"Not all the way, maybe, but I can get closer. Get a sniff of it."
His appetite for the mystery of the tower was welcome when everyone else was so lethargic, and Howie was loath to part company with him. But wherever Jo-Beth was, it wasn't on the mountain.
"Just come some of the way," the guy said. "You'll get a better view up there. Maybe spot your lady-friend."
That was no bad idea, especially when they had so little time. The unrest in the air was more palpable with every minute that passed.
"Why not?" Howie said.
"I've been looking for the easiest route. Seems to me we're best going back along the beach aways. By the way, who are you? I'm Garrett Byrne. Two R's. No u. Just in case you get to write the obit. You are?"
"Howie Katz."
"I'd shake your hand only mine isn't fit for shaking." He raised the shirt-swathed limb. "I don't know what happened out there but I'll never draft another contract. Maybe I'm glad, you know? It was a fucking dumb business anyhow."
"What was?"
"Entertainment lawyer. You know the joke? What have you got if you've got three entertainment lawyers up to their necks in shit?"
"What?"
"Not enough shit."
Byrne laughed out loud at this.
"Want to see?" he said, unwrapping his hand. It was scarcely recognizable as such. The fingers and thumb had fused and swollen.
"You know what?" he said. "I think it's trying to turn itself into a dick. All those years fucking people with this, just taking them up the ass, and it's finally got the message. It's a dick, don't you think? No, don't tell me. Let's just climb."
Tommy-Ray felt the dream-sea working upon him as he floated, but he didn't waste effort looking to see what changes it was making. He just let the fury that was fuelling those changes come.
Perhaps it was that—the anger and the snot—that brought the phantoms back. He became aware of them as a memory first, his mind picturing their pursuit of him down the empty highways of the Baja, their cloud like tin cans tied to a dog's tail. No sooner thought than felt. A cold wind blew on his face, which was the only part of him showing out of the sea. He knew what was coming. Smelled the tombs, and the dust in the tombs. It wasn't until the sea around him started to churn, however, that he opened his eyes and saw the cloud circling above him. It was not the great storm it had been in the Grove; the destroyer of churches and mommas. It was a mad runty spiral of dirt. But the sea knew it belonged to him, and it began new work on his body. He felt his limbs getting heavier. His face itched furiously. He wanted to say: this isn't my legion. Don't blame me for what they feel. But what was the use of denying it? He was, the Death-Boy, now and always. Quiddity knew it, and worked its work accordingly. There were no lies here. No pretenses. He watched as the spirits descended towards the surface of the sea, their circle centering on him. The fury in Quiddity's ether intensified. He was spun like a top, his motion screwing him down. He tried to throw his arms up over his head, but they were leaden, and the sea simply closed over his head. His mouth was open. Quiddity flooded his throat; his system. In the confusion one simple knowledge—carried by Quiddity, now swallowed in its bitter whole—touched him. That there was an evil coming he had never known the likes of; that no one had ever known the likes of. He felt it in his chest first, then in his stomach and bowels. Finally, in his head, like a blossoming night. It was called Iad, this night, and the chill it brought had no equal on any planet in the system; even those so far from the sun they could bear no life. None owned a darkness this deep, this murderous.
He rose to the surface again. The phantoms had gone, not away, but into him, subsumed into his transforming anatomy as part of Quiddity's work. He was suddenly, perversely, glad of it. There would be no salvation in the night that was coming, except for those who were its allies. Better he should be a death among many deaths, then, when he might have a hope of being passed over in the holocaust.
He took a breath, and expelled it in laughter, putting his remade hands, heavy as they were, up to his face. It had finally taken on the shape of his soul.
Howie and Byrne climbed for several minutes, but however high they got the best view was always above them: the spectacle of the smoke tower. The closer they got the more Byrne's obsession with the sight touched Howie. He began wondering, as he had when the tide had first brought him within sighting distance of the Ephemeris, what great unknown was hiding up there, so powerful it drew the sleepers of the world to its threshold. Byrne was by no means agile, given that he had only one hand available. He repeatedly slipped. But there was no murmur of complaint from him, though with every fall the number of cuts and scrapes on his bare body multiplied. Eyes fixed on the highest reaches of the mountain he pushed on, not seeming to give a damn what damage he did himself as long as he closed the gap between himself and the mystery. Howie found it easy enough to keep up with him, but had to halt every few minutes to survey the scene below from a new vantage point. There was no sign of Jo-Beth along any visible stretch of shore, and he now began to question the wisdom of his coming with Byrne. The journey was increasingly perilous, as the formations they were ascending became steeper, and the bridges they crossed narrower. Beneath the bridges it was a straight fall, usually on to rock. Sometimes, however, there was a glint of Quiddity at the bottom of these chasms, its waters as frenzied as they were beyond the shore.
There were fewer and fewer spirits in the air, but as they crossed an arch no broader than a plank a flight of them passed directly overhead and Howie saw that within each of the lights was a single sinuous line, like a bright snake. Genesis couldn't have been more misguided, or misguiding, he thought, to picture the serpent crushed beneath a human heel. The soul was that serpent, and it could fly.
The sight brought him to a halt, and a decision.
"I'm not going any further," he said.
Byrne looked back at him. "Why not?"
"I've got as good a view of the shore-line as I'm going to get."
The view was by no means comprehensive, but climbing higher wasn't going to improve it significantly. Besides, the figures on the beach below were now so small they were barely recognizable. Another few minutes' ascent and he'd not know Jo-Beth from any other survivor.
"Don't you want to see what's up there?" Byrne said.
"Yes, of course," Howie replied. "But another time." He knew the response was ridiculous. There'd be no other time this side of his death-bed.
"I'll leave you then," Byrne said. He didn't waste breath with a goodbye, fond or otherwise. Instead he turned back to the business of the climb. His body was running with blood and sweat, and he was stumbling now with every second step he took, but Howie knew it was a vain course trying to call him back. Vain, and presumptuous. Whatever kind of life he'd lived—and it sounded to have been lacking charity— Byrne was seizing his last chance to be touched by the holy. Maybe death was the inevitable consequence of such pursuit.
Howie returned his gaze to the scene below. He followed the line of the beach, looking for the least sign of movement. To his left lay the stretch of shore they'd climbed from. He could still see the party of survivors, at the margin of the sea, as mesmerized as ever. To their right, the solitary figure of the Silksheen Woman, the waves that broke against the shore—their boom carried to his ears—large enough to threaten her with acquisition. Beyond her again, the beach upon which he'd first found himself.
It wasn't empty. His heart did double time. There was somebody stumbling along the shore, keeping well away from the encroaching sea. Her hair shone, even at this distance. It could only be Jo-Beth. With the recognition came fear for her. It looked as though every step she took was an agony.