Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [128]
“But d’Ussonville was never Transphered,” protested Brentford, though he had already understood how it could have happened. “Unless … it was Plastisine.”
“Yes, from what I can gather, Igor Plastisine’s metabolism was pure Pineapples and Plums when he met Myrtle. He may have triggered something in her that she was never conscious enough to notice but that she passed straight on to the children she was carrying, whether they were Igor’s or Edmund’s—something sufficiently strong to keep them alive while they were borne by a dead mother. Maybe this was the message or, more exactly, the riddle Isabella wanted to convey to us by coming back to the city: these children, Brentford, are the only way the Seven Sleepers can come back and save the city. Because there’s one more thing that I have forgotten to tell you and that you, of all people, should know.”
“Drum roll, please …” said Brentford, who had become wary of Gabriel’s own Book of Revelations.
“I saw the Seven Sleepers rotting in the Scavengers’ Arcaves. The Council had tried to sink their cryogenic coffins in a canal.”
Brentford was thunderstruck.
“Blankbate did not tell me of this.”
“He did not want to spoil your wedding, I suppose. Or was keeping it for the right moment. Or he just didn’t care.”
“And why would the Council do such a thing?”
Gabriel shrugged his shoulders.
“Maybe they’re more afraid of the prophecies than they want to admit. Maybe they didn’t want to take any chances that the Sleepers would return.”
The Anarchists were totally befuddled, and looked at each other wide-eyed. Only Hardenberg, a frown creasing his large forehead, seemed to be pondering what he had heard. He was the one who spoke first.
“That changes everything, then.”
Brentford thought he knew what he meant, but wanted to make sure.
“In what respect?” he asked.
“It means, Mr. Orsini, that the Council has betrayed its own duty to the Sleepers and that their power is now devoid of any authority. You are now, if you’ll allow me such unholy words, a legitimist and your revolution is a restoration.”
“I have never believed a word of this prophecy about the Sleepers’ return.”
“Of course, you haven’t. But the question is not to believe it or not, it is whether to make it come true or not. Do it, and believe me, it will become believable.”
During the last few minutes, and though he did his best to hide it, Brentford had felt a rising tide of excitement within himself. As he had written, in a moment of elation in A Blast on the Barren Land “the axe was at the root of the tree.” Ideally, he had just to seize it and swing it to fell the Council in a thunderous crash of dynastic branches. But he saw himself more as someone who pointed people in the right direction—he just never thought that he would have to lead the charge. Something in him still hesitated to take a step that would be both the first and the final one. He was true to New Venice, but two loyalties fought within him, that of the letter and that of the spirit. Of course, if he put it that way, it was because he had already decided. A thrill ran through him.
“Since you’re tempting your neighbour, and offering kingdoms to him, Mr. Hardenberg, you will not be surprised if I ask you to give us some kind of proof of your powers.”
“Our peculiar kind of magic deals only with reality. Be careful what you ask for.”
“What can you do to save the Inuit independentists?”
“Oh, that!” said Hardenberg, taking his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “It has already started. Herr Treschler should be ready by now, if you want to follow us …”
Treschler had not been part of the excursion but instead had been busying himself on a terrace of the castle with both a reflecting telescope and a box covered with studs and dials and topped with a swivelling antenna ending in a silvery ball. As the others rejoined him, the telescope was pointed at an aurora Borealis that had broken out just above the top of