Dancers at the End of Time (77 page)

"It made him entertaining, of course, before all this began — but now … I blame myself for lacking forethought, certain sorts of perception…"

"He is a credit to you, Mother." Amelia wished to comfort. "I love him for what you made him."

Jherek was amused. "It is always the way of women, as I was discovering, to regard men as some sort of blank creature into which one woman or another has instilled certain characteristics. This woman has made him shy — this woman has made him strong — another has driven such and such an influence (always a woman's of course) from him … Am I merely no more than an amalgamation of women's creative imaginations? Have I no identity of my own?"

"Of course, dear." Amelia spoke. "Of course. You are completely yourself! I spoke only figuratively."

The Iron Orchid's voice came again. "Do not let him bully you, Amelia. That is his father's influence!"

"Mother, you remain as adamant as always!" Jherek said affectionately. "A flower that can never be bent by even the strongest of winds!"

"I trust you are only jesting, Jherek. There is none more malleable than I!"

"Indeed!"

Amelia was forced to join in Jherek's laughter. The Iron Orchid, it seemed, sulked.

Jherek was about to speak again when the ground beneath his feet began to undulate violently, in tiny waves. They held fast to one another to stop themselves from falling. There was a briny smell in the air and, for a second, a flash of violet light on the horizon.

"It is the cities," said the Iron Orchid. "They are destroyed!" She moved closer to Amelia.

"Do you find it colder?" his mother asked.

"Somewhat," replied Amelia.

"Certainly," said Jherek.

"I wonder how long…"

"We have already had longer than I expected," Jherek said to her.

"I do wish it would finish. The least Jagged could do for us…"

"Perhaps he struggles with his machinery, still trying to save something," suggested Jherek.

"Poor man," murmured Amelia. "All his plans ruined."

"You sympathize now?" Jherek was confounded.

"Oh, well — I have always felt for the loser, you know."

Jherek contented himself with squeezing her shoulder.

There came another flash of violet light, some distance away from the first, and this lasted just a fraction longer.

"No," said the Iron Orchid, "it is definitely the cities. I recognize the locations. They explode."

"It is strange that the air is still with us," Jherek said. "One city must continue to function, at least, to create the oxygen."

"Unless we breathe only what is left to us," suggested Amelia.

"I am not sure that this is the end, at all," Jherek announced.

And, as if in response to his faith, the sun began to rise, dull red at first and then increasingly brighter until it filled the blue sky with streaks of yellow and mauve and crimson; and everywhere was cheering.

And life resumed.

Only Amelia seemed discontented with this reprieve. "It is madness," she said. "And I shall soon be mad myself, if I am not mad already. I desired nothing but death and now even that hope has been dashed!"

The shadow of a great swan fell across her and she looked up through red-rimmed, angered eyes.

"Oh, Lord Jagged! How you must enjoy all these manipulations!"

Lord Jagged was still in his morning suit, with his tall hat on his head. "Forgive me, for the darkness and so on," he said. "It was necessary to start the first week's cycle from scratch, as we mean to begin. It is running smoothly now, as it will run for ever."

"You do not offer even the slightest possibility that it will collapse?" Amelia was not facetious; she seemed desperate.

"Not the slightest, Amelia. It is in its nature to function perfectly. It could not exist if it were not perfect, I assure you."

"I see…" She began to move away, a wretched figure, careless of where she walked.

"There is an alternative, however," said Lord Jagged laconically. "As I mentioned." He threw himself elegantly from his swan and landed near her, his hands in his pockets, waiting for his words to register with her. She came about slowly, like a tacking schooner, looking from Jagged to Jherek, who had approached his father.

"An alternative?"

"Yes, Amelia. But you might not find it any more to your liking and Jherek would probably consider it completely distasteful."

"Tell me what it is! " Her voice was strained.

"Not here." He glanced around him, withdrawing one hand from a pocket so that he might signal to his swan. The air-car moved obediently and was beside him. "I have prepared a simple meal in pleasant surroundings. Be my guests."

She hesitated. "I can take little more of your mystification, Lord Jagged."

"If decisions are to be reached, you will want to make them where you may be sure to be free of interruption, surely."

Bishop Castle, swaying a little beneath the weight of his mitre, leaning for support upon his crook, stepped from the cathedral. "Jagged — was this your doing?" He was bemused.

Lord Jagged of Canaria bowed to his friend. "It was necessary. I regret causing you alarm."

"Alarm! It was splendid. What a perfect sense of drama you have!" Yet Bishop Castle was pale and his tone was achieved with a certain difficulty.

The old half-smile crossed Lord Jagged's perfect lips. "Are all the weddings duly solemnized?"

"I think so. I'll admit to being carried away — a captive audience, you know, easily pleased — we forget ourselves."

From the cluster of booths came the Duke of Queens. He signalled to his band to play, but after a few seconds of the din he thought better of his decision and made the band stop. He stepped up, with Sweet Orb Mace prettily clinging to his arm. "Well, at least my marriage wasn't interrupted, illusive Jagged, elusive Lord of Time, though I believe such interruptions were once traditional." He chuckled.

"What a joke. I was convinced that you had blundered."

"I had more faith," said Sweet Orb Mace, brushing black curls from her little face. "I knew that you would not wish to spoil the happiest day of my life, dear Jagged."

She received a dry bow from Jherek's father.

"Well," briskly said the Duke, "we leave now to our honeymoon (scarcely more than an asteroid, really), and so must say farewell."

Amelia, with a gesture Jherek found almost shocking, it was so untypical, threw her arms about the jolly Duke and kissed him on his bearded cheek. "Farewell, dear Duke of Queens. You, I know, will always be happy." Sweet Orb Mace, in turn, was kissed. "And may your marriage last for a long, long while."

The Duke seemed almost embarrassed, but was pleased by her demonstration. "And may you be happy, too, Mrs. Under—"

"Carnelian."

"—wood. Aha! Here are our wings, my dear." Two automata carried two large pairs of white feathered wings. The Duke helped his bride into her harness and then slipped into his own, stretching his arms to catch the loops. "Now, Sweet Orb Mace, the secret lies in taking a good, fast run 
before
 you commence to beat. See!" He began to race across the ground, followed by his mate. He stumbled once, righted himself, started to flap the great wings and, eventually, succeeded in becoming wildly airborne.

His wife imitated him and soon she, too, was a few feet in the air, swaying and flapping. Thus, erratically, they disappeared from view, two huge, drunken doves.

"I hope," said Amelia gravely, "that they do not get those wings too sticky." And she smiled at Jherek, and she winked at him. He was glad to see that she had recovered her spirits.

Mistress Christia ran past, tittering with glee, pursued by four Lat, including Captain Mubbers who grunted happily: "Get your balloons down, you beautiful bit of bone, you!"

She had already allowed her knee-balloons to slip enticingly half-way towards her calves.

"Cor!" retorted Lieutenant Rokfrug. "What a lovely pair!"

"Save a bit for us!" begged the Lat furthest in the rear. "Don't worry," panted the second furthest,

"there's enough for everyone!"

They all rushed into the cathedral and did not emerge again.

Now, in small groups, the brides, the grooms and the guests were beginning to go their ways.

Farewells were made. My Lady Charlotina and Brannart Morphail passed overhead in a blue and white enamel dish-shaped boat, but Charlotina was oblivious of them all and the only evidence of Brannart being with her was his club-foot waving helplessly over the rim of the air-car.

"What do you say, Amelia?" softly asked Lord Jagged. "Will you accept my invitation?"

She shrugged at him. "This is the last time I intend to trust you, Lord Jagged."

"It could he the last time you will have to, my dear."

The Iron Orchid mounted the swan first, with Amelia behind her, then Jherek and lastly Jagged.

They began to rise. Below them, near the cathedral and amongst the tents and booths, a few determined revellers continued to dance. Their voices, thin and high, carried up to the four who circled above.

Amelia Carnelian began to quote from Wheldrake's longest and most ambitious poem, unfinished at his death, 
The Flagellants
. Her choice seemed inappropriate to Jherek, but she was looking directly at Lord Jagged and seemed to he addressing him, as if only he would understand the significance of the words.

So shall they dance, till the end of time,
Each face a mask, each mark a sign
Of pride disguised as pain.
Yet pity him who must remain,
His flesh unflayed, his soul untried:
His pain disguised as pride.

Lord Jagged's face was impassive, yet he gave a great shrug and looked away from her, seemingly in annoyance. It was the only occasion Jherek had ever detected that kind of anger in his father. He frowned at her, questioning her, wondering at the peculiar smile on her lips — a mixture of sympathy and triumph, and of bitterness — but she continued to stare at Jagged, even though the lord in yellow refused to meet that gaze. The swan sailed over forests now, but Amelia continued with her Wheldrake.

I knew him when he offered all,
To God, and Woman, too,
His faith in life was strong,
His trust in Christ was pure…

Jagged's interruption was, for him, quite abrupt. "They can be delightfully sentimental, those Victorian versifiers, can they not? Are you familiar with Swinburne, Amelia?"

"Swinburne? Certainly not, sir!"

"A shame. He was once a particular favourite of mine. Was he ever Laureate?"

"There was some talk — but the scandal. Mr. Kipling refused, I heard. Mr. Alfred Austin is — was — our new Poet Laureate. I believe I read a book of his about gardens." She chatted easily, but there remained an edge to her voice, as if she knew he changed the subject and she refused to be diverted. "I am not familiar with his poetry."

"Oh, but you should look some out." And in turn, Lord Jagged quoted: 

But the world has wondrously changed, Granny, since the days when you were young;
 
It thinks quite different thoughts from then, and speaks with a different tongue.

The fences are broken, the cords are snapped, that tethered man's heart to home;
 
He ranges free as the wind or the wave, and changes his shore like the foam.

He drives his furrows through fallow seas, he reaps what the breakers sow,
 
And the flash of his iron flail is seen mid the barns of the barren snow.

He has lassoed the lightning and led it home, he has yoked it unto his need,
 
And made it answer the rein and trudge as straight as the steer or steed.

He has bridled the torrents and made them tame, he has bitted the champing tide,
 
It toils as his drudge and turns the wheels that spin for his use and pride.

He handles the planets and weights their dust, he mounts on the comet's car,
 
And he lifts the veil of the sun, and stares in the eyes of the uttermost star…

"Very rousing," said Amelia. The swan dipped and seemed to fly faster, so that her hair was blown about her face. "Though it is scarcely Wheldrake. A different sort of verse altogether. Wheldrake writes of the spirit, Austin, it seems, of the world. Sometimes, however, it is good for those who are much in the world to spend a few quiet moments with a poet who can offer an insight or two as to the reasons why men act and think as they do…"

"You do not and Wheldrake's preoccupations morbid, then?"

"In excess, yes. You mentioned Swinburne…"

"Aha! Goes too far?"

"I believe so. We are told so. The fleshly school, you know…"

Lord Jagged pretended (there was no other word) to notice the bemused, even bored, expressions of the Iron Orchid and Jherek Carnelian. "Look how we distress our companions, our very loved ones, with this dull talk of forgotten writers."

"Forgive me. I began it — with a quotation from Wheldrake I found apt."

"Those we have left are not penitents of any sort, Amelia."

"Perhaps so. Perhaps the penitents are elsewhere."

"Now I lose your drift entirely."

"I speak without thinking. I am a little tired."

"Look. The sea."

"It is a lovely sea, Jagged!" complimented the Iron Orchid. "Have you only just made it?"

"Not long since. On my way back. He turned to Jherek. "Nurse sends her regards, by the way. She says she is glad to hear that you are making a sensible life for yourself and settling down and that it is often the wild ones who make the best citizens in the end."

"I hope to see her soon. I hold her in great esteem and affection. She re-united me with Amelia."

"So she did."

The swan had settled; they disembarked onto a pale yellow beach that was lapped by white foam, a blue sea. Forming a kind of miniature cove was a semi-circle of white rocks, most of them just a little taller than Jherek, apparently worn almost to spikes by the elements. The smell of brine was strong.

White gulls flapped here and there in the sky, occasionally swooping to catch black and grey fish. The pale yellow beach, of fine sand, with a few white pebbles, was spread with a dark brown cloth. On pale yellow plates was a variety of brown food — buns, biscuits, beef, bacon, bread, baked potatoes, pork pies, pickles, pemmican, peppercorns, pattercakes and much more — and there was brown beer or sarsaparilla or tea or coffee to drink.