of which might sound familiar to any students of history and just goes to show that some things never change, least not when these plucking humans designed the original system.
So there you are Mr Bascule, isn't it all terribly, terribly interesting?
Oh it's interesting all right, Dartlin, old chum.
I think though to — oh look, I think I just saw a flea on your leg there; may I preen you?
I feel like saying, You sure it's a flea not an ant? because I still think tenderly of poor little lost Ergates now and again, but I just says, Preen away, young Dartlin.
Dartlin pecks round the feathery top of my left leg and eventually crunches on a flea.
Yum. Thank you. Well anyway, I wonder what on earth can be going on? Who do you think they are looking for? Do you think it could actually be one of us birds? I don't think so, do you?
Probably not.
Oh, it's not you, is it? Tee-hee. Tee-hee-hee-hee.
I don't think so. I just a poor blinded old hawk.
Well
No, Dartlin, I'm getting better all the time, thanks. Just you keep your ears open though; I like hearing about all this stuff.
My pleasure. Sure I can't get you something to eat, perhaps?
No, I'm fine.
Very well.
Dartlin hops towards the edge of the box looking out over the dark canyon. It preens itself a bit, then balances on the edge, looks round to say, Well, bye then… but its little voice sort of trails off, and it looks back round to the outside and then it starts shivering and it jumps back and almost falls over and keeps jumping back until it's underneath my perch.
Dartlin! I shout. What's the matter? What is it? and I look down at the little fella and he's just pressed back against the rear of the box and quivering with fright, his tiny eyes bulging and staring and not seeing me, and meanwhile there's movement and the sound of fluttering wings outside the box and some whispered squawks. A couple of large dark shapes flit past the entrance to the box.
Dartlin shakes like the poor little bugger's having his own private earthquake.
He looks at me and wails, Fierce, Mr Bathcule! Fierce! and then just keels over onto the floor of the box, his eyes still open.
Dartlin! I says, not shouting, but I don't think this sparrow's going to be doing no more spying nor flying. I can see his fleas getting ready to move out of his scrawny little body, and that's always the worst of signs.
I look up again and there's more movement and a rustling sound from outside and then suddenly the noise of huge great wings flapping.
A crow pops its head round the side of the box.
It looks at me with one beady black glinting eye and croaks,
Yeah that's him, must be him.
It disappears before I can say anything.
Then there's a face at the entrance to the box, and I can't believe it; it's a human face, a human head but it's been flayed, it's got no skin on it at all and it's all red with blood and you can see tendons and muscles and its eyes are staring out with no lids neither but it's also got the biggest smile you ever seen and it's held in the claws of some huge bird I can't see apart from its talons and lower legs; the talons are holding the head by the ears and the head opens its mouth and starts making this weird noise, incredibly loud and guttural and its tongue comes out, but it's not an ordinary tongue, it's far too long for a start and it's flapping and lashing and the head's making this screaming noise and the tongue is snaking right at me and it's got hooks and claws at the end of it and the tongue flicks towards me and I jump backwards off the perch and land almost on top of Dartlin's body and the tongue is snapping back and forth over the top of the perch trying to get me and I'm pecking and screeching and trying to get at it with my talons but it's too high up and all the while this hoarse cacophony of noise is ringing in my ears and at first I think it's screaming Gimme gimme gimme but it isn't, it's more like Gididibididibididigididigigigibididigibibibi all run together like that, like it's a machinegun or something and the tongue lashes back round the top of the perch and down and now is coming straight for me and I slash at it with my talons but it twists and grabs my right wing and starts to pull and I'm screeching and it's going gididibibibigigigibigigigibibigigi and I'm trying to hold onto the perch with one talon and scratch the tongue with the other and peck at it too and it's tearing my wing off, breaking it and it snaps and it pulls off a whole bunch of feathers and the horrible face gets a mouthful of those and I hop back again to the rear of the box, flapping and screeching and trailing my broken wing; the tongue flicks back in and I kick little Dartlin's body at it and the tongue wraps tight round it and pulls it back but throws it away when it gets it outside and it's still hammering away with this gigigibididibibibigigigi stuff filling my ears and I'm just about to die of fright as the tongue comes snapping towards my face when it goes gididibibibibibibigididibigiBasculefastawake!
– and I'm back in the study of the gargoyle Rosbrith squatting on the chair and staring at this huge human Mr Zoliparia holding a pen and shaking my shoulder and going, Bascule? You all right?
It can be a bit of a shock watching somebody come out of a crypt trip; if it's only a minute in your time, it's a week in theirs and a lot of things can happen in a week and if it's been a bad one it tends to show in your face, so for the person waking you up it's like they tell you to wake up and instantly your face goes old and pained and worn-looking and the person thinks, Oh no, what have I done?
I'm squatting on the balustrade where Ergates was lifted from, hunkered down taking more tea and biscuits with Mr Zoliparia. He's looking a bit worried because I'm squatting here facing the drop like I'm about to launch myself into the air, but there is the safety net after all and anyway I just feel comfortable perched here and I like the view and the feel of the wind on my face.
My left arm has that sort of echo-pain you get from a bad crypt trip injury and I keep wanting to lift the biscuits with my foot and eat them that way but I think I'm gradually losing my birdishness. I can tell Mr Zoliparia wants to ask me lots of questions but I'm still finding it a bit hard to talk.
Phew, that was a hard old crypt trip that one. I suppose you could argue I should have taken a bit more time and just sent a send of myself in; a image or construct who'd have done everything I did and felt everything I felt and in fact would have been a duplicate me, except meanwhile I'd still have been fully conscious here with Mr Zoliparia, but it takes much longer doing it that way; you have to prepare thoroughly before you go and you have to spend ages reintegrating your two selves when the send comes back, sorting memories and feelings and character changes and so on; just jumping in and out with the one personality is a lot quicker; less than a second rather than up to half a day… but of course that supposed second doesn't allow for the person who's supposed to wake you up getting confused because almost the last thing you said to him was, 'Just give me a minute here,' and them totally misunderstanding what you meant on account of them being old and confused, and so you spend a week in the crypt instead of a few hours, and thusly getting so altered by your crypt-self that you think you're a blinking hawk for the next couple of hours.
I see a flock of small birds in the distance and while one half of me's thinking, this is how this all started, and remembering that poor dear little ant, the other half is going, Ha! Prey!
No I don't think it is all an hallucination, Mr Zoliparia, I says (I'm missing out the bits where he keeps apologising for what happened). I think it's all as true as you and me sitting here. There's something happening in the crypt; I couldn't work out what part of it's to do with the palace and what part is to do with the chaotic regions, but there's something going on, and there's a watch being kept for somebody or something unusual in there and out here too, and something really disgusting from the human realm has access to the bird part of the crypt and has secured the cooperation of at least some of the birds.
It all sounds more like a nightmare, especially the last part, Mr Zoliparia says.
We're both sitting now; I feel less like a hawk all the time. Mind you, I still need to be out here on the balcony; don't like the thought of going inside and being trapped.
