He took his time, as she demanded he did, laying his full weight upon her as he climbed to his discharge. And as he climbed, and her shouts of pleasure came back to him off the ceiling and walls, the feeling that had caught him in the passageway came again: that he had been in a place which this palace, for all its glories, could not approach in splendour.
'So bright- he said, seeing its luminescence in his head.
'What's bright?' Rosa gasped.
'The deeper we go ...' he said '... the brighter it gets ...'
'Look at me!' she demanded. 'Jacob! Look at me!'
He thrust on mechanically, his arousal no longer in service of her pleasure, or even his own, but fuelling the vision. The higher he climbed, the brighter it became; as though the spilling of his seed would bring him into the heart of this glory. The woman was writhing under his ass. cult, but he paid her no mind; just pressed on, and on, as the brightness grew, and with it his hope that he would know this place by and by; name it, comprehend it.
The moment was almost upon him; the blaze of recognition certain. A few more seconds, a few more thrusts into her void, and he'd have his revelation.
Then she was pushing him away from her, pushing his body with all her strength. He held on, determined not to be denied his vision, but she was not going to indulge him. For all her squealing and sobbing, she only ever played at subjugation - the way she played at the lost girl, or the needy wife - and now, wanting him away from her, she had only to use her strength. Almost casually, she threw him out and off her, across the gelid bed. Instead of spilling his seed in the midst of revelation, he discharged meekly, in half-finished spurts, too distracted by her violence to catch the vision that had been upon him.
'You were thinking of Rukenau again!' she yelled, sliding off the bed and tucking her breasts from view. 'I warned you, didn't I? I warned you I'd have no part of it!'
Jacob sealed his eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of what had just escaped him. He'd been so close, so very close. But it had gone, like a firework dying in the heavens.
And in the dark, the sound of water, splashing down over him. He opened his eyes - and found that he'd slumped down in the shower, while the icy water continued to berate his skull.
'Christ...' he murmured, reaching up feebly and shutting off the flow. Then he lay gasping and shuddering in the draining water. What the hell was happening to him? First dreams within dreams. Now visions within visions? He was either having the mother of all nervous breakdowns, which was an unpalatable thought to say the least, or else - or else what? That Lord Fox was right? Was that even an option? Was it remotely possible that whatever the animal was -symptom or spirit - it was telling him some kind of metaphysical truth, and all that his skull contained was, like a Russian doll, itself contained? Or rather, that his mind's contents, which included his memories of Steep and a bloodysnouted fox, were paradoxically enveloped by some portion of those contents; Steep indoctrinating him with his own mythology, in which that same bloodysnouted fox had been raised to lordship?
'All right,' he said to the animal, too exhausted to argue with it any longer. 'Suppose for the sake of some peace and quiet I go along with what you're telling me? Does that mean I don't have to think about fucking Rosa any more? Because I'm sorry, that's just not my idea of a fun night on the town. Are you listening to me?'
There was no reply forthcoming from the fox. He hauled himself to his feet, grabbed a towel to wrap around his trembling body, and staggered, still dripping, out onto the landing. It was deserted. He went downstairs. The fileroom, the darkroom, the kitchen were all deserted. The fox had gone.
He sat down at the kitchen table, where the carton of milk he'd been drinking from still stood, and was suddenly, almost inexplicably, overtaken by a fit of gentle laughter. His situation was absurd: he'd spent the night trading metaphysics with a fox, whose only purpose, it seemed, was to open Will's head up to a notion of its own reality. Well, it had succeeded. Whether he was dreaming or being dreamt, whether Steep was in his head, or he in Steep's, whether the fox was myth, mischief or fleabitten proof of his lunacy, it was all part of a journey he had no choice but to take. His recognition of that fact, and his acceptance of it, were curiously comforting. He'd trekked to so many wild places in his life and finally run out of faith with such journeys. But perhaps they had all been taken in order to bring him back home, and set him on a journey he could not have found until he despaired of every other.
He emptied the carton of milk and - still smiling to himself at the absurdity and simplicity of this - went to bed. His sheets were a luxury after the cold bed in Eropkin's palace, and drawing the quilt up around him, he fell into a contented sleep.
CHAPTER IX
From the verandah of what had once been the Portuguese commander's residence in Suhar, in Oman, Jacob had a magnificent view across the Gulf to Jask, and up the coast to the Strait of Hormuz. It was many centuries since the occupiers had vacated the country, and the modest mansion had fallen into grievous decay. Nevertheless, he and Rosa had been very comfortable here for the last twenty-two days. Though the town had dwindled into dusty obscurity since imperialist days, it was notable for one peculiarity. There wandered its streets a band of transvestites, locally known as Xanith, who claimed to be possessed by the spirits of minor female divinities. As ever, Rosa was happiest in the presence of men who pretended her sex, and hearing of this extraordinary tribe had demanded Steep accompany her in search of them, given that she'd been at his side on a number of successful killing sprees of late. He had plenty of work to do on his journals, transposing the notes he'd taken at the extinction sites into a final form, so he agreed to go along with her, though he emphasized that when his work resumed he would be stepping up the scale of his endeavours and would expect her full cooperation. Things had gone well for him of late. A dozen near-certain extinctions in the last seven months, eight of them, it was true, minor forms of South American insect life, but all grist to the fatal mill. And now, all guided into legend by his careful hand.
Today, however, those triumphs seemed very remote. Today his ink and pen lay untouched, because his hands trembled too much. Today all he could do was think about Will Rabjohns.
'What on earth are you obsessing on him for?' Rosa wanted to know when she came upon Jacob, sitting mournfully on the verandah.
'It was the other way about,' he said. 'I hadn't given a thought to him in a very long time. But he's been giving some thoughts to me, apparently.'
'I thought you read me something about him being murdered?' she said, picking up a sliver of tangerine from his abandoned plate and chewing on the bitter rind.
'No, not murdered. Attacked. By a bear.'
'Oh, that's right,' she said. 'He takes pictures of dead animals. You had that book of his-'she tossed the nibbled rind aside and selected a fresh one -that's your influence, I daresay.'
'I'm sure,' Jacob said. Clearly the thought gave him no pleasure. 'The trouble is, influence works both ways.'
'Oh, so you're thinking of becoming a photographer?' Rosa said with a chuckle.
The look Jacob gave her made the rind seem sweet. 'I don't want him in my thoughts,' he said. 'And he's there. Believe me.'
'I believe you,' she said. Then, after a pause: 'May I ... ask how he got there?'
'There are things between him and me I never told you,' Steep replied.
'The night on the hill,' she said flatly.
'Yes.'
'What did you do to him?'
'It's what he did to me-'
'And what was that? Do tell.'
'He's a psychic, Rosa. He saw deep into me. Deeper than I care to look myself. He took me to Thomas...'