Games, and another journey that ended in a body.
The dead man was dressed in a simple robe; most of Heaven’s inhabitants were, Fool saw. The robe was torn at the man’s shoulder and the flesh beneath the tear was sliced open, the cut not deep but long, reaching from the center of the man’s shoulder blade right around to just above his armpit. Fingering the edge of the cloth, he found that it was thick and soft, unlike the thin and scratchy material used to make the clothing given to Hell’s inhabitants; he didn’t look at his own new uniform as he made the comparison, simply carried on looking at the body, having his silent conversation with the corpse.
The cut hadn’t bled much, which meant something, didn’t it? But what?
The man had died, Fool thought, from a broken neck. His head was twisted too far around, looking back over his shoulder, and drool had spilled from his mouth to the carousel’s wooden-deck floor. The spittle was pink with strings of blood and was stretched out in a long line, the man’s eyes open and staring but clouded as though a film had grown over them.
He was dead before he was cut, Fool realized. Dead bodies didn’t bleed, so the injury to the neck occurred first, followed by the one to the shoulder. Experimentally, he placed his hand against the man’s shoulder, lining up the cuts in robe and flesh. The cut and rents matched, and when he looked more closely, he saw pale threads driven into the wound and a line of blood along the inner surface of the torn robe.
Something had slashed across the man, tearing from rear to front, pressing the robe into the cut and fraying its edge slightly, but only after he had died.
Fool stood again, moved away from the body, and went to the nearest horse and rider.
“Did you see anything?” he asked. The woman on the horse did not answer. Her eyes were closed, and behind the pale lids was a constant flicker of movement. She was asleep.
“None of them will have seen anything,” said the carousel angel, coming up to Fool. This one appeared older, its hair short and gray, its wings folding away into a robe similar to that which the humans wore.
“Are they all asleep?” asked Fool. “None of them are awake?”
“It is not sleep,” said the angel. “They are in Heaven.”
“I know,” said Fool, “but surely some must be awake?”
“None are asleep,” repeated the angel. “They are in Heaven.”
“He doesn’t understand your confusion,” said Benjamin from behind Fool. Both he and Israfil were standing close to the carousel watching him as he worked. Beyond them were other carousels, rides in which people traveled in cars along rails, and stalls at which clusters of people stood motionless or making that odd swaying, dreamlike movement.
“He is of a lower order of angel,” continued Benjamin. “His job is menial, simply to mind our residents as they move through the fairground.”
“How can they all be asleep?”
“They are not. Heaven is unlike Hell, Thomas Fool. In Hell, pain can be shared, can be seen in others, fear can travel from one person to the next, infecting, like a contagion. Rumors and lies can expand, yes? But joy is individual, and can only be experienced alone. Hell is communal, but Heaven is personal. Heaven is individual.” Benjamin came up the steps to the carousel’s platform floor and stood by the woman Fool had tried to speak to. “This one, for example, her Heaven is different from everyone else’s.”
Benjamin leaned in toward the woman, and as he did so, something beneath the skin of his face flexed, his bones seeming to shift and re-form, his cheeks stretching down as his mouth opened and opened and opened, bottom jaw unhinging and dropping away to reveal a maw that was huge and black. Before Fool could stop him, Benjamin had clamped his mouth across the back of the woman’s head and taken her in his arms, wings shivering and expanding, curling around the two of them like a feathered cage.
Before Fool had managed to draw his gun, Benjamin had broken his hold of the woman and placed her carefully back on the horse, making sure she was stable and balanced. His mouth closed, jaw moving from side to side as it folded back up into a semblance of a human face.
“This one is with her husband and children,” he said after a moment. “Her memories, the place she feels safest and happiest, are a day they spent in a park near her home. They ate food and played together. The sun was shining and they were all happy, so she’s created her Heaven there. Everyone here has a different Heaven, the place they create for themselves from the lives they lived or wanted to live. They cannot mix, these Heavens, are often at odds with each other, because people’s joys are not as people’s pains. They do not often sit comfortably next to each other. One may like noise, another peace, one crowds and another solitude, and these cannot easily exist alongside one another, so Heaven is created in each of them and we merely caretake the bodies and see them to the next stage of their journeys.”
“They’re all in separate Heavens?”
“Yes.”
“And all this?” Fool asked, waving his hand around at the carousel and the fairground, at the fields he’d seen yesterday, at the sun and the breeze and the air.
“Places that make them feel safe, places from their childhood, or places they imagined being at in their childhood. When enough of them think about a type of place, Heaven forms it around them, a beach or a field or a town. Other times, like this, Heaven creates itself from their childhoods, from the books they read and loved, from memories and ideas, and it simply becomes a place where people are happy, are secure. There was no carousel in this woman’s past, but there was a park and enjoyment and her memories of that and her memories of the stories she read as a child, of fairgrounds and adventures, merge to create this place.”
“And they’re all like this? All the time?”
“Yes,” said Benjamin, and then, seeing Fool still staring at him, intently asked, “What I did disturbs you?”
“Yes.”
“We must eat, Thomas Fool. No one here is unhappy, everyone is in the place they love the most, often with the people they love and who love them. Angels must eat, and we feed on happiness and love and joy. We do not harm those we feed off, and we take only a little.”
As if to prove Benjamin right, the carousel angel wandered over to another rider, mouth opening, jaw lowering, and latched onto the back of her head, remaining attached for only a few seconds before backing off. The person on the horse did not react to the angel’s touch, stayed in her own private place, eyes closed and arms around the horse’s neck.
Fool lifted his head and sniffed, liking the smell, of burned sugar and sweetness, the faint waft of oil and grease, liking the music that hung in the air, a constantly looping calliope tune. He looked at all the humans sitting on rides and the angels on the carousels and platforms who tended them. They’re the opposite of the Sorrowful, they’re the Joyful, he thought, and they’re replete with all that happiness, stuffed full and just waiting to be harvested.
“Heaven is vast and filled with joy, Thomas Fool,” said Benjamin. “It is a place of safety.”
Fool, looking down at the body, said, “Tell that to this poor bastard.”
“It was an accident,” said Israfil, speaking for the first time since arriving at the fairground.
Fool climbed down from the carousel and began to walk around it, looking at the ground. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, whether he was looking for anything, but something about the man’s death wasn’t right. “Do accidents happen here often?”
“No,” said Israfil, “but what else can it be? The attendant was careless and did not watch his charges properly, and this man fell and died.”
Fool looked down at the corpse, its torn flesh, thinking of death and lies and truths hidden and not seen, and wondered. After a moment, he said, “How can he die? He’s already died and come to Heaven, surely?”
“How do people die in Hell, Thomas Fool? Their bodies become damaged, their souls released. Heaven and Hell are just part of the greater journeys everyone takes.”
>
Fool didn’t reply. “And what about you?” he called to the carousel angel. “Did you see anything?”
“No,” the angel replied. “I came across the body and reported it.”
Fool looked around. The carousel was at the edge of the fairground, close to a fence constructed of ropes and brightly colored pennants, triangles of material fluttering gently in the soft wind. Beyond the fence was a field filled with some kind of crop, high and moving in rhythm with the dancing air, the sound of it a long sloughing sigh under the fairground’s music. He walked to the fence and turned. Anyone coming to the fairground through the field would see and be able to easily get to the carousel upon which the dead man now lay and to two other rides, each equidistant from the field.
Turning back, Fool studied the crops. Ducking under the fence, he walked to the edge of the planting, finding several areas where the stems were broken or bent. The earth was churned but there were no recognizable prints on its surface, and the damage could easily have been done by farmhands tending the plants.
Fool circled back to the fair and went to a smaller ride close to the fence. It consisted of a set of the oversize cups that each held four people, spinning around as they traveled on a circular track. The ride was slowing as Fool approached it, the cups spinning slower and slower until they stopped. No one got out; each inhabitant simply sat there until the ride started over again, gradually building up speed until the riders’ hair was whipping about their faces, and trying to keep track of individuals made Fool feel dizzy.
One of the cups was empty.
Fool went to the ride on the other side of the carousel, a simple arrangement of cars, linked together and each holding two people traveling along a set of rails, traveling up small slopes and dropping into low dips as they went. It, too, had an empty car. Intrigued now, he went deeper into the fairground, looking at each ride and carousel as he went; none had empty cars except the three near the fence.
Back to the fence and looking at the ground again. Was there a trail leading from the crops to the fairground? Faint and not well traveled, but yes, maybe so. There were definitely marks in the grass, trampled areas, a point where something had dug through the surface of the earth to reveal a thin streak of mud below. Here and there in the damaged grass, tiny blue flowers grew. He picked one idly, thinking; the plant smelled unpleasant and he dropped it, straightening, still wondering. Broken crops and grass that may have been trodden down?
It wasn’t conclusive, but it was the start of a trail.
Fool went back to the carousel, intending to study the body more, but found it gone.
“Where is it?” he asked. “Where’s the body gone?”
“To the Garden, where the dead go,” said Israfil.
“Why?”
“Because the journey carries on,” said the angel.
“Bring him back,” said Fool.
“No,” said Israfil. “His journey must be uninterrupted, and what happened here was an accident.”
“I’m not sure it was—” said Fool, but the angel interrupted him before he could go on.
“The man fell because the attendant was not looking after him correctly. He caught himself on the way down and cut himself before hitting his head on the floor. It was an accident. We do not need the interference of a human from Hell to tell us this.”
Fool looked at Benjamin, who nodded. “It is a tragedy,” said the shorter angel, “but they can start their journey again.”
“Can I at least speak to the attendant again?” asked Fool, looking around, unable to see the other angel. “He may have seen or heard something and not realized it was important.”
“The attendant has been removed,” said Israfil calmly. “His replacement will arrive soon. You may talk to him if you wish.”
“No,” said Fool, “that’s pointless, he wasn’t here to see anything.”
“There is nothing wrong here, so there was nothing to see,” said Israfil. Around them, the rides were all drawing to a stop and this time their inhabitants were moving, standing up, exiting the cars and cups, climbing off the horses. Soon they were surrounded, a crowd of people wandering past them one way as new riders came from somewhere else, took up residence on the rides, and mounted the horses. None were awake, all their eyes closed, feeling their way with their feet and guided by the angels that moved among them, pale and delicate against the heavier human flesh.
“Can I see the body at the Garden, before it’s burned?”
“Our Garden is not one of flames, Thomas Fool,” said Benjamin. “It is one of earth and air, a hilltop where the dead are released, and you are already too late to see them. They are gone.”
Fool muttered angrily, turning on the spot and looking around, trying to see if he had missed anything. He lifted his face, let the sun warm it, and then looked out across the field again.
The scribe was crouched at the edge of the field, almost hidden by the crops, watching back as Fool stared at it.
Fool took a step in the direction of the scribe, struggling to keep it in view as he stepped off the carousel and descended into a moving sea of humanity. He glimpsed it as a dark shape, fragmented between fluttering white robes, and then it was gone.
Fool broke into a run, weaving between people with difficulty before coming to the edge of the fairground. He ducked under the rope fence, hearing the crackle of the flapping pennants as he passed below them, and then he was at the edge of the crop. The scribe had been farther along the field, away from the trampled earth and bent plants, and its prints were clear in the damp soil. Fool crouched, trying to make sense of it.
Had the scribe injured the man? Murdered him?
It was swimming in his head, the images of the dead body and the carousel and the scribe jumbling, refusing to separate. Fool wavered, putting out a hand to steady himself, liking the feel of the warm, soft dirt against his fingers. Even Heaven’s dirt feels clean, he thought. Clean dirt, little Fool, clean and healthy dirt.
“It’s late,” said Benjamin from behind him. “You need sleep, Thomas Fool. We will escort you back to your room.”
“No,” said Fool but then realized that yes, he was tired, was exhausted, that Benjamin telling him had shown him the truth of this. He’d carry this on tomorrow if they allowed him. Now, he suddenly understood, he had to rest. He stood, rubbed his eyes to clear them, and let them take him away.
When he got back to his room, Fool found that someone had put a bottle of ink on his desk along with lengths of string and a sheaf of plain paper, thick and creamy and entirely unlike the thin, near-transparent sheets he used in Hell. Paper and ink, and it was easy to understand the meaning in the items, so he sat at the desk despite his tiredness and tried to set his thoughts in order. He was required to make his report, and to make it now. Information about this mystery must be delivered, little knowledgeable Fool, he thought, and then realized that whoever had left the ink and paper hadn’t left a pen. Fool wondered how he was going to write before remembering the feather.
It was smaller than the feather he had owned previously but it glowed as brightly, and when he waved it, it left trails in the air that sparkled even as they faded and vanished. Its calamus was bone-white and curved, the delicate spine darker and the barbs soft to the touch. Its pale glow made his hand look like marble, a ghost in the darkness. Sighing, he unscrewed the top of the ink bottle, dipped the feather in the ink, and began to write.
It took him an hour or so to write up everything he had seen, to note the things that concerned him and the few conclusions he had drawn. He did not mention the scribe in the report, for reasons he was unclear about but had to do with wondering where his loyalty lay, and wanting to find out what the scribe had been doing before reporting it. When he had finished, he rolled the paper into a small scroll and tied it with a piece of the string and looked around for a tube in which to place the scroll. It was in the corner, where no tube had been before. Beneath the tube was a canister, and Fool put the scroll in t
he canister, was about to insert it into the tube, when he stopped. After a moment, he opened the canister and tipped the scroll back onto his desk. Untying it, he smoothed the paper and took the feather and, in large letters, wrote beneath his report:
THIS WAS NO ACCIDENT.
—
He was asleep and then he was awake and screaming.
The pain was similar to when Rhakshasas’s guts had wrapped themselves around him but somehow reversed, not something burning in but something clawing out. Fool threw back the blankets and tried to sit to reach the lamp, but the pain that wrenched at him from his belly was terrible, made him collapse back. He was naked, sweating, riding a wave of cramping agony and then lurching up again and this time his fingers hit the globe and brought it to weak life.
The tattoos on his body were twisting and moving across his skin. The lines across his belly and chest had formed themselves into a single large eye and a wide, grinning mouth, and both were opening. The eye was across the skin of his lower stomach and the mouth just below his ribs, both upside down so that he faced them and they him. His flesh was tearing along the line of the eyelid, the skin splitting with a sound like ripping linen, and the pain roared through him and he screamed, and then the lip of the mouth curled back at one side to reveal red and gleaming muscle beneath. Fool screamed again, the noise cut short by a bolt of pain so terrible, so loud, it tightened his throat to a clenched pipe, and then both eye and mouth were open fully.
The eye blinked, opened wide to show a spread of red and fatty muscle, then blinked again, and when it opened a second time, Fool’s raw musculature was gone and a dark, slitted pupil had replaced it. Inside the mouth, which was opening and closing as though to bring the new lips to life, his flesh had disappeared and there was instead a blackness that held in its depths, impossibly deep so that it appeared to be coming from a place below both Fool and the bed he lay on, something that rippled. The pain was ridged now, coming in waves and peaks, making him gasp and cry. The eye and the mouth, disproportionate, eye larger than the mouth, opened and closed a few more times, as though testing their newfound existence, and then the mouth spoke.
The Devil's Evidence Page 10
