The fatal blow didn't come. Instead, Steep's hand slid from his shoulder, and Will heard the fox say: Oh, I think maybe you should take a look at this.
He wouldn't have attended to any other voice but that. Ungluing his eyes from the spectacle a moment, he glanced back towards Steep. The man was no longer looking at Will. He had himself turned round, and was staring at the figure who had pursued him through the House to this spot. It was Rosa; but only just. To Will's eyes she seemed to have become a wonderful patchwork. The woman she'd once been was still visible, of course: her exquisite features, the ripeness of her body; but the brightness that had seeped from her in Donnelly's house was in greater evidence than ever, flowing copiously from her wound; and as it came it inspired the form inside her form to show itself more plainly.
Will heard Steep say: stay away from me, but there was no weight in his words, nor belief that his order would be obeyed. She kept coming towards him, slowly, lovingly; her arms lifted from her sides a little way, palms out, as though to show him the innocence of her intent. And perhaps it was indeed innocence. Or perhaps this was her last, and slyest, deceit; to play the pliant bride, folded in veils of light, delivering herself to his mercy. If so, it worked. Instead of defending himself against her, he let the brightness wash around him; and he was engulfed.
Will thought he saw a shudder pass through Steep's form, as though Jacob was suddenly aware that he was caught, and was trying to shake himself free. But it was too late. The man he'd been was lost already, his exhausted form flayed away by light, uncovering the mirror image of the face that was even now supplanting the last of Rosa. Will saw her human features make a smile as they were dissolved, then the Nilotic was there in all its burnished perfection; moving through the circling confluence of light to marry its form with the form in Steep. This was the final conundrum, solved. Jacob and Rosa weren't separate creatures; they were each a part of the Nilotic; divided and grown forgetful of who they were. Living in the world with stolen names, learning the cruel assumptions of their gender from what they saw about them; unable to live apart, though it was a torment to be so close to the other, yet never close enough.
Oh, now look what you've done ... Will heard the fox say in his head.
'What's that?'
... you've set me free.
'Don't go yet.'
Oh Lord, Will, I want to be gone.
'Just a little while. Stay with me. Please.'
He heard the fox sigh. Well, the beast said, maybe just a little while ...
Rukenau shuddered in Frannie's embrace. 'Are they whole?' he said. 'I can't see them clearly.'
Frannie was dumb with disbelief. Hearing Rukenau speak of dividing the Nilotic was one thing; seeing that process reversed another entirely.
'Did you hear me?' Rukenau said. 'Are they whole?'
... yes.. .' she murmured.
Rukenau sank back against her arm. 'Oh God in Heaven, the crimes I committed against that creature,' he said. 'Will you forgive me?'
'Me?' Frannie said. 'You don't need forgiveness from me.'
'I'll take it wherever I can find it,' Rukenau replied. 'Please.'
He was clearly in extremis, his voice so frail Frannie had difficulty catching his words; his clownish face slackening. It was, she knew, the last service he would require of her. And if it gave him comfort, why not? She leaned a little closer to him, so that she could be certain he heard her.
'I forgive you,' she said.
He made a tiny nod, and for a moment his eyes focused upon her. Then the sight went out of them, and his life stopped.
The braids of light in which the Nilotic had been wed to itself were dispersing now, and as they did so the creature turned and looked at Will. Simeon had not done too badly with the portrait he'd painted, Will thought. He'd caught the grace of the creature well enough. What he'd failed to capture was the alien cadences of its proportions; its subtle otherness, which made Will a little fearful it would do him harm.
But when it spoke, his fears fled.
'We have come such a distance together,' it said, its voice mellifluous. 'What will you do now?' 'I want to go a little further,' Will replied, glancing back over his shoulder. 'I'm sure you do,' the Nilotic said. 'But believe me when I tell you it wouldn't be wise. Every step we take we go deeper into the living heart of the world. It will take you from yourself, and at last, you will be lost.' 'I don't care.' 'But those who love you will care. They'll mourn you, more than you know. I would not wish to be responsible for another moment's suffering.' 'I just want to see a little more,' Will said. 'How much is a little?' 'I'll let you be the judge of that,' Will said. 'I'll walk with you for a while, and we'll turn back when you tell me it's time.' 'I won't be coming back,' the Nilotic said. 'I intend to unmake the House, and must unmake it from its heart.' 'Then where will you go?' 'Away. From men and women.' 'Is there anywhere like that left?' 'You'd be surprised,' the Nilotic said, and so saying, moved past Will and proceeded on into the mystery. It had not explicitly forbidden Will to follow it, which was all the invitation he needed. He went in cautious pursuit of it, like a spawning fish climbing waters that would have dashed him to death without the Nilotic ahead of him to breast the flow. Even so, he quickly understood the truth in its warnings. The deeper they ventured the more it seemed he was treading not amongst the echoes of the world, but the world itself, his soul a thread of bliss passing into its mysteries. He lay with a pack of panting dogs on a hill overlooking plains where antelope grazed. He marched with ants, and laboured in the rigours of the nest, filing eggs. He danced the mating dance of the bower-bird, and slept on a warm rock with his lizard kin. He was a cloud. He was the shadow of a cloud. He was the moon that cast the shadow of a cloud. He was a blind fish; he was a shoal; he was a whale; he was the sea. He was the lord of all he surveyed. He was a worm in the dung of a kite. He did not grieve, knowing his life was a day long, or an hour. He did not wonder who made him. He did not wish to be other. He did not pray. He did not hope. He only was; and was; and was; and that was the joy of it. Somewhere along the way, perhaps amongst the clouds, perhaps amongst the fish, he lost sight of his guide. The creature that had been, in its human incarnations, both his maker and his tormentor, slipped away and was gone out of his life forever. He was vaguely aware of its departure, and knew its going to be a signal that he should stop and turn round. It had trusted him with his destiny; it was his responsibility not to abuse the gift. Not for his sake, but for those who would mourn him if he was lost to them.
He shaped all these thoughts quite clearly. But he was too besotted to act upon them. How could he turn his back on these glories, with so much more to see?
On he went then, where only souls who had learned the homeward paths by heart dared to go.
ii
I'm a witness, Frannie thought. That's what I'm meant to do right now: watch these events as they unravel, and keep them clear in my head, so that I can be the one who tells everything, when all these wonderful sights have passed away.
And pass they would. That was becoming more evident by the moment. The first sign she had that the House was beginning to unknit was a spatter of cold rain on her head. She looked up. The ceiling of Rukenau's chamber was now dissolving, the living forms that had spilled from it disappearing. They didn't melt, they were just lost to her sight as a more familiar scene reestablished itself. Indeed she was tempted to believe that they remained around her, but simply became unavailable to her senses. She was not altogether unhappy at this. Though the sight of grey clouds shedding grey rain was less inspiring than the glories passing from her view, they had the virtue of familiarity. She was not obliged to gorge on them, afraid she'd miss some choice glory.