Is your tea all right? It’s very hard to get the water hot enough this high. Have I said that before? Ignore me – the flashbacks. Did I tell you I’m dying? But it’s good to see you; oh how long is it?
And Richard? The children? And Grangegorman? And is Ireland... of course. What I would give for an eyeful of green, for a glimpse of summer sun, a blue sky.
So, I have been a conman and a lover, a soldier and an addict, and now I end my time as a revolutionary. It is surprisingly easy. The Group of Seven does the work: I release gnomic pronouncements that run like grassfire from here to Egayhazy. I did come up with the Blue Empress motif – the Midnight Glory – blooming in the dark, under the breath of the high snows. Apt. They’re not the most poetic of people, these potters. We drove the Duke of Yoo from the Valley of the Kilns and the Ishtar Plain: she is resisted everywhere but she will not relinquish her claim on the altiplano so lightly. You’ve been in Egayhazy – you seen the forces she has up here. Armies are mustering and my agents report ’rigibles coming through the passes in the Palisades. An assault will come. The Duke has an alliance with House Shorth – some agreement to divide the altiplano up between them. We’re outnumbered. Outmanoeuvred and outsupplied and we have nowhere to run. They’ll be at each other’s throats within a Great Day but that’s a matter of damn for us. The Duke may spare the kilns – they’re the source of wealth. Matter of damn to me. I’ll not see it, one way or other. You should leave, Ida. Pula and local wars – never get sucked into them.
Ah. Unh. Another flashback. They’re getting briefer, but more intense, Ida, you are in danger. Leave before night – they’ll attack in the night. I have to stay. The Merciful One, the Seer, the Prophet of the Blue Pearl can’t abandon his people. But it was good, so good of you to come. This is a terrible place. I should never have come here. The best traps are the slowest. In you walk, through all the places and all the lives and all the years, never thinking that you are already in the trap, and then you go to turn around and it has closed behind you. Ida, go as soon as you can... go right now. You should never have come. But... – oh, how I hate the thought of dying up here on this terrible plain! To see Ireland again...
PLATE 12: V volanti musco: Air-moss. The papercut shows part of a symbiotic lighter-than-air creature of the Venerian highlands. The plant part consists of curtains of extremely light hanging moss that gather water from the air and low clouds. The animal part is not reproduced.
Shredded paper, gum.
HE CAME TO the door of his porcelain house, leaning heavily on a stick, a handkerchief pressed to mouth and nose against the volcanic fumes. I had tried to plead with him to leave, but whatever else he has become, he is a Hyde of Grangegorman and stubborn as an ould donkey. There is a wish for death in him; something old and strangling and relentless with the gentlest eyes.
“I have something for you,” I said and I gave him the box without ceremony.
His eyebrows rose when he opened it.
“Ah.”
“I stole the Blue Empress.”
“I know.”
“I had to keep it out of Patrick’s hands. He would have broken and wasted it like he broke and wasted everything.” Then my slow mind, so intent on saying this confession right, that I had practised on the space-crosser, and in every room and every mode of conveyance on my journey across this world, flower to flower, story to story: my middle-aged tripped over Arthur’s two words. “You knew?”
“All along.”
“You never thought maybe Richard, maybe Father, or Mammy, or one of the staff?”
“I had no doubt that it was you, for those very reasons you said. I chose to keep your secret, and I have.”
“Arthur, Patrick is dead, Rathangan is mine. You can come home now.”
“Ah, if it were so easy!”
“I have a great forgiveness to ask from you, Arthur.”
“No need. I did it freely. And do you know what, I don’t regret what I did. I was notorious – the Honourable Arthur Hyde, jewel thief and scoundrel. That has currency out in the worlds. It speaks reams that none of the people I used it on asked to see the jewel, or the fortune I presumably had earned from selling it. Not one. Everything I have done, I have done on with a reputation alone. It’s an achievement. No, I won’t go home, Ida. Don’t ask me to. Don’t raise that phantom before me. Fields of green and soft Kildare mornings. I’m valued here. The people are very kind. I’m accepted. I have virtues. I’m not the minor son of Irish gentry with no land and the arse hanging out of his pants. I am the Merciful One, the Prophet of the Blue Pearl.”
“Arthur, I want you to have the jewel.”
He recoiled as if I had offered him a scorpion.
“I will not have it. I will not touch it. It’s an ill-favoured thing. Unlucky. There are no sapphires on this world. You can never touch the Blue Pearl. Take it back to the place it came from.”
For a moment I wondered if he was suffering from another one of his hallucinating seizures. His eyes, his voice were firm.
“You should go Ida. Leave me. This is my place now. People have tremendous ideas of family – loyalty and undying love and affection: tremendous expectations and ideals that drive them across worlds to confess and receive forgiveness. Families are whatever works. Thank you for coming. I’m sorry I wasn’t what you wanted me to be. I forgive you – though as I said there is nothing to forgive. There. Does that make us a family now? The Duke of Yoo is coming, Ida. Be away from here before that. Go. The town people will help you.”
And with a wave of his handkerchief, he turned and closed his door to me.
I WROTE THAT last over a bowl of altiplano mate at the stickmen’s caravanserai in Yelta, the last town in the Valley of the Kilns. I recalled every word, clearly and precisely. Then I had an idea; as clear and precise as my recall of that sad, unresolved conversation with Arthur. I turned to my valise of papers, took out my scissors and a sheet of the deepest indigo and carefully, from memory, began to cut. The stickmen watched curiously, then with wonder. The clean precision of the scissors, so fine and intricate; the difficulty and accuracy of the cut absorbed me entirely. Doubts fell from me: why had I come to this world? Why had I ventured alone into this noisome valley? Why had Arthur’s casual accepting of what I had done, the act that shaped both his life and mine, so disappointed me? What had I expected from him? Snip went the scissors, fine curls of indigo paper fell from them on to the table. It had always been the scissors I turned to when the ways of men grew too much. It was a simple cut. I had the heart of it right away, no false starts, no new beginnings. Pure and simple. My onlookers hummed in appreciation. Then I folded the cut into my diary, gathered up my valises and went out to the waiting spider-car. The eternal clouds seem lower today, like a storm front rolling in. Evening is coming.
I WRITE QUICKLY, briefly.
Those are no clouds. Those are the ’rigibles of the Duke of Yoo. The way is shut. Armies are camped across the altiplano. Thousands of soldiers and javrosts. I am trapped here. What am I to do? If I retreat to Glehenta I will meet the same fate as Arthur and the Valley people – if they even allow me to do that. They might think that I was trying to carry a warning. I might be captured as a spy. I do not want to imagine how the Duke of Yoo treats spies. I do not imagine my Terrene identity will protect me. And the sister of the Seer, the Blue Empress. Do I hide in Yelta and hope they will pass me by? But how could I live with myself knowing that I had abandoned Arthur?