You see, I was just rooted there, watching this monstrous thing, plunging through the air at me. Where it landed would be where I stood. It would land on me, perhaps just breaking me instantly in two. That would save it some time.
God (that is a prayer, I think) God knows, I didn’t have any thoughts. I just thought in a scream. Though I couldn’t scream aloud.
And then the tiger-rabbit came down and it wasn’t on me, but about a yard away in a clump of hibiscus.
Cats play with their prey. Was this playing with me?
It was crouched there, on all fours. Its eyes glittered and its mouth was redly open. I missed something – its tail would be wagging – wouldn’t it? But then, did it have a tail? If so, which sort – long and barred like a tiger’s, or a powder-puff thing like a rabbit’s?
Venn walked on to the path.
I said, ‘What tail does it have?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Its t-t-t-tai-lll—’ Suddenly I couldn’t speak. I found I’d sat down, quite gracefully, on the path.
Venn made that tstch sound elderly people sometimes do when they’re annoyed with you.
Thunder and lightning collided overhead.
In the flash I thought the rabbit-tiger moved – but it didn’t. The jungle went luminously black and again rain crackled through.
‘Why isn’t it?’ I said. I could speak after all.
‘What?’
What? Did I know what I was saying?
‘Why isn’t it killing me? Has it … got bored?’
But I could just make him out, moving through the harp-strings of the rain, bending over – it.
‘I did tell you,’ said Venn, with cold reasonableness.
‘To stay in the gardens,’ I said. I said, ‘Is that – a vrabburr?’
‘Yes.’
I got up. The rain felt wonderful. The point was, I hadn’t thought I’d still be alive to feel it. Coming over to the hibiscus, I looked and saw the vrabburr had a tail. It was a tiger’s tail, long as a bell-rope, but tufted with a black rabbit’s puffball.
What was Venn doing? He was squeezing the vrabburr’s right forepaw. Shaking hands?
‘You were exceedingly lucky,’ said Venn.
‘Hurrah.’
It didn’t have any smell, the vrabburr. And it was beautifully clean and tidy, even crouched there in the rain.
‘It’s a doll,’ I said.
‘In a way.’
I started to sing a happy song from long ago. Realized and shut up.
‘You’re hysterical,’ he remarked. Hysterical Claidi, how tiresome for him.
‘Oh – scrowth-cha-chaari!’ I shouted.
‘That doesn’t seem likely.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t eat much fur,’ he said. He went on squeezing the vrabburr’s paw. I’d realized, this must be like turning a sort of key, to wind it up, but nothing was happening. Oh, it was my fault, no doubt. I’d ruined it by somehow not letting it tear me to pieces. Venn stood back. His curly hair was flattened and black in the dark rain.
I said, ‘What does scrowth-cha-chaari mean?’
‘May you get fur-balls.’
The vrabburr blinked.
‘It’s all right now,’ he said, as if I cared. ‘We have about three minutes before it starts up again. You’d better come with me.’
Humbly I trudged after him, off the path, through the dripping boughs and vines.
‘You often come out here?’ Why was I trying to make conversation?
‘Now and then. I don’t go far.’
‘Are they clockwork?’ I asked.
‘What? The vrabburrs? No, not all. That’s why you were so lucky.’
Lucky me.
Presently – it was almost black as night, blacker, without the Wolf Star – we came up against a bank. Rock, ferns, bamboos, a door. Door?
Venn did something to the door, it opened, and he went into the rockside. I, of course, followed. I sometimes wonder what is the matter with me. But at least we were out of the rain and horror-rabbit range.
It was a tunnel, lit by some other sort of magical light. Otherwise, it was a bit like the tunnels that led around from the House through the Garden. Like the one I used to escape through, with Nemian, which also went out under a wall.
Then, a hollow with an ironwork gate. I recognized it.
‘You have lifters, like in the City.’
‘Lifts? Oh, yes.’
He stood back gallantly to let me go in. I’d always hated the lifters in the Wolf Tower. I didn’t like this one either. It was very bumpy.
Up and up we bumped. I thought, Oh, we’re going up into his rock-tower, under the gold globe, where he has that so original oil lamp. I am honoured.
I was right, too. When the lift-lifter arrived, we stepped out into this eight-sided room lined with books, and with dark old polished chairs and a table, and a stair going up into a high dome with a round glass window looking like half a cut orange. The sky looked orange through the glass, too. And I could see part of the gold globe that sits on top of the rock.
It reminded me slightly of the black wolf statue on the Wolf Tower.
He was towelling his hair with a cloth. There was no light but the orange storm-light. He didn’t look like Argul, or Nemian, or anyone. He looked like a young man who’d got rained on.
There was a wine-red rug. I stood and dripped on it.
Lots of books. And some little enamel figures. And a bird – I hadn’t noticed it before – the white owl, on a perch, snoozing near the window with the famous lamp.
I have to admit, it was a good room. Interesting and lived-in. Comfortable, which surprised me. Not comfortable for me, of course.
‘Oh, have this,’ he grudgingly said, handing me another mop-up cloth.
But it was warm, even at night it’s never worse than cool. My hair was already drying.
Above, around, the storm crackled and flicked its tawny vrabburr tail.
‘I suppose you’ll want tea, or a cordial.’
‘Will I?’
‘At least you haven’t fainted away,’ he disgustedly added.
This was the sort of thing that happened with Nemian, all over again. This fool thought I was sensitive, a lady, royalty. Claidis.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘it’s time we got a few things straight.’
He gave me that look again, scared of my time-wasting and annoyance-potential. He sat down
