Weaveworld

not left him untouched.

‘Stay here,’ Cal said. ‘I have to speak to Lem.’

‘You’re insane, Mooney,’ de Bono said.

‘Probably.’

He began back towards the fire, calling Lem’s name. The rabble seemed to have tired of their hunt. Several had returned to their cars; another was pissing into the fire; yet others were simply watching the blaze, stupefied by drink and destruction.

Lem had done with his blessings, and was walking away from the remains of his orchard. Cal called his name again, but the sound of the fire drowned it out. He began to pick up his pace, and as he did so Lem caught sight of him from the corner of his eye. He seemed not to recognize Cal, however. Instead, alarmed by the approaching figure, he turned and started to run. Again, Cal yelled his name, and this time drew the man’s attention. He stopped running and glanced back, squinting through the smoke and smuts.

‘Lem! It’s me!’ Cal yelled. ‘It’s Mooney!’

Lo’s grimy face was not capable of a smile, but he opened his arms in welcome to Cal, who crossed the last yards between them fearful that at any moment the curtain of smoke would part them again. It didn’t. They embraced like brothers.

‘Oh my poet,’ said Lo, his eyes reddened with tears and smoke. ‘What a place to find you.’

‘I told you I wouldn’t forget,’ said Cal. ‘Didn’t I say that?’

‘You did, by God.’

‘Why did they do it, Lem? Why did they burn it down?’

‘They didn’t,’ Lem replied, ’I did.’

‘You?’

‘You think I’d give those bastards the pleasure of my fruit?’

‘But, Lem … the trees. All those trees.’

Lo was digging in his pockets, and brought out handfuls of the Jude Pears. Many were bruised and broken, sap glistening as it ran over Lo’s fingers. Their perfume pierced the filthy air, bringing back memories of lost times.

‘There’s seeds in every one of them, poet,’ Lem said. ‘And in every seed there’s a tree. I’ll find another place to plant.’

They were brave words, but he sobbed even as he spoke them.

‘They won’t defeat us, Calhoun,’ he said. ‘Whatever God’s name they come in, we won’t kneel to them.’

‘You mustn’t,’ said Cal. ‘Or everything’s lost.’

As he spoke he saw Lo’s gaze move off his face towards the rabble at the cars.

‘We should be going,’ he said, stuffing the fruit back into his pocket. ‘Will you come with me?’

‘I can’t, Lem.’

‘Well, I taught your verses to my daughters,’ he said. ‘I remembered them as you remembered me –’

‘They’re not mine,’ Cal said. They’re my grandfather’s.’

‘They belong to us all now,’ Lo said. ‘Planted in good ground –’

Suddenly, a shot. Cal turned. The three fire-watchers had seen them, and were coming their way. All were armed.

Lo snatched hold of Cal’s hand for an instant, and squeezed it by way of farewell. Then contact was broken, as more shots followed on the first. Lo was heading off into the darkness, away from the light of the fire, but the ground was uneven, and he fell after only a few steps. Cal went after him, as the gunmen began a further round of shots.

‘Get away from me –’ Lo shouted. ‘For God’s sake run!’

Lo was scrabbling to pick up the fruit that he’d dropped from his pocket. As Cal reached him one of the gunman got lucky. A shot found Lo. He cried out, and clutched his side.

The gunmen were almost upon their targets now. They’d given up firing, to have better sport at close range. As they came within a half a dozen yards, however, the leader was felled by a missile hurled from the smoke. It struck his head, opening a substantial wound. He toppled, blinded by blood.

Cal had time to see the weapon that had brought the man down, and recognize it as a radio: then de Bono was weaving through the murky air towards the gunmen. They heard him coming: he was yelling like a wild man. A shot was fired in his direction; but went well wide. He threw himself past the hunters, and ran off in the direction of the fire.

The leader, his hand clamped to his head, was staggering to his feet, ready to give chase. De Bono’s tactics, though they’d distracted the executioners, were as good as suicidal. The gunmen had him trapped against the wall of burning trees. Cal caught sight of him pelting through the smoke towards the fire, the killers in howling pursuit. A volley of shots was fired; he dodged them like the dancer he was. But there was no dodging the inferno ahead. Cal saw him glance round once, to take in the sight of his pursuers, then – idiot that he was – he plunged into the fire. Most of the trees were now no more than burning pillars, but the ground itself was a firewalker’s heaven, hot ash and charcoal. The air shimmered with the heat, corrupting de Bono’s figure until it was lost between the trees.

There was no time to mourn him. His bravery had earned them a reprieve, but it would not last long. Cal turned back to aid Lemuel. The man had gone, however, leaving a splash of blood and a few fallen fruit to mark the place he’d been. Back at the fire, the gunmen were still waiting to mow de Bono down should he re-emerge. Cal had time to get to his feet and study the conflagration for any sign of the rope-dancer. There was none. Then he backed away from the pyre, and took off towards the slope on which he and de Bono had fought. As he did so a vague hope rose in him. He decided to change his route, and made a run that took him around to the other side of the orchard.

The air was clearer here; the wind was carrying the smoke in the opposite direction. He ran along the edge of the orchard, hoping against hope that maybe de Bono had outpaced the heat. Half way along the flank of the fire his horrified eyes found a pair of burning shoes. He kicked them over, then searched for their owner.

It was only when he turned his back on the flames that he saw the figure, standing in a field of high grass two hundred yards from the orchard. Even at that distance the blond head was recognizable. So, as he drew closer, was the smug smile.

He’d lost his eye-brows and his lashes; and his hair was badly singed. But he was alive and well.

‘How did you do that?’ Cal asked him, when he got within speaking distance of the fellow.

De Bono shrugged. ‘I’d rather fire-walk than rope-dance any day of the week,’ he said.

‘I’d be dead without you,’ Cal said. ‘Thank you.’

De Bono was clearly uncomfortable with Cal’s gratitude. He shooed it away with a wave of his hand, then turned his back on the fire and waded off through the grass, leaving Cal to follow.

‘Do you know where we’re going?’ Cal called after him. It seemed they were striking off in another direction to the one they’d been following when they’d first come upon the fire, but he couldn’t have sworn to it.

De Bono offered a reply, but the wind blew it away, and Cal was too weary to ask a second time.

X

UNEARTHLY DELIGHTS

1

he journey became a torment thereafter. Events at the orchard had drained Cal of what few reserves of strength he could still lay claim to. The muscles in his legs twitched as if they were about to go into spasm; the vertebrae in his lower back seemed to have lost their cartilage and were grinding against each other. He tried not to think of what would happen if and when they finally reached the Firmament. In the best of conditions he and de Bono would scarcely be Shadwell’s equal. Like this, they’d be fodder.

The occasional wonders the starlight had uncovered – a ring of stones, linked by bands of whispering fog; what appeared to be a family of dolls, their identical faces pale, smiling beatifically from behind a silent waterfall – to these he gave no more than a cursory glance. The only sight that could have brought joy to his lips at that moment was a feather mattress.