The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [110]
"He put me in an airship. It piloted itself. I don't know how. I had some food. He gave me that at least. Salted fish, some vegetables and bread, fresh water. I ate sparingly, relieved myself over the sea when I needed to. The food wasn't enough. The water ran out before I sighted land."
"But you made it!"
The other laughed again. He did not move from the bed. "Yes," he said. "At last I landed, starved and dehydrated. On the coast of the Irish Sea. How I got there I don't know. I had pretty much lost all direction by then." He coughed, which took a while, then continued. "I made my way south, but slowly. The roads are not safe any more, but I managed. Perhaps no one saw fit to rob me." He sighed, a long and tired sound. "It was only when I got into the city that my luck changed. I was set on by a group of lizard boys – did you see them? They appear to be everywhere now, running in gangs, terrorising the streets. I was beaten up, and when the police arrived I was the one to be arrested. Maybe they thought it was for my own good. These cells might be the safest place in the city right now. And all the while it spoke to me, it is speaking to me, whispering, though I can no longer hear the drums."
"It? What is it?"
And he thought – the Translation?
"It looks like an egg," the other said, sounding surprised. "I don't know why. I thought it would be a book. It is only small, and very pretty. The colours… I can see them even in the dark."
The Translation. But he didn't even understand what it was. A story, told him by Byron in a smoky pub. A legend, an article of faith for those who had nothing else. Could it be real? And what did it do?
"Do you have it still?" he said. There was no answer. "Do you have the egg?"
"It is with me, always. I can hear it, awake or asleep."
"Show me."
Silence.
"Show me!"
The other rose. He came close to the bars again. His eyes stared into Orphan's. "It isn't yours," he said.
"Show me."
The other reached into his clothes. When his hand emerged, it held a pouch, which he loosed and upended.
A small, smooth round object fell into his palm.
Orphan looked at it. It was made of a green metal, eerily lit, and seemed almost to absorb light, so that for a moment the cells were even darker. It seemed to pulse slowly in the other's hand, like a heart plucked out of a body still beating.
Somehow, it seemed to be whispering to him, like the distant echoes of drums, speaking in a mechanical language that weaved and merged and changed with each beat, and he found himself entranced by it, lost in the circles and lines of the beat, reaching for a meaning that was waiting for him, on the cusp of understanding…
"It speaks to me," the other said. "I can hear them. All of them. The dead… they live still, in the Bookman's dark domain. They never leave me in peace!"
Orphan stared at him. Almost, he could hear voices, whispering in his ear, growing louder. He said, "What do you mean?"
The other giggled, a sudden, startling sound. "I can show you," he said.
"Show me what?"
"Not what," the other said. "Who." He held the Translation tightly in his hand. "You can bring them back, for a short time. Like ghosts. They like to talk. Always talk!"
"Lucy?" Orphan whispered, but the other shook his head. "No."
"What do you mean?" He was shouting. The other shook his head. "I don't know. But I can show you." He was like a child with a toy, jealous of it and yet wanting to display it, to show it off. "Here."
The other moved his hand. The egg glowed. The other giggled. "He is my friend," he said–
A figure materialised in the cell, slowly, like motes of dust assembling into a shape as light plays on them. It had a face that Orphan knew. And it smiled. Its eyes were blind.
"Orphan," Gilgamesh said. "I see you've been busy."
He had Gilgamesh's face, Gilgamesh's unseeing eyes, yet his voice was ethereal, without substance. It seemed to float