'Now people are living, but they're dying too. That's not right.' He moved his hand up her leg to stroke the gentle curve of her calf through her jeans.
'We'd forgotten how to feel anything. We were wasting our lives, and it must be one of the great ironies of the moment that when there was a chance we all might lose everything, we finally started to appreciate things.'
'You don't know what you've got until you're in danger of losing it.' His hand moved over her knee to her thigh; she didn't flinch, or make any attempt to push it away.
'Let's face it: this is the place where memories are made. How many people can say that?'
'Is that enough?'
''Course it is.' She smiled, put her hand on the back of his. But instead of pushing it off her leg, she pulled it towards her, over her hip, on to her side, and up, until he was overbalanced and falling on top of her. She manoeuvred herself until she was on her back, looking into his face. Her smile was open and honest and for an instant he was back in those early days, just after Albert Bridge, when they had spent their time piecing together the first clues about the unfolding nightmare. And with that remembrance came a blinding revelation: he had felt strongly about her from almost the moment he had seen her, as if they were of one kind, one heart. But in his despairing mood after Marianne's death any emotion had been muffled. Even when that had finally cleared, his feelings had been in such chaos that nothing made sense. But now he saw it clearly.
He loved her.
And he could see in the opal shimmer of her eyes that she loved him too; secretly he'd always known it. But the difference now was that she could see his feelings as well.
She pulled his head down and kissed him gently on the lips; she tasted faintly of lemon, her skin smelled clean, her dark hair felt silky in his fingers. And her smile was strong, with so much in it; it was all so heady. She was right; the end of the world didn't matter, the conflicts and power games of other people, all the petty concerns of the outside world. Inside was all that mattered; inside their heads, inside their relationships. The places where memories were made.
Ruth felt like crying, she felt like laughing. She'd managed to convince herself it was a package of sensations she'd never ever appreciate, except by proxy, in books and films and the wilting, easily discounted conversations of friends: that ocean swell of the senses, filling her throat, her head. She'd told herself that failure to feel wouldn't be so bad; there were always things to do and see. And now she could see how ridiculous that had been. A life touched by this could never be filled by anything ever again; except more of it, and more, and more, and more. She could keep the fear at bay now; not a fear of being alone, in a holding hands in the park way; she was too strong and confident to need someone to fill her time. But of being alone in the human race; we weren't made that way, she thought.
And here it was. If the world fell apart, and the stars rained into the void, it was all right. It was all all right.
They stripped the clothes from each other with a sensuality that was slow and measured; unfocused passion would let it all slip through their fingers too quickly. It was something to be savoured, not just by the body but by the mind, and that was how they knew it was exactly right. Church wondered how he had never known that before.
They knew each other's shape from embraces, but the fiery skin beneath the clothes made it all new and different. They were each surprised at how hard their bodies were, freed of the fat of lazy living by their punishing existence on the road. As he penetrated her, they kissed deeply, filling each other with soft darkness illuminated by purple flashes that reminded Church of the view across space from the Watchtower. He moved slowly at first, then harder as she enveloped him with her legs, and her arms, and her kisses, and her thoughts. His mind had one brief instant of complete awareness and then it switched off so there was only everything he felt, wrapped tightly in the moment; as timeless as Otherworld.
They lay together in silence while the sweat and semen dried on their bodies, listening to their breathing subside, their hearts slow down. Their thoughts were like the movement of luminescent fish in the deepest, darkest fathoms, slow yet graceful under the gargantuan pressure, struggling with the immensity of what they had felt. After a while, Ruth fumbled for Church's hand and he took it. Two, as one, passing through time.
A movement somewhere in the shadows of the cabin roused them from their introspection; a mouse, they both thought. But then something that at first sight was a large spider scurried into the flickering circle of lantern light. It was a human figure barely half an inch tall. Ruth recognised Marik Bocat, the Portune she had encountered after escaping the Malignos.
She rolled over to cover herself. 'How long have you been there?'
'I have more to do than watch you make the beast with two backs,' he said sharply. He sprinted to the edge of the bed where he looked up at Church's bemused face. 'Ho, Simple Jack! Heave me up and mind how you do it!'
Church leaned down so Marik Bocat could clamber on to his palm. Once the tiny man was level with their eyes it was obvious concern lay heavy on his brown, wizened face.
'What is it?' Ruth asked.
'I come out of respect for fellow denizens of the Fixed Lands, and, of course, in respect for your exalted roles as champions of our home.' He raised one minuscule finger. 'A warning, then. Danger is abroad and your lives may be at risk. The door lies open, the cage is empty.' He paused while he looked from one face to the other. 'Callow is gone. The Malignos have freed him.'
Away across the water, the Islands of the Dead breathed steadily and silently and the night was filled with the terrible chill of their exhalation.
Chapter Seven
|Marik Bocat told them little, although they were both convinced he knew more than he was saying. His people had the run of the ship, he explained, and witnessed many things: secrets and slanders, matters of great importance and minor betrayals. The freeing of Callow had been the latest example of their surveillance at work.
'The Portunes will, of course, maintain their vigilance, and if information regarding this situation comes to light I will relate it to you,' he said in an oddly formal manner.
'Why are you helping us?' Ruth asked.
'Horses and teeth,' he cautioned, before half turning from them and motioning to be put back down on the floor. But as Church lowered him, his voice floated back: 'We are all fellows of the flesh in the Great Village.'
Church limped off the end of the bed and dressed, surprised at how quickly his leg was healing. He could already walk without the aid of a stick. 'That bastard will be coming for us when we least expect it, so we have to expect it all the time.'
'Like we haven't got anything else to do.'
A thought came to Church as he ransacked a chest in the corner where he had come across a number of seafaring implements, including a bill-hook and a short dagger used for cutting rope, which he stuffed into his belt. 'Can you help me find the Walpurgis?' he said turning back to Marik Bocat.
'Now why would you be looking for that bundle of rags?' Church could tell from the suspicion in his voice that the Portune had some information.
'He can help us. He was helping us before he ran away.'
'I'll ask around.' He eyed Church askance.
'You can trust me.'
'So it seems.'
Church dug down to the bottom of the chest, but there remained only oily rags, sand and dried seaweed. When he turned back to prompt Marik Bocat further he discovered the Portune had already departed.
Ruth dressed quickly and a little nervously. Their bonding had been truncated and there was still so much
