Weaveworld

Nimrod was unrepentant. He stood in the hallway where he’d been set down and stared up at Cal defiantly.

‘Where are the others?’ Cal wanted to know.

‘Out,’ said Nimrod. ‘We’ll go too.’

He was gaining control of his tongue by the syllable. And of his limbs too. He tottered to the front door and reached up towards the handle. ‘Em sick of here,’ he said. Too much bad news.’

His fingers fell inches short of the handle however, and after several failed attempts to snatch at it he beat his fists against the wood.

‘I want to see,’ he said.

‘All right,’ Cal agreed. ‘Just keep your voice down.’

‘Take me out.’

The cry was genuinely forlorn. There was little harm in giving the child a brief tour of the neighbourhood, Cal decided. There was something perversely satisfying about the thought of carrying this miraculous creature out into the open air, for all to see; and more satisfying still, the knowledge that the child, whom he’d left laughing at him, would be dependent upon him.

Any lingering anger towards Nimrod evaporated very quickly, however, as his powers of speech became more sophisticated. They were soon involved in a fluent and animated exchange, careless of the glances they were garnering.

‘They left me there!’ he protested. ‘Told me to fend for myself.’ He held up his miniscule hand. ‘How. I ask you? How?’

‘Why are you shaped like this in the first place?’ Cal asked.

‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ Nimrod replied, ‘I had an irate husband in pursuit of me; so I hid in the most unlikely form I could think of. I thought I’d keep my head down for a few hours, then loose myself again. Stupid, really. A rapture like this takes power. And of course once the final weave began, there was none to be had. I was obliged to go into the carpet like this.’

‘So how do you get back to normality?’

‘I can’t. Not until I’m back on Fugue soil. I’m helpless.’

He pushed the sunglasses up to take a look at a passing beauty.

‘Did you see the hips on her?’ he said.

‘Don’t slaver.’

‘Babies are supposed to slaver.’

‘Not the way you’re doing it.’

Nimrod ground his gums. ‘It’s noisy, this world of yours,’ he said. ‘And dirty.’

‘Dirtier than 1896?’

‘Much. I like it though. You must tell me about it.’

‘Oh Jesus,’ said Cal. ‘Where do I begin?’

‘Anywhere you like,’ Nimrod replied. ‘You’ll find me a fast learner.’

What he said was true. On their half-hour walk around the vicinity of Chariot Street he questioned Cal on a wild selection of topics, some stimulated by something they saw in the street, others more abstract. First they talked of Liverpool, then of cities in general, then of New York and Hollywood. Talk of America took them on to East-West relations, at which point Cal listed all the wars and assassinations he could remember since 1900. They touched briefly on the Irish Question, and the state of English politics, then on to Mexico, which they both had a yearning to visit, and thence to Mickey Mouse, the basic principle of aerodynamics, and back, via Nuclear War and the Immaculate Conception, to Nimrod’s favourite subject: women. Or rather, to two in particular, who’d caught his eye.

In return for this short introduction to the late twentieth century Nimrod gave Cal a beginner’s guide to the Fugue, telling him first of Capra’s House, which was the building in which the Council of the Families met to debate; then of the Mantle, the cloud that hid the Gyre, and the Narrow Bright, the passage that led into its folds; and from there to the Firmament, and the Requiem Steps. The very names filled Cal with yearning.

Much was learned on both sides, not least the fact that they might with time become friends.

‘No more talk,’ said Cal as they came full circle to the gate of the Mooney house. ‘You’re a baby, remember?’

‘How could I forget?’ said Nimrod with a pained look.

Cal let himself in and called out to his father. The house, however, was silent from attic to foundations.

‘He’s not here,’ said Nimrod. ‘For God’s sake put me down.’

Cal deposited the baby on the hallway floor. He immediately began towards the kitchen.

‘I need a drink,’ he said. ‘And I don’t mean milk.’

Cal laughed. ‘I’ll see what I can find,’ he said, and went through to the back room.

Cal’s first impression, seeing his father sitting in the armchair with his back to the garden, was that Brendan had died. His stomach turned over; he almost cried out. Then Brendan’s eyes flickered, and he looked up at his son.

‘Dad?’ said Cal. ‘What’s wrong?’

Tears were spilling down Brendan’s cheeks. He made no attempt to brush them away, nor to stifle the sobs that shook him.

‘Oh Dad …’

Cal crossed to his father and went down on his haunches beside the chair.

‘It’s all right …’ he said, putting his hand on his father’s arm. ‘Been thinking about Mum?’

Brendan shook his head. The tears tumbled. Words would not come. Cal didn’t ask any further questions, but held onto his father’s arm. He’d thought Brendan’s melancholy had been lifting; that the grief was blunted now. Apparently not.

At last Brendan said:

‘I … I had a letter.’

‘A letter?’

‘From your mother,’ Brendan’s liquid gaze fell on his son. ‘Am I mad, Cal?’ he said.

‘Of course not, Dad. Of course not.’

‘Well, I swear …’ he put his hand down the side of the chair and plucked out a sodden handkerchief. He wiped his nose, it’s over there,’ he said nodding towards the table. ‘Look for yourself.’

Cal went to the table.

‘It was in her handwriting,’ Brendan said.

There was indeed a piece of paper lying on the table. It had been much folded and unfolded. And, more recently, wept upon.

‘It was a lovely letter,’ he said, ‘telling me she was happy, and I wasn’t to go on grieving. She said …’

He stopped as a new bout of sobs overtook him. Cal picked the sheet up. It was thinner than any paper he’d ever set eyes on, and it was blank on both sides.

‘She said she was waiting for me, but that I shouldn’t fret about that, because waiting was a joy up there, and … and I should just get on with enjoying life for a while, ‘til I was called.’

It wasn’t just that the paper was thin, Cal now realized; it seemed to be growing more insubstantial as he watched. He put it back on the table, the small hairs at the nape of his neck prickling.

‘I was so happy, Cal,’ Brendan was saying. ‘It was all I wanted, knowing that she was happy, and I’d be with her again one day.’

‘There’s nothing on the paper. Dad,’ Cal said softly. ‘It’s blank.’

‘There was. Cal. I swear it. There was. It was in her handwriting. I’d know it anywhere. Then – God in Heaven – it just faded away.’

Cal turned from the table to see his father practically folded up double in the chair, sobbing as though his grief was beyond bearing. He put his hand on his father’s hand, which was gripping the thread-bare arm of the chair.

‘Hold on. Dad,’ he murmured.

‘It’s a nightmare, son,’ Brendan said. ‘It’s like I lost her twice.’

‘You haven’t lost her. Dad.’