Calm down, calm down, Bascule, Mr Zoliparia says; I'm not saying you ought to turn her in. I'm just saying that's the law and you better not tell people she can talk if you want to keep her. That's all I'm saying. Anyway she's just little and so nice and easy to hide. If you look after her you'll be fine. May I — ? he starts to say, then he stares above me and his eyes go wide and he says, What the fuck? and I'm quite shocked because I've never heard Mr Zoliparia swear like that and then there's a shadow over the balcony and a noise like a snapping sail-wing and a gust of wind, and — before I can do anything except start to turn round — a huge bird, grey and bigger than a man, suddenly clatters down onto the parapet of the balcony, grabs at the box and the bread and flaps its wings down and launches away again screeching, while Ergates goes 'Eek!' and I'm up on my feet and so's Mr Zoliparia and I can see the bird lowering its head as it beats away and pecking at what it's got in its talons and it's eating the bread! and Ergates is stuck in the bird's talons! Caught between a talon and a bit of bread, her little antennae waving and one leg out waving too and that's the last I see of her because the distance gets too great, and I hear Ergates screaming 'Bascuuule!' meanwhile I'm shouting and Mr Zoliparia's shouting too but the big bird lifts away and disappears up over the edge of the roof and Ergates is gone and I'm bereft.
TRANSLATION — TWO — 4
Bascule, I know this is hard for you, but for goodness sakes boy, it was only a damn ant.
It was a most special and unique ant Mr Zoliparia I tell him and I feel responsible for what happened to her.
We're inside the eyeball of the septentrional gargoyle Rosbrith, in Mr Zoliparia's study. Mr Zoliparia has a thing called a telephone in his study you can speak into (didn't even know he had it — think he's a bit embarrassed about it to tell the truth). Anyway, he just got in touch with the guard to report what happened after I'd insisted, though he'd only report that the bird had stolen a valuable antique box, not an ant. (Actually, the box isn't an antique at all but that isn't what matters.) I'd have tried calling the guard myself as soon as it happened but I know from past experience they wouldn't listen to me because I'm young.
We'd been hoping that maybe the bird what had stolen Ergates was one of them ringed eyes with cameras and stuff, or one of them being followed round by little buzzer-bugs for a wildlife screen program or the purposes of scientific research but I guess it was a bit of a long shot and sure enough the answer was no to both. The guard took some details but Mr Zoliparia doesn't hold out much hope of them doing anything.
You mustn't blame yourself, it was an accident, Bascule.
I know that, Mr Zoliparia, but it was an accident I could have prevented if I'd been more observant and watchful and just plain diligent in general. What was I thinking of, letting her eat that bread on the balustrade like that? Especially when I seen them birds in the distance. I mean; bread! Everybody know birds love bread! (I slap my hand off my forehead, thinking what an idiot I've been.)
O Bascule, I'm sorry too on account of me being the host and all; this happening in my home and I should have taken more care too, but what's done is done.
Is it though, Mr Zoliparia? You really think so?
What you mean, young Bascule?
I'm a teller, Mr Zoliparia, you mustn't forget that. (I screws up my eyes at this point, to show him I mean business.) Them birds —
Bascule, no! You can't go doing that sort of thing! You crazy or something child? You'll only go and scramble your brains you try any of that sort of nonsense.
I just smile.
I don't know what you know of what a teller does but now might be as good a time as any to tell you if you don't know (them that does can happily skip the next 5 or 6 paragraphs and get back to the story).
Basically, a teller fishes into the crypt and pulls out some old boy or girl and asks them questions and answers their questions. It's kind of half archaeological research and half social work if you want to look at it coldly and are happy to ignore what people call the spiritual side of it.
'Course it's all a bit murky and weird down there in the crypt and most bags (that's Boys and Girls remember) get a bit spooked even thinking about contacting the dead let alone actually welcoming them into their heads and having a natter with them. To us tellers though it's just something we do as a matter of course and no bother … well, providing you are careful, naturally (admittedly there aren't a lot of old tellers around, though that's mostly because of what they call natural wastage).
Anyway, the point is that tellers use their natural skills to delve into the crypt, partly to find out things from the past and partly to fulfil pledges and bequests what the relevant order has taken on. My order is called the Little Big Brothers of the Rich and we originally just looked after the encrypted souls of people what were very well off indeed thank-you-very-much but our remit has broadened a bit since then and now apparently we'll talk to any old rif raf if they got something interesting to say.
Now, the thing is this; just as the deeper you go into the crypt the hazier and more corrosive down there things get, so the longer it is since you died the more kind of disassociated you get from reality, and, eventually, even if you want to stay in some kind of human form, you just can't support that sort of complexity, and one of the things that might happen after that is that you get shunted into the animal kingdom; your personality, such as it is by then, is transferred into a panther or a roc or cat or a simurg or a shark or eagle or whatever. It's actually considered something of a privilege; loads of bags think there's nothing better than being a bird or something similar.
Of course, these animals is still linked into the crypt by their own implants, and thusly their brains is potentially available to a teller, though this is a pretty irregular — not to say kind of dangerous — occurrence. Irregular because nobody ever does it. Dangerous because what you are basically trying to do as a teller in such a circumstance is to try to fit your human size mind inside a bird size one. Takes some finessing, but I've always had this theory that because my thoughts come out with a spin on them, so to speak, I'm especially good at coping with two different thought modes at once, and so more than capable of taking on the task of becoming a bird and flying into their area of the crypt.
This, you may have gathered, is exactly what I am proposing to do, and Mr Zoliparia is not too enamoured of the idea.
Bascule, please, he says, attempt to retain a sense of proportion. It's only an ant and you are only a junior teller.
For sure, Mr Zoliparia, I says. But I'm a teller what hasn't even begun to be stretched yet. I'm a great teller. I'm a total blinking hot-shot teller and I just know I can find that bird.
And do what? Mr Zoliparia shouts. The damn ant is probably dead! That bird's probably eaten it by now! Why you want to torture yourself by finding that out?
If so, I want to know, but anyway I don't think that's right; I'm banking on her having been dropped by that big bird and I'm hoping it might remember where, or —
Bascule you are upset. Why don't you just go back to the order and try to calm down and think this —
Mr Zoliparia, I says quietly, I thank you for your concern but I intend to do this no matter what you say. Cheers all the same.