The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [84]
"This is it," Wyvern said.
Orphan looked at him. He flexed his fingers. His thumb. It felt… it felt like it always had. But… He looked from Aramis to Wyvern, feeling bewildered, and he said – "Why?"
There was a short silence. The boat bobbed gently on the water.
"Because every move in chess must lead to an endgame," Aramis said, and Orphan thought of the Turk, his pale artificial hands moving across the board in that dim-lit room in Piccadilly, a world and an age away.
He looked at Wyvern. The lizard stared back at him, one-eyed. "Why?" Orphan said again. But again it was Aramis who spoke. "This world is too much of a playground for Wyvern to want to see it invaded by others. Even if they only come here to take the others away. He is, I suspect, more in sympathy with the Bookman in this instance than with his own people. He wouldn't mind seeing you – if by some miracle you succeed to – prevent the launch of the probe. And now, Orphan, it is time for you to go."
Orphan stared at the island. Another island, like Britain, like the Binder's island. No.
Not just another island, he thought. It was the one that had shaped his world, had changed the way history may have been written. More than that, it was the end of his journey, the destination he had been travelling to since that moment by Waterloo Bridge, when he saw Gilgamesh, before going to the Rose to see Lucy… He thought of her again, and knew that he had to go on.
"I swim?" he said.
"We can't land," Aramis said. "The island's defences are quiet so far–" the way he said it wasn't very reassuring – "mainly because of Wyvern. Once you step onto the island, though, it's a different matter. So yes, you swim."
"What are the island's defences?"
It was Wyvern who spoke. "If you're unlucky you might find out," he said.
Orphan realised his clothes were dirty and smelled of smoke, and blood. The beginning of a beard, like a forest fire, spread itchily on his face. He didn't speak. There was nothing more to say. He took a deep breath, lowered himself over the side of the boat, and slid into the water.
It was warm, and he ducked his head into the water and felt grime and stink wash off him. When he raised his head again it was in time to watch the boat and its two strange occupants glide away. Orphan shook his head, spraying water, then dived again. He felt suddenly free, here on the edge of the island, alone in the water. It's a shame I can't stay like this forever, he thought. But it was not real freedom, he realised. It was the freedom that comes from lack of choice and, moreover, was the kind that only came with decisions delayed. It was a freedom of inaction.
He edged forward, kicked once, and began swimming towards the shore.
Things had been going smoothly, relatively speaking, until the insect came.
Orphan stood very still.
The insect reclined on his arm. The creature was as large as Orphan's fist. Its thin, transparent wings reflected rainbows. Two thick, black feelers touched Orphan's skin. A faint mechanical humming came from the insect. Bright compound eyes seemed to record him from every angle.
He had come out on the beach and saw no prints in the black sand, no sign of living things. For a while he had lain there, drying in the sun. Already it was getting hot. After a while, driven by hunger more than anything else, he rose and started climbing the low hill.
Vegetation was sparse. The landscape was rocky, dry – almost dead, he thought. When he crested the hill he stopped and involuntarily crouched down.
Not so dead.
From his vantage point he could see new parts of the island. The hills, he saw, spread out from where he was, and quite possibly ringed the island, effectively hiding the interior from view. But as for the interior… Ahead of him the ground sloped down into a dense forest. Trees whose names he didn't know rose high into the skies, their