.

The Quitting Shop


The man stood in front of the shop window, hesitating.

He was so much in two minds that his body seemed to have divided itself at the waist, shoulders and ribcage twisted round to face the shop, hips and legs striving to drive him forward towards an important meeting in one of the anonymous streets that stretched out in all directions from this roundabout. A twinge at the base of his backbone promised hours of painful regret for his indecision: he would spend this evening stretched out on the sitting room carpet with the cat crouched on his chest, trying to relax as the unctuous voice of the therapist oozed into his ears through headphones thick with earwax. But his two minds would not be reconciled. He was already late for his meeting – and yet the shop called to him in tones of piercing sweetness, assuring him that the meeting did not matter, that meetings need never matter again if he accepted its promise.

Two things drew him towards the shop. One was its situation on the roundabout, lodged in the middle of a row of shops, its windows humming to the throb of passing traffic. The curve of its façade suggested it had been designed to sit on this roundabout, perhaps at a time when the traffic wasn’t so heavy, when you could easily cross to the circle of grass in the middle of the ring of roads and settle yourself on a bench beneath an ornamental tree, among curved flowerbeds, to enjoy the spectacle of passing horse drawn vehicles, the occasional motor driven by men and women wearing goggles and thick leather gloves. Now crossing the three lanes of traffic towards the grass would be an act of suicide, and there was nothing to cross for anyway, no tree, no bench, no flowers on the central island, just a windswept savannah of badly-mown grass. The shop stared out at a blur of hurtling vehicles, torpedoes aimed at targets far away. It had the look of having been stranded in the middle of nowhere, a symbolic ‘O’ of nullity. Yet that gave it a mysterious aspect, transforming it into a kind of small, neat question. This shop had made the transition from somewhere to nowhere with its dignity intact; there must therefore be something behind or beneath its bland white frontage that gave it a firm foundation, a stable identity, in defiance of time and change. What could it be?

The other thing that drew him to the shop was the sign, painted in fancy letters on a grass green background. He read it again as he stood twisted underneath: THE QUITTING SHOP. A shop that invited you to quit. A shop entirely dedicated to making an end. Quit what? he asked himself. Make an end of what? The windows gave no clue. They were entirely screened by expensive-looking white blinds, pulled down so low you couldn’t get a glimpse of the interior by peering underneath. What was this shop inviting him to quit? Well, his journey to the meeting for a start. Late or not, he would have to go in, he knew it now, despite the familiar knot of anxiety that had lodged itself in his chest, despite the urgent alarm bells sounding in his ears, which told him, as his watch did, that the meeting had already started, that he would be late.

He could still get there, he thought, in less than five minutes. This would make him only fifteen minutes late – quite an acceptable margin if he claimed to have been delayed for some specific reason, rather than just because of incompetence in planning his journey. But extend that narrow margin to thirty minutes – such a stretch of time would put the seal on his inefficiency, mark him out as a business associate you could not trust. He hadn’t taken a mobile number, couldn’t call to offer his excuses in advance. He would fetch up on the doorstep red-faced and sweating, without a decent story to excuse his lateness. Could he come up with a decent story inside the shop? He doubted it: his mind was blank, and for all its pull upon him, its magnetic attraction, it didn’t look the kind of place to inspire invention, to awaken the smooth, soft-spoken eloquence that had eluded him on such occasions throughout his life. It looked small and neat and plain. It had no truck with eloquence.

He twisted his hips around till they were aligned with his chest. He could not help himself; he was obeying impulse. He approached the door.

Inside, the shop was as small and neat and plain as it had looked from the street. Plain white walls, ornamented with a single picture: a square of faded patchwork framed in teak. A counter made of some man-made, fawn-coloured substance, smooth and cool. A door behind the counter with a grass green curtain hanging in front of it. Another door in the back wall of the shop, to the right of the counter, this, too, discreetly veiled by a grass green curtain.

A stage set, he thought, for a modern play, an exercise in minimalism.

Somewhere in the depths of the building a little bell rang to announce his entrance. He walked to the counter and laid a hand on the smooth cool surface, hoping to look as if he had a purpose. And he had a purpose, he suddenly realised. He would ask for directions. He would ask the way to the house where the business meeting was now in progress. He would note the directions down on the square of paper he always kept in the inside pocket of his various suits. Everything fell into position: that was why he had entered the shop, that was how he would explain his actions when he finally arrived, in ten or fifteen minutes, waving the paper with the directions on it as evidence of his resourcefulness. He had done the sensible thing: stopped to make inquiries of a friendly local, who would offer him guidance with the clarity and precision one might expect from the proprietor of a shop as neat as this one. The fact that he was a man who never asked for directions, on account of his consuming shyness, would not occur to the people at the meeting, because they did not know him. He had effectively made himself immune to accusations of incompetence. A warm glow swept across his body from left to right, and he relaxed. He would be late, but it did not matter. He was… well… saved.

No one came.

His contentment drained away as if through the hand lying on the counter. He shifted position. He looked around to see if there was another bell to ring, perhaps on the fawn-coloured front of the plastic counter, perhaps to one side. He knew there was not. Anything as conspicuous as an electric button or a bell pull would have stood out in that plain room like a footprint on the unblemished surface of a field of snow. He allowed his fingers to drum the top of the counter, very softly. He looked at his watch.

It was time to go. His tardiness was getting embarrassing.

Still he did not move. A faint draught was stirring the bottom of the grass green curtain that covered the door to the right of the counter. He peered at it, with studied casualness, out of the corner of his eye. He was still facing the curtain behind the counter, but he could feel his body reorienting itself inside, twisting as it had done outside the shop till it faced in two directions, not just one. His feet pointed at the counter in their polished shoes – the left shoe was a little scuffed, he should give it a rub. His chest and head pointed at the door on the right of the counter. He wanted to walk to it, twitch aside the curtain. It seemed an impossibly bold and dangerous move, a move not to be countenanced. He yearned to make it.

He walked to the door, twitched aside the curtain. It was heavier than he had expected. Was it made of velvet?

Beyond the door his nearsighted eyes took in a rolling expanse of countryside, a patchwork of fields that stretched as far as the eye could see into the hazy distance. He adjusted his glasses. He needed a new prescription, had needed one for many months, there never seemed time to make an appointment at the optician’s. He breathed in the scent of the crops in the patchwork fields: the honey smell of pollen, the wholesome smell of wheat and oats and barley, the soothing fragrance of lavender, the perfume of poppies, the whiff of toadstools hidden in the grass. He hadn’t seen fields like that for ages, hadn’t smelt them for even longer, since he was a child. He took a step forwards –

And tripped on something, and pitched forward, reaching blindly out with both hands to cushion his fall.

He sank into fabric. The fields yielded at his touch and folded round him. Their cargo of vegetation pressed against him like a lover’s cheek. The scent of lavender filled his nostrils. Music sounded, and he closed his eyes, and opened them again to find himself sprawled on a giant quilt, an eiderdown for a child as big as the moon. Stars shone above him, embedded in the ceiling, he assumed, or pinned to the fabric of the sky like a million sequins on an evening gown.

He sighed, and settled deeper into the softness.



The woman stood in front of the shop window, clutching her bag.

She had known for many weeks that she would enter the shop on a day like this, had planned ahead for this very moment, packing samples and other necessaries in the holdall, putting on her stoutest shoes when she rose this morning – to the excitement of her mother’s dachshund, who thought the shoes must signify a walk. But now she’d arrived at the door she stood there irresolute, hanging fire, unsure if she should step inside or hurry away. No one knew she had meant to come to the shop this morning. She could just as easily have been going to the shopping centre, or returning from it, though the holdall was an odd kind of bag to take to the supermarket. And if she did go to the supermarket after all, and if someone looked inside the bag as she was putting things into it at the till, they might be surprised to see, alongside samples of fabric from her seventh quilt, a floral nightdress, a heavy torch, a first aid kit, a knife. She wasn’t sure herself why she had packed them. The eccentricity of the lonely, she supposed.

She hung outside the window, practically balanced on the tips of her toes, the handles of the holdall clutched in both fists. Why couldn’t she move? She’d been promising herself this visit ever since she’d first seen it, when walking the dachshund in the wrong direction, looking for the park. Though she’d walked that way before – or thereabouts, she couldn’t be sure, all the streets near her mother’s house looked much the same – she hadn’t noticed the shop, she thought, till that afternoon, and only then because the old dachshund had chosen to have a kind of seizure in front of it, throwing itself down on its old bald belly and quivering from head to tail like a wound-up spring. After tending to the dog – which quickly recovered, looking up with an apologetic wag of its whiplash tail as if to say, ‘Sorry! I was just practising! Not dead yet!’, she had glanced up at the sign above the shop as if in search of some kind of clue to the dog’s condition. THE QUILTING SHOP, the sign had said, in fancy letters on a grass green background. Quilting, she’d thought. What a lovely word. And the picture had formed in her mind of an ancient eiderdown of her mother’s, handed down for generations, which lay on the bed in the unused bedroom at the back of the house. A slightly musty-smelling eiderdown, its colours dulled by the passing years, but patterned with ingenuity and exuberance, like a map of a strange but half familiar country.

Quilting, she thought. The construction of a new pattern from old material. I’d like to try that, one day.

She’d taken a mental note of the shop’s location – marked it on the map in her head with a small red dot, as a thing of importance – then picked up the dog and set off back the way she had come. She had joined a sewing club that week, begun her first quilt, completed it in a frenzy of activity inside three weeks, begun another. She didn’t visit the shop, not yet. She must have a reason. It was not the sort of place you could simply enter, as you’d enter a café for a cup of tea. And then, quite suddenly, the reason came. She had run out of fabric half way through her seventh quilt. So unprofessional! Such a lack of foresight! She was sure no self-respecting seamstress in the old days could have so radically underestimated the quantities of fabric needed to complete a simple design. She must get help, as well as fabric. Expert advice. She must visit the shop.

That night she had packed her bag, but she did not go to find the shop the following day. Day after day went by, and she always found reasons for putting off the visit. A trip to the dentist (though this reminded her to put a toothbrush in the holdall). A doctor’s appointment (ditto paracetamol). A shopping expedition in a neighbour’s car (that was when she had bought the folding knife). It was only that morning, when she woke up, that she had known it was the right day. She had thrown in a few more items: a sunhat, a pair of plimsols, a pen and notepad. She had kissed her mother goodbye, and phoned the carers as she walked away, the leather bag bashing her knees like a malevolent substitute for the arthritic dachshund. ‘Are you still all right for tomorrow? Oh good; that’s kind. I shan’t be able to visit for about a week. I’ve stocked her up – frozen meals and such – but I’d be so grateful if you’d just be willing to keep an eye… You’re so sweet, thank you! See you next week!’ Now, as she stood in front of the shop, she wondered what she’d been thinking. The holdall was very heavy, and the shop very small and ordinary – and besides, her mother might be calling for her even now, in that quavering voice that made you think her frail till you made out what she was saying, the commands, the threats, the imprecations.

She had better go home before she made herself look even more of a fool than she was already.

She raised her eyes to the sign. THE QUILTING SHOP, it continued to say. Quilting: the making of something new from something familiar. She took a deep breath and plunged inside, as if she were plunging into the sea on a chilly morning in early June.

Once inside, she gave hardly a glance to the plastic counter, paid no attention to the distant bell. With a resolution that took her by surprise she marched across the brown linoleum to the curtain that concealed the door on the right of the counter. She swept the curtain aside with a theatrical flourish. Then she stood staring across the rolling fields of barley, the fields of wheat and oats and rye, field after field heaving up and down like breakers towards the dim and distant hills. She gripped her holdall and screwed up her eyes against the rays of the setting sun.

Far, far away, on the crest of a hill, she saw a figure marching away towards the sunset. She thought it was a man dressed in a suit, the jacket of which he had taken off and was carrying loosely across his arm.

She set off after him, walking briskly.

After a while she put down the holdall and began to walk faster.

A few minutes later she began to run.