Filaria - Brent Hayward [64]
Deidre wanted to mention her interest in the sciences, and in the vanished people who had built the world, but she said nothing.
“Was it nice and cozy?” Mingh straw asked. “Living down there?”
Deidre whispered, “Yes, it was.” The girl was mocking her and her life. But she would be strong. “How far beneath Hoffmann City does the world go?”
“A lot farther, sister. All the way to the bottom.”
“And does this war ravage the land there too? Where you’re from?”
“War? Is there a war?” The black-haired girl shrugged. “Hoffmann City’s always burning. It’s hot and dirty there and air is pumped in. Light comes from down windows in the ceiling, most of which are broken. There’s anarchists, atheists, celibates.” She drew a deep breath. “This is the cleanest air that’s ever filled my lungs. You know, chickie, I think these flying men did me a favour, getting me out of the Hoff. Ruined my career, mind you, but prolonged my last few miserable days.”
“Listen.” Conversation with Mingh straw, Deidre decided, was like talking to a demented child, or to Lady. “Do you have any ideas about how we can we get down?” She touched the girl’s upper arm, which felt about as hot as she’d imagined the nearby sun to be.
Shaking Deidre’s hand off, Mingh straw asked, “How old are you, kid?”
“Fourteen.” Deidre was exasperated with these digressions. “I’m fourteen.” She tried to stare the other girl down.
“What a coincidence. That’s how old I’m supposed to look. Or was it twelve? Think we look the same age?”
“I do.”
“Well, I’m thirty seven. Pretty good, no? I’ve taken the cure, child. And I’ve had a little surgery. You know, you could make a lot of money in Hoffmann City, with your blond hair and your crying routine and your torn clothes.”
Deidre said, “All I want to know is if you have any ideas about how to get down.”
“At first, I thought they were air gods. At first.” Mingh straw spoke in a lowered voice now, her expression far away. “And that they were coming for me. Coming for me in anger. But they weren’t gods. Only men.”
Deidre tried not to let herself get pulled along this or any other tangent, but indignant words burbled up inside her and fell out of her mouth before she could stop them: “Men? Twice you’ve called these things men. They are horrid and nasty and they are not men!”
“What’s the distinction?” Mingh straw narrowed one eye and cocked her head.
Above them, the sky made a clanking noise and several drops of warm, viscous liquid fell to spatter Deidre’s thigh.
“Tell me,” Mingh straw insisted. “Is it the wings? Is that what sets them apart? No. Look between their legs.” Leaning forward to poke at Deidre, though Deidre, repulsed, had moved back. “That’s where the real truth lies. That’s what makes them men. Have you looked?”
“I have not,” Deidre said, shocked. But her statement was untrue: she had glimpsed the tiny, pointed penises of the angels, dangling limply within their feathery codpieces. A flush of hot shame burned through her, down to her core, and she snapped, “Leave me alone, all right? Stop talking to me.”
“Little needle dicks, right? That’s what makes them men. If they were gods? Well, I guess gods can have dicks any size they want!” Mingh straw laughed.
“Are you trying to shock me? It’s not working,” Deidre lied, for the second time in as many minutes. “I may be fourteen but I’ve seen my sister in the stable, on her knees in the straw. I’ve seen her. I know what goes on. She talks trash like you. I know what she does to boys.”
“You do?” Mingh straw laughed again, an ugly sound. “Tell me. I’d love to know.”
“Stop talking. Please. Stop talking to me.”
“Okay, sister.” Traces of a grin remained on her face. “I get the hint.”
To Deidre’s relief and surprise, the request for silence was heeded. As hot winds whipped up again, she glanced about; the angels no longer watched but she heard their unpleasant voices nearby. Every so often, one dropped from the nest to soar past her, through suns’ light and down, toward the ruined and smouldering landscape below.