Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [152]
These the words the Frost-fiend uttered:
“Let us now agree together,
Neither one to harm the other,
Never in the course of ages,
Never while the moonlight glimmers
On the snow-capped hills of Northland.
Brentford thanked him, more moved than he allowed himself to show.
Finally, he reached Hyperboree Hall. It looked deserted in the cloudy moonlight, but atop the magnificent floor map, he could make out a dark shape, sprawled on its back all over Frislandia Island.
Brentford sat on the fountain ledge, unfastening his bow tie.
The shape made a move, and with a screech, a can of Ringnes beer slid upright toward Brentford.
“A drink. In a helmet,” said Gabriel, in a somewhat slurred voice.
Why is it that people were suddenly constantly pushing beverages on him? Did they want to poison him? Brentford chuckled to himself. He wondered how long it would be before he took that threat seriously. He took one sip.
“How was your day, then?” he asked.
“Ups and downs, you know,” answered Gabriel, who had done nothing all day but running and jumping to avoid the odd stray bullet. He had seen the revolution from above, like little figurines in a model city, and however much he approved of it, he found that was the best view of it. But mostly, he had been mourning his lost love. Thinke now no more to heare of warme fine-odour’d snow: such was his serrat, now, the magic formula that was only his own and by which he would live henceforward. His thighs ached from his repeated leaps and he had taken a pinch of Sweet Surf Silicium to cool down a little. He lay on his back, tides and ebbs of white noise in his ears, the only man to hear the motionless waves of the frozen sea as they crashed upon the shore. He looked through the dome openings and thought of the light of the stars and how it belonged to everyone, like the air or the earth. Who could be so vain and stupid as to claim that as his own? He tried to shake himself from his lethargy.
“So we’re on to some Golden Age?” he managed to say.
“It seems,” said Brentford, not sure himself if he was joking or not. “It is now officially the land of milk and honey. Money will flow and manna will fall. I heard you already had a gift from Hardenberg, by the way.”
The answer came back with a curious lag.
“It’s a farewell present from Stella, actually. It must be close to you, on your left.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Brentford said. Wasn’t today supposed to be a celebration? A day of solace for every wrecked marriage or love? He had not noticed in the dim light the frame resting against the fountain. He lifted it and moved it about until he could faintly see something. It was some sort of Renaissance engraving.
“Looks nice. What is it? Dürer?
“The Seven Trumpets are Given to the Angels.”
“It looks like it’s on parchment.”
“Almost. It’s fresh human skin.”
Brentford shivered and put down the framed tattoo with disgust, as if he feared to have bloodstains on his hands. He did not want to know more about this atrocity. He had found revolution easy, but apparently it had been harder for some.
No wonder Gabriel did not feel too happy or talkative. He could understand, he thought. When he had shown him the first draft of A Blast, Gabriel had said that the only true community worthy of that name that he knew was that of lovers, a society against society. Now that Brentford had got his own community, Gabriel had lost his. But