by Tom Holt
Kurt shook his head. The ignorance of some people. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘I’m gonna tell you something that’s gonna help you a lot in years to come, supposing you last that long. Good guys is just a fancy way of saying Us. Bad guys is only ever Them. You remember that, you won’t go far wrong. Okay?’
‘But what about moral imperatives? What about Good and Evil?’
The Bernini suddenly found himself about a centimetre from Kurt’s taut face and industrial-laser eyes. ‘Where I come from,’ he said, ‘Evil’s a stunt man’s Christian name. Now go over there, sit down and shut up. Does that answer your question?’
‘Comprehensively.’
‘Great. Always knew I shoulda been a philosopher.’
Attack philosopher, naturally.
Although the dragon had immediately recognised the sheer brilliance of Chubby’s method of travelling back through Time, he’d had an intuitive feeling from the outset that there was one tiny flaw in it somewhere. Now, back in the air and soaring at ninety thousand feet over Angola, he knew for certain what it was.
It didn’t work.
Twenty-seven hours he’d been up here; twice round the predetermined circuit, airspeed and course exactly as specified to the knot, to the metre. All he’d managed to achieve was to distance himself from home by a further twenty-seven hours. Bloody marvellous.
By the time he was overflying Botswana, he’d worked it out. The course as plotted was half an hour out of synch; the fools hadn’t taken into account the time he’d be spending on the ground. He cursed them and himself; if he’d spotted the mistake earlier, he might just have been able to compensate. By now, though, the history nodes would all have moved on so far that it’d be impossible to rechart the course without all of Chubby’s formulae, calculating software and history-industry infiltrators’ input. He was stuck.
When in shit, use brain. All the necessary kit would, of course, still be in Chubby’s office. All he had to do was drop in, explain the problem - or would Chubby be expecting him? After all, once he got back he’d tell him all about it, with the result that by the time they got back here, sorry, now, Chubby would already know— but if that was the case, he’d have known to correct the error in the first place, oh fuck, this is complicated ...
He flew, nevertheless, to Chubby’s office, only to find it boarded up, with no forwarding address. Nothing in the phone book. No trace anywhere. Maybe when he got back he was going to roast Chubby alive (sorely tempted), which in turn would mean no Chubby now, just when he needed him most. Hey, maybe it really is impossible to travel backwards in Time. Starting to look that way, no question.
He slowed down, drifting gracefully high above Madagascar. The hell with this, let’s try another way.
Such as?
If you don’t know, his old mother used to say, ask someone who does.
Think, dragon, think.
Thirty-two hours ago, he’d seen a newspaper headline saying that twelve hours before that, he’d been killed. Okay.
If I was killed before I got here, then it stands to reason that I got back in time to be killed before I got here. Therefore I, the late lamented I, requiescam in pace, must know how I got back. So I should ask myself. Only that’s going to be tricky, because I’m dead.
Tricky, but possible. Because - give me strength! - in order to have gotten back, I must have asked myself how to do it. My dead self must therefore know that my living self is going to want to make contact, approximately now, and will be waiting in for the call, wherever the flying fuck I/he now am/is. Stands to reason.
Okay, here goes. Just hope I know what I’m doing.
He peered down. Zululand. Well, why not?
There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than give you nightmares in your philosophy.
Few stranger, more wonderful or more terrible, however, than the isangoma—translated, with typical Colonial crass-ness, ‘witch-doctor’ - of southern Africa. Now, of course, extinct; no place for that sort of thing in the twentieth century. Well, of course.
Although he knew virtually nothing about the subject, the dragon was at least able to address the small, shrivelled man sitting in front of him on a low, carved stool by his correct title: amakhosi, ‘my lords’, plural, because when you speak to the isangoma you’re talking not to the little old man but to the countless mighty spirits who bed-and-breakfast, so to speak, in the vast mansions behind his eyes.
Nkunzana’s small, tidy kraal lay in a miniature valley, a crack between two great rocks, which meant the sun’s nuisance was kept to a minimum. For twenty hours in the twenty-four it was dark at Izulu-li-dum-umteto, and for Nkunzana darkness was a natural resource essential to his business, like the mill-streams of Lancashire. He himself was a comic, horrifying figure; small, crooked and smooth-skinned, like a freeze-dried child. He wore the uniform of his craft: leopards’ teeth, goats’ horns, pigs’ bladders, gnu’s tail. He looked like God’s spares box. Slow to move, quick to laugh; smiling toothlessly, staring unblinking at a space two feet above and eight inches to the right of the head of the person he was talking to. A little ray of sunshine. Your local GP.
‘Sakubona, baba’. We saw you, my father; hello. A grave nod accompanied the formal greeting. The dragon relaxed a little. He’d managed to get to see the doctor without an appointment. ‘And what can I do for you?’
The dragon licked the roof of his mouth, which was dry; why am I afraid of this little toe-rag? I’m a dragon, for crying out loud ... ‘I need to speak to someone who is dead, ’makhosi,’ he replied, a little nervousness spilling out with the words. ‘For you, surely, this is possible.’
‘Possible.’ The little man nodded. ‘A small matter, my father. Who among the snakes do you wish to talk to?’
The dragon hesitated. ‘This is, um, embarrassing.’
‘Relax. Say the name.’
‘Well - look, how would it be if I wrote it down on a bit of paper? Sorry to be all silly about this, but—’
‘I cannot read, my father. Say the name.’
‘All right. Um. Me.’
‘You?’
Nod. ‘Me.’
Long pause.
‘Wo, ndoda; ngitshilo.’ Hey, man, you sure said a mouthful. ‘Talking to yourself is a sign of madness. Talking to yourself, dead, is class.’
The dragon shuffled. ‘Said it was embarrassing. Can you do it?’
Nkunzana shrugged. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘If it’s possible. If not, not.’
‘It’s possible. Cross my heart and hope to die. Er, be dead.’
‘We will see what we can do, my father.’ The old man closed his eyes, leaned forward until his knees touched his shoulders, and tossed something onto the fire. Nothing happened.
‘About time, too,’ said the dragon.
The dragon looked up. ‘Aarg,’ he said.
‘Have you any idea,’ his deceased self went on, ‘how long I’ve been hanging around this boghole waiting for you to turn up? Gives me the fucking creeps, and I’m dead.’
‘Sorry.’ Really, truly embarrassing. ‘Look, I guess you know why I needed to talk.’
‘Reverse time travel, how we got home.’ The dragon nodded. ‘Piece of cake. Why you needed to bother me I don’t know. I managed to work it out all by myself.’
‘Clever old you, then.’
‘Indeed.’ The dragon sighed contemptuously. ‘Listen carefully. I’m dead, right?’
‘Right.’
‘But I can’t be, or I couldn’t be talking to me, right? Say yes.’
‘Yes.’
‘Therefore I must be alive. Nod.’
The dragon nodded.
‘And if I’m alive now, I must have been alive six weeks ago. Well?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Okay.’ The dragon grinned. ‘There you are, then.’
And there they weren’t, either of them.
For ten minutes or so, Nkunzana sat, gazing at the empty stool. Then he stood up, threw another log on the fire.
‘Hambla gahle,’ he said quietly, go in peace. ‘I’m Logic, fly me.’ He shook his head, picked up his catskin bag of medicines and walked to his hut.
It only occurred to him when he reached the doorway. He stopped dead, swore, (‘Wangi hudela umtwana wami!’) and banged his head savagely against the lintel. Bloody old fool.
All that work, unsocial hours, and who the hell was he going to send the invoice to?
Bianca’s arm ached, the newly mended bone resenting the heavy vibration of hammer on chisel on stone. She glanced up at the clock. No time to rest, she observed mournfully. Not even time for a quick brew and a garibaldi biscuit. She raised the chisel, positioned it carefully, tapped gently. Boy, was she tired.
It was starting to take its toll. Already her hand had slipped, uncharacteristically, when she’d been doing the left side of the collar bone. Oh dear, what a shame, never mind. The old Mike had always had a chip on his shoulder. Now he had a chip out of it; same difference.
Do the head last, shrieked her common sense. Just in case the bloody thing comes alive before I’ve finished it. Last thing I need is Mike’s head looking over my shoulder, telling me how I should do my job. Probably try and sweet-talk me into making improvements on the original. No prize for guessing what he’d want improved.
Furthermore, once this job was finished, no chance of taking a day off or putting her feet up. The moment she’d finished Mike, she had a dragon to find and reason with. And what if the wretched thing wouldn’t listen to reason? Then what the hell was she supposed to do?
She paused, brushed away chippings and thought hard. Why me, anyway? Go on, then, if you’re so damn clever.
The trouble was, she could feel reasons there under her skin, like the palmed coin hidden in the magician’s handkerchief. It had to be her, because ... Well, because she believed in what was going on - not through choice, but because she knew it was all horribly true - and she knew full well that nobody else would believe her. If she tried to enlist the help of the proper authorities (Police? Army? Church? No idea), they’d have her inside a fruitcake repository and connected up to the mains before she got much further than, ‘Well, it’s like this...’ Because she owed it to the dragon for the wrongs her species had done to his species - No, the hell with that. Follow that line of argument and she’d be pouring petrol through delicatessens’ letterboxes. Because it was her statues that started it all. That was the reason. Very silly reason; holding herself responsible for the acts of a bunch of semi-legendary joyriders. But it was the reason and she was stuck with it.
But what was she to do if the dragon wouldn’t listen to her? An entrancing picture floated before her mind; the damsel fights the dragon to save the knight chained to the rock. Great feminist statement; bloody silly game plan. And how do you go about fighting dragons, anyway?
‘Reluctantly,’ Bianca said aloud. ‘Copper mallet, copper mallet, come out wherever you are.’
Three hours later, there wasn’t much left to do. The face - well, far be it from her to seek to amend Mother Nature’s banjax. The small of the back and the bum; there is a destiny that shapes our ends, she muttered to herself laying in hard with the chisel, rough-hew them how we will. In this instance, it had shaped Mike’s end rather like a very old, tired sofa. There were lots of untidy chisel-marks, but his trousers would hide those. Time Mike learnt to take the rough with the smooth.
Chip chip, tap tap. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘It’s ready. Phase One in an exciting new development of starter-homes for unfussy ghosts.’
She waited.
Slight miscalculation? Maybe. Or maybe a very precise calculation indeed.
Below him, the dragon saw the still-smoking embers of the hall. A gaggle of peculiar-shaped creatures, led by a human, were picking their way through the hot-rubble towards a beat-up old motor vehicle. They got in and drove away.
Banzai! He’d come back in a day or so earlier than scheduled, just nicely in time to see George and his sidekicks clambering out of their incinerator and making a run for it. Maintaining his height, he tracked the van; wingbeats few and slow, a handy thermal buoying him up.
He was, he hoped, too high for the wretched creatures in the van to see or notice, although what could they do if they did? Drive faster than light? Try and defend themselves? Attack? Let them. The dragon was wearing under his metaphorical dinner jacket the bullet-proof vest of zombie-hood; you can’t get me ’cos I done dead already. Looking ahead up the road, he picked his spot. Fire? Twelve good nosefuls before he was into reserve. He accelerated, put his wings back, fell into the glide ...
‘George.’
‘Now what?’
‘There’s a dragon following us.’
The van had slewed to a sudden dramatic standstill and its contents were dispersing at top speed. Drat, the dragon thought. Never mind, he was locked on to George now; he didn’t care about the others, as soon let them go as not, provided they didn’t interfere. And they wouldn’t. Not many demons are prepared to lay down their lives for a saint.
Nice to watch George run. For a short, fattish lad he had a pretty turn of speed. Slippery, too, as soap in a bath, so no time for mucking about. It’s when the stage villain pauses to twirl his moustaches and cackle that the hero sees his chance and the underwriters of his life policies start to breathe again. Time to nail the sod.
He dived, breathed in. A smart sneeze, pinpoint accurate. A very loud, very short scream. Job done.
Home.
Oh.
So that was death, was it? Typical, I missed it.
George watched the dragon recede into the sky, then looked down; although he knew there’d be nothing to see. His body—gone. Which body? Didn’t matter. The jet of fire that had wrapped round him like a cat round legs had been so hot it’d have evaporated marble as easily as flesh. An exemplary snuff; quick, sure and completely (as far as he could remember) painless.
George was suddenly aware of something -
- God knows what. The nearest he could get to it was an invisible lead, dragging him like an over-inquisitive dog. Balls, muttered George, I’m going to Heaven. Don’t want to go yet. Haven’t finished.
Don’t have to go. As the unseen rope tugged him along, he was aware of a handhold, an escape hatch, rushing towards him. An anomaly! Saved!
There’s many a slip, as the saying goes, between toilet bowl and sewage farm. George only saw it for the most fleeting sliver of a second, but it was long enough to judge his escape attempt and make it.
A statue, its back door wide open. In fact, so conveniently placed, handy for the stream of traffic, that you’d be forgiven for thinking it had been put there expressly for the purpose. A mousetrap? Or a getaway car?
Whatever; who gives a shit? As far as George was concerned, it was a case of any portrait in a storm. He threw himself at the anomaly and hit the mark.
‘Mike? You in there yet?’
Coming, coming. Being dead takes it out of you, makes you realise just how out of condition you can become in three days. Painfully, Mike dragged himself towards the nice welcoming statue. Dear, kind, clever Bianca, she’d done a good job. Almost there ...
What? What?
BASTARD!
Just as the door in the back of the statue opened and he’d been reaching out a frail and shaky arm to touch it, some evil git had bounced up from behind, swept past him, jumped into the statue and slammed the door. Was that face familiar? The ill-fated play where he’d been killed. Oh no. Saint George. The saint had stolen his body.
Even if he’d had the strength to hammer on the door and tug at the handle, it’d have done him no good. With statues it’s strictly first come, first stored. He’d been gazumped, at the last minute.
He had no more strength left to hang on. He let go.
‘Mike? You in there yet?’
The statue’s eyes flickered.
‘Mike!’
With an effortless smoothness that did her no end of credit, the eyelids lifte
d.
‘Mike?’
That’s not him in there! Odd, how you just know, simply by looking people in the eye. Just a coloured circle on a white background, a fried egg with a jewelled yolk. Perhaps we can actually see the retina, the way they do for ultrahigh-security identification routines, but too fast for our conscious minds to know what we’ve actually done.
‘Who?’
I know who! I’d recognise those beady, shifty little eyes anywhere!
Bianca had quick reactions. Very few scientific instruments known to Man would be precise enough to measure the tiny instant it took her to grab the two-pound lump hammer and swing it at the head of her newly completed masterpiece. Compared to Saint George, though, she was a dinosaur in slow motion. Before her fingers had contacted the hickory handle, he was moving. As the hammerhead rushed towards him, he stuck out his newly acquired right arm, punched Bianca neatly in the eye, ducked the hammer blow and ran for it. Behind him, he heard a crash, suggesting that Bianca had sat down uncomfortably on the floor. He made a mental note to laugh triumphantly later, when he had the time.
He was through the door and out into the street faster than a jack-rabbit absconding with the Christmas club money.
Painfully, feeling like a Keystone Kop five seconds after the director’s yelled ‘Cut!’ Bianca hauled herself up off the floor and swore.
George, that bastard of a saint, had stolen another of her statues. Worse, he’d probably just killed her friend. Nice touch, that; poor old Mike had just had the rare privilege of being killed by both Good and Evil consecutively. Not that she had a clue any more which was which; nor did she care. If Mike still existed, anywhere in the cosmos, she guessed he was feeling the same way.
The hammer was still in her hand and she realised; Jesus, I just tried to kill him. A saint. My own statue. I tried to kill one of my own statues, just when it was on the point of coming to life.
