by Sarah Rayne
“Oh!” said the girl rather breathlessly, coming to an abrupt stop and staring at them. “Oh! Was it you who made the music — but I never expected anyone to be out here after Curfew — and it is so late, and I daresay the Drakon will be prowling —” She stopped and glanced over her shoulder.
“If you are from the Drakon,” said the girl rather defiantly, “you may as well take me to the Cuirim at once. Only I do not see how anyone could be expected to resist the music, for it was so beautiful.” Again she stopped suddenly, and Taliesin found himself intrigued by the light, clipped tones, and by the way her words seemed to tumble along of their own accord. When she said, “so beautiful,” her voice was serious and intense, but when she said, “I do not see how anyone could resist,” there had been a careless, do-with-me-what-you-will manner.
Fael-Inis said, “You are quite mistaken. We are not from the Drakon or even remotely connected with it,” and Taliesin heard that Fael-Inis had with ease adapted his manner to their surroundings.
As you must do, if we are to escape here unchallenged.
“We are merely travellers,” said Taliesin, and at once the copper-haired girl said, “Oh, tourists! Yes, we get a lot of those, and if they are caught out after Curfew they always say it is later in their own city, which is entirely ridiculous because Curfew is the same everywhere. It does not do them any good, of course, because once you are caught, the Drakon is quite merciless.” She looked at them rather defiantly, and Taliesin thought that after all she was not really beautiful, she was actually very nearly plain. It was only that there was something that made you like looking at her, and want to go on looking.
Fael-Inis said, “You are abroad late yourself,” and at once a hunted look came into her eyes.
“It was only that the music … So difficult to resist just seeing where it came from … It was a good reason for being out after Curfew, but of course I would say that, wouldn’t I? Are you quite sure you are nothing to do with the Drakon?”
“Quite sure.”
“No, of course you are not,” said the girl. “Now that I look at you properly, I can see you are not. You can nearly always tell a Drakon spy anyway. It’s the eyes. Cold and hard. Of course, they have to enforce the law if we are to survive, everyone understands that. But they are very harsh. Did you ever read about the old wars at all? The Second War of the World? Doesn’t that sound dramatic? I always loved hearing about it. They call it Middle History now, although it’s nearer than that, isn’t it? Quite recent if you think about it. But when you see Drakon people, you can’t help remembering the stories about the German Secret Service, can you?
“Gestapo, that’s what they called them. Terrible. I always thought that what happened to Germany later — I mean much later, at the start of the next millennium — was a sort of judgement. I’m talking too much. If you are from the Drakon I expect you’ll carry me off at once.”
Fael-Inis said, “We have already told you that you may trust us,” and Taliesin said, “And since it is so late, perhaps we should walk along with you.” He thought, but did not say, that any young lady abroad so late must surely be dreadfully vulnerable to all manner of unknown dangers. And then, because it was what would have been offered in his own world, he said, “We can see you safely to your home.”
The copper-haired girl turned such a sharp look of surprise on him that Taliesin blinked.
“But you know that such a thing is forbidden!” she said. “‘Days to be spent working for the common good, nights to be spent alone.’ It’s incredibly dreary, but ever since they found the Doomsday Clock, they knew they had to try something if the world was to be saved —” She came to one of her sudden stops again and looked at them searchingly. “What are you?” she said. “Where are you from?”
“A world outside of this,” said Fael-Inis gently, and unexpectedly the girl laughed.
“Oh, no, I cannot believe … All of the ancient legends? All of the old tales? H. G. Wells and John Wyndham and those really peculiar theories in the twentieth century? Of course, they did not know any better, and they did have the beginnings of knowledge … And the books are fascinating to read. What used to be called ‘classics,’ whatever that may mean. But another world … Are you sure this is not a joke? Or a trap? But you are not from the Drakon, I do know that. And then there was the music … Goodness, this is remarkably difficult, but remarkably interesting. I think it is the most interesting thing that has ever happened to me. But if we stay here much longer we shall certainly be caught, because the Drakon’s people patrol the streets every half hour … Although we should hear them coming, shouldn’t we?” She paused and glanced about her. “But even without the Drakon’s patrols,” said the girl with a different kind of fear, “even without that, there is the Claw.” She looked at them, her eyes wide. “I think I am more afraid of the Claw than of the Drakon,” she said. And then, in a completely different tone, “You do know that the Claw is supposed to be here?” said the girl.
The square where they were sitting seemed suddenly to have grown darker, and Taliesin thought that a listening quality had crept into the shadowy corners. He glanced over his shoulder, because just for a moment he had thought that something was moving in the deep shadows. Was it? Were those eyes he could see watching them, or only pinpoints of light, some kind of overspill from this world’s strange power?
The Claw.
“Of course,” said the girl, “I know we all overreact a bit when it comes to the Claw, but the last bulletin did say that the Claw was thought to be in this city, and the Drakon bulletins are hardly ever wrong.”
Taliesin thought, She is telling us the truth. She is telling us about something — an animal? — that is loose in this world. The Claw … Aloud, he said, “You know, it seems very unsafe for us to be sitting out here like this.” In the dark, exposed to the prying eyes of whatever lurks in the shadows …
“Yes, but it is different,” said the girl. “And it is forbidden as well.” She grinned, and it was a gamine grin, and Taliesin saw that after all the beauty was there, only that it was a vagrant beauty, so that you saw it long after it had gone, like seeing the sun imprinted on your vision if you stared at it for too long. “Forbidden things nearly always turn out to be the most exciting,” said the girl. “And the evenings are so unbearably long. Mustn’t it have been grand to be able to go where you liked, as they did in the old days? And doesn’t everywhere look different at night? It smells different as well.”
Fael-Inis, who was watching her rather thoughtfully, said, “Will you tell us your name?” and the girl spread her hands, as if to say, Oh, why not?
“I’m Annabel O’Connor,” she said. “And I live in that white house over there, and when I came running out to find the music, I knew perfectly well that I was probably running into a questionable situation. You might be procurers,” she said suddenly. “I haven’t the least idea of what you are, really.”
Taliesin looked up at the garishly lit sign. “Procuration — forbidden on pain of death.”
“Yes, but of course it goes on,” said Annabel. “And most of us have been sought by the procurers at one time or another. It isn’t any particular compliment. I once thought of letting myself be taken by them,” she added. “Just to find out what happened at the other end. Only then I didn’t. But we have a saying, that if you do not succumb to the Disease, then you will be procured; and if you are not procured, you will be taken up by the Drakon for infringement of the laws. And if that does not happen, then the Claw will probably get you.
“And really,” said Annabel, “when you consider that the Doomsday Clock has been proven right beyond all question, and that the world is certainly going to end before our eyes, what does any of it matter?”
*
When you have grown up knowing that the world will almost surely end before you die, you become philosophical about it for most of the time. Annabel thought that for quite long stretches she was as philosophical as anyone she knew. It was on
ly now and then (like when she had come running helter-skelter from the house into the night streets — absolutely forbidden!) that she forgot to be philosophical and rebelled.
It was actually very dangerous to rebel against anything. Nobody wanted to incur the Drakon’s displeasure and risk being castrated or put to death, or even being thrown inside the Cuirim to be forgotten about. Everybody knew someone who had been thrown inside the Cuirim, but nobody Annabel had ever met knew of anyone who ever came out again.
Knowing about the world ending gave you a remarkable perspective on things. It made you want to throw all caution (and probably sanity) to the winds, and try all the things you had secretly always longed to try. But since the Drakon nearly always caught you out, it was probably better not to try any of them, and, in any case, there was nobody to try them with, because everybody was terrified of the Drakon. Annabel was not especially terrified of the Drakon, but if the world was truly going to end, she would stand a better chance of surviving out in the streets, rather than inside one of the Drakon’s dungeons. And although it was certainly extremely reckless to be out in the streets like this — well, it was probably very nearly suicidal — the men were rather intriguing and it would be interesting to know more about them, because they were not like anyone Annabel had ever met.
“Tell me who you really are,” she said, as they crossed the square to her house. Should she invite them in? This would be reckless in the extreme, but surely no one would know? And although it was (wasn’t it) too far-fetched for words to truly believe they were from another world, certainly they were different from anyone in Annabel’s world, and this was something that ought to be explored.
The dark-haired one said, “We are travellers,” and looked at her rather intently, but the other, the one who had made the music, said softly, “We have told you that we are from other worlds, Mortal,” and somehow, when he said this, and looked at her with his slanting, fiery eyes, it was suddenly very nearly believable that they were truly from other worlds. It was suddenly perfectly possible that there were other worlds.
But Annabel hesitated in the tiny square of garden which would once have been green and flowery and now was dried up and barren. She was as sure as she could be that the two were not from the Drakon, and she was sure, as well, that even if they did not come from other worlds, they were not entirely of this world. And the thought of other worlds, other cultures, was so fascinating that it would be worth risking being out after Curfew, and it would probably almost be worth inviting them into her apartment and chance a Drakon patrol knocking on the door to see if there were unauthorised guests. It had never happened to Annabel, but everyone knew that it did happen.
And so Annabel opened the door that led directly into the tiny hall, and said to the two men, “Will you come in?” And hoped against hope that she would not end up regretting it.
Once inside, it felt remarkably normal and safe. Fael-Inis and Taliesin did not feel in the least like strangers. Annabel had asked their names carefully, and repeated them, because they were rather unusual names, and they had shaken hands, which was what people had once done before the Drakon had frowned on needless touching of people, because of the Disease, but which seemed to be the right thing to do.
They were both interested in the apartment, and they were quite complimentary about it. It was very ordinary, of course, and there was only one large room, which was all you could have these days. But the tiny kitchen was screened by a bead curtain, and Annabel had tried to furnish everywhere with pretty things, even the things which had to be functional, because if you had to obey a Curfew and lock yourself inside your home from the nineteenth hour every night, you might as well be comfortable. Fael-Inis seated himself in one of the chairs and looked perfectly at home, but Taliesin prowled about, studying the pictures that Annabel had found somewhere or other of old restaurants and theatres, and had framed and hung on the walls. She liked looking at them, and thinking about how people had once been able to go out to such places, six and eight and ten, all together, to watch plays being performed, and take meals, and drink wine. You could not get wine any longer, because it had been found to be a breeding ground for the Disease, and also because the Drakon did not really like people to drink wine. It freed too many inhibitions, said the Drakon sternly, and they all knew what the freeing of inhibitions led to.
It would have been nice to have offered wine now, as people had done in the old days. Annabel knew how you did it; you said, “A glass of wine?” and you lifted the bottle invitingly in one hand, while you twirled a corkscrew in the other. Annabel had never possessed a corkscrew because there was nothing to uncork any more, and even if she had, she would not have known how to use it, never mind twirl it.
She looked at them rather uncertainly, and then said, “Would you like coffee?” and then had to explain, because neither of them seemed to have heard of coffee before.
“But it is very good,” said Fael-Inis, sipping the hot fragrant brew that Annabel had served in thick pottery mugs which had swirly tabby-cat patterns on the side, and which kept the coffee nice and hot. She was pleased that there had been fresh milk, which you could not always get now, because of people being worried about cows getting the taint of the Disease, and also because of transport becoming difficult.
Taliesin said, “Is this what you drink here?” and Annabel said, “Yes, when we can,” and Taliesin said, “My poor dear child,” and then laughed and drank the coffee and said it was delicious.
“And although it has not the perfumes of Tarshish and Tyre, nor the splendours of the Eastern World, it is a heartening beverage. Do you live here alone?”
“Well, yes,” said Annabel, surprised.
“Of course,” said Fael-Inis, and looked at Taliesin as if secretly amused. Taliesin smiled unexpectedly, and Annabel saw with surprise that he had a sudden sweet smile. She had thought him a rather stern sort of person, but quite suddenly he did not seem in the least stern. She began to hope he would smile again.
“The Drakon is very strict, you see,” said Annabel, because neither of her guests appeared to know about the Drakon, which might have to be explained to them.
Fael-Inis said, “You fear the Drakon because it is harsh and powerful, but you particularly fear it because it is faceless,” and Annabel looked at him with astonishment, because no one had ever heard her thoughts in quite that way. She looked at him and thought how very curious this was. Like that old book — what was it called? — where things had got curiouser and curiouser. The little girl who fell down a rabbit hole into another world. Only it was these two who had fallen into her world. I don’t believe that any of this is happening, thought Annabel. Aloud, she said, “So you do know about the Drakon?” And tried to think where in the world the Drakon would not hold sway, and then remembered about them not coming from this world, and wondered after all which of them had fallen down a rabbit hole.
“We know only a very little,” said Fael-Inis, and Taliesin, who was watching Annabel, said, “Will you tell us?”
“It is quite difficult to explain,” said Annabel slowly, because clearly it was going to be very difficult indeed. How did you explain about the Drakon? You could quote the edicts. The Drakon sees all. You could say that, but even that would not convey the absolute and total control that the Drakon had over everyone.
At last Annabel said, “It’s a small governing body,” and found that she was choosing her words with care, because they seemed not to have quite the same words and the same meanings as she was accustomed to. “They rule absolutely, and they are very powerful.” She paused. “It is whispered that they are corrupt,” she said, “because power is corruptive, you know.”
Fael-Inis said gently, “Unlimited power is apt to corrupt the minds of those who possess it,” and Annabel stared, because this was rather an intriguing idea. Fael-Inis said, “A very great statesman said that, a very long time ago.”
“How do you —?” said Annabel. “The Institute of Knowledge d
oes not permit access …”
Fael-Inis smiled the winged smile. “Because I heard it said when it was said,” he replied.
“That isn’t any kind of answer,” said Annabel. And then, half to herself, “Or is it?”
“Does your — Institute of Knowledge not allow people to know of the happenings of the past?” said Taliesin.
“No. It is believed that too much knowledge would cause people to panic.”
“But you have knowledge,” said Fael-Inis. “You have somehow read a little of the past history of your people.”
“Yes, I was employed at the Institute,” said Annabel, and saw them look at her, and realised that employed was another word that had no meaning to them.
“We — all of us — must devote a — a large section of every day to working for one or another of the Drakon’s aims,” she said, speaking rather slowly because it was quite difficult to explain about something so ordinary and so usual as working for the Drakon in one guise or another.
“It is one of your laws?” asked Taliesin, and Annabel said, “Yes. Yes, that explains it quite well. And I was lucky to be sent to the Institute of Knowledge because it is considered to be one of the most interesting of all the Institutes.”
“They send you?” said Taliesin, leaning forward. “You do not have any choice?”
“No, of course not,” said Annabel, staring at him in surprise.
“Forgive me. Go on. What had you to do at the Institute?”
“I wasn’t important,” said Annabel earnestly. “I helped to write letters and keep reports. The Drakon officers who controlled that Institute received information from other Drakon officers, and it had to be decided how much of the information could be made known to the people.” She put down her coffee mug. “But it was interesting,” she said thoughtfully, “because so much history was stored there … so much of the past.” She looked up at them, hoping she was making this clear.
