Un Lun Dun - China Mieville [45]
Obaday was working on the sheet with his quick fingers. He whipped scissors from his pocket and cut shapes from it. He plucked pins from his head, attached bits together, pulled a white-threaded needle from his scalp, and began to sew at incredible speed.
In less than two minutes he was done.
“Here,” he said to Deeba. “Hold out your hand.” He pulled onto it the single glove he had made her.
Deeba flexed her fingers. The ancient paper was so soft it did not crinkle, but folded like felt. The glove was covered in words, snips of sentences and the ends of paragraphs, in ancient-looking print that was hard to read.
“Something to keep us in mind,” the book said.
“It’s gorgeous,” Deeba said. “I…She’ll love it.”
“If she sees it,” Brokkenbroll said, looking uncomfortable. “Which is probably not appropriate.”
Mortar and Lectern were staring at the glove as if they were about to have heart attacks.
“Oh, leave it, you two,” the book said. “My pages. I can do what I want.”
“Now don’t worry,” said Unstible. “We’ll keep UnLondon safe.”
“And help your friend,” said the Unbrellissimo.
Curdle came rolling out of the shadows and leapt up into Deeba’s arms. The little carton nuzzled up to her.
“Sorry Curdle,” she whispered. “But I can’t take you.” The carton whined. “You wouldn’t like it. You’d get thrown out, by mistake. End up in a dump. Or burnt.”
Curdle forlornly shook its opening.
“No,” said Deeba. “You have to stay.” She looked around for the most responsible-seeming person on the bridge. “Lectern…thank you for everything. And…would you look after it?”
Lectern looked surprised.
“Of course,” she said after a moment, and took the carton. Curdle made a sound like whimpering.
“Be good,” Deeba said.
“Remember,” said Brokkenbroll quietly, crouching by Deeba’s side. “We don’t know what state this’ll leave the Shwazzy in. Treat her gently. Give her no shocks. Don’t force her to think about things she’s not ready to.
“Mortar?” he said, and tapped his wrist. “If you would?”
Mortar beckoned Deeba. As gently as she could, she wheeled Zanna towards the end of the bridge.
She turned and waved. Lectern, Obaday, Jones and Skool, and even one or two of the binja waved back. Curdle was trying to pull away from Lectern’s hands and follow Deeba.
“The farther from one end to the other, the harder,” Mortar said. “And to stretch from UnLondon to London is a very long way indeed, across the Odd. We’re going to have to tap into a lot of energy.”
In the distance, Deeba could see the UnLondon-I speed up. The colossal waterwheel turned faster and faster, churning the Smeath into a froth.
“This is going to take it out of me,” Mortar said.
The end of the bridge was close. The strange UnLondon streets were only a few steps away now. “Hold on…” said Mortar. He had a nosebleed.
“It’s hurting you!” Deeba said.
“Just…a bit…farther…” Mortar said, his teeth gritted.
The whine of the spinning waterwheel sounded dangerous now, and Deeba was about to insist that they stop, and there was something funny about the streets ahead; then Mortar did stop, and pointed violently and suddenly, and Deeba stumbled forward, shoving the wheelbarrow off the end of the bridge—
—and into her estate. Onto the walkway on the first floor, next to her front door.
In London.
The moon was shining down through clouds. Somewhere nearby a cat called out; then silence returned. The windows around Deeba were dark.
Jutting from the walkway behind her was the Pons Absconditus. It arched out over the yard of the estate. She couldn’t see its other end. Mortar stood on it, raised his hand.
From somewhere, there was the noise of scattering bottles. Deeba turned for a moment, and when she looked back the bridge was gone.
She stood still for a long time.
Eventually she unlocked her front door. She pushed it open with her right hand, wearing the glove made from the book. She