“Pudding!” Drakeforth popped up like a meerkat that had stepped on a Lego brick. “Keep going!”
“Do I have to?” The stifling heat made me sound whiney.
“No, I suppose not. You should have no issue at all explaining the circumstances of how you came to be in the presence of a woman now dead. The Pathian justice system is like a maze.”
“I hope you mean that it is complicated.”
“Well yes, and once you find your way through the labyrinth of courts the result is always the same.”
I narrowed my eyes further against the glare that even my dark glasses couldn’t eclipse. “What is the result?”
“You need to experience it for yourself. Words could not do it justice.”
I glanced back the way we had come. The mob crested the ridge behind us, howling for blood. I sighed and stumbled down the dune. The acoustics at the bottom of the sandy valley were quite good, so I sighed again for dramatic effect and headed up to meet Drakeforth.
The sand avalanched around me, threatening to send me sliding into the valley for a premature burial. Drakeforth peered over the edge, and I am sure his silhouette bore an expression of extreme disappointment.
“Will you stop mucking about?” he snapped.
“Come on in, the sand is fine!” I shouted back.
Shadows fell across the dunes in a chilling pattern like long hair floating in a calm sea.
The shouts from behind me rose in pitch. The mob were waving and wavering. I squinted into the sun to see the cause of the distraction. A braided rope of hairy leather dropped in a neat circle around me and then jerked upwards. I was upside down in seconds, the cord drawing tight around my ankles. As I lifted off the ground, Drakeforth swung past, ensnared in a rope of his own. Under different circumstances, we might have made an extraordinary circus act.
“Saucer-heels!” Drakeforth yelled as he swung past.
“What?!” I yelled back.
“Sosha-goes!” Drakeforth shouted as we arced through the air.
“What the foucault are you on about?!”
Drakeforth pointed upwards.
Ohh, sausages.
Chapter 14
In the time of goats and grass, trees were already rare on the vast plains of Errm. Arthur’s people, the nomadic goat herders and balloon animal artisans, spoke of The Tree. No one knew for sure The Tree existed. Legend said close to the ground, goats had stripped the bark of the trunk back to grey wood. Out of their reach, a bristling crown of thorns hung like sea mines protecting clusters of small fruit.
They said in ancient times the bite-sized fruit of the sacred tree was highly prized as a sweetener in ceremonial drinks. The acrid bark tasted so bitter most goats only tried chewing it once.
Traditionally, young and idealistic pilgrims sought out the sacred boughs of The Tree. Some made the journey for spiritual reasons, others in an attempt to impress their peers, or because they had lost a bet.
As the desert replaced the grass and the ancient nomadic culture moved to the city, The Tree faded from legend into myth, forgotten by everyone except a few scholars and people who liked to spend their weekends dressing up in historical costumes while pretending that life was much better a thousand years ago.
Every generation, the story would come around again: a campfire tale, an allegory, a parable, or a fable. The details changed with each translation. The elements were always the same: find The Tree and it will grant you the answer to any question. Wishes would be granted and the secrets of the Universe would be revealed.
That no one had ever found The Tree didn’t stop people seeking it, spending their life-savings, and in some cases, paying with their lives.
Chapter 15
Sausages, floating in the air. It didn’t seem possible. Yet, there they were, proving me wrong.
We gained altitude and dunes and the angry mob slipped away beneath us as we swayed gently in the shimmering air.
“Drakeforth…”
“I have no idea,” he replied.
“Balloons!”
“Bless you.”
“No, it’s balloons. Lots of balloons, tied together. “Interesting.” Drakeforth stared at the horizon.
We hung beneath a net of hundreds of sausage-shaped balloons. It would have been more impressive, if the only thing stopping us plummeting to a certain death wasn’t a creaking cord of braided leather.
The blood rushed to my head until I felt sure keeping my eyes closed was all that stopped them popping out of their sockets.
“Is there someone we can talk to?” I asked.
“What about?”
“Oh, you know, the weather… The price of tea in Chandallah. Nothing important.”
“And yet the weather is the most important factor of the price of tea in Chandallah. If the growing season has been too dry, the nature of the tea crop will be entirely different than if there has been higher-than-average rainfall, and this will impact the price.”
“How have I lived this long without knowing that?” I wanted to fold my arms, to really drive home how utterly unnecessary Drakeforth’s explanation was. Except vertigo meant I didn’t know which way to fold my arms against gravity, and I ended up smacking myself in the face. “Oww!”
I heard the zipping sound of something sliding down the leather rope, and then the strong smell of someone who probably couldn’t describe the inside of a shower cabinet from memory.
Through watering eyes, I made out a blurred shape. He was naked and very hairy, or wearing clothing made from half-cured skins.
“Should we go inside?” he asked.
“You need to put us down! Right now!”
“No, after you. I insist,” he said.
“Let us go, or I’ll skin you alive,” I smiled sweetly.
“Does anyone have a torch?”
“Down. Now.” Using vocal techniques to influence outcomes is harder than you would think when you are hanging upside down.
“I suppose we have to go down. If we go up, we won’t have gone anywhere.” He waved his hands in the air and the rope around my ankles started to wind up.
Our captor rose beside me, chattering constantly. Most of what he was saying made no sense. I focused my attention on tracking Drakeforth, who was uncharacteristically silent as we were elevated into the belly of a sausage balloon.
Hairy hands landed me like a trophy fish on a wooden deck, and the leather rope loosened from my ankles.
Drakeforth thudded down beside me, and the skin-wearing man bounced over him and removed the bonds around his legs.
“Any chance of a cup of tea?” Drakeforth asked, sitting up.
“I’d settle for an explanation, and being returned to earth.” I wiggled my toes, feeling the circulation return to my feet.
“Tea?! Tea. Tee-hee…? Tree!” The man leapt from the deck like a banned toy bursting from its box. He scrambled up a complex rigging of leather straps and disappeared into the canopy of suspended junk.
The floor and walls suspended beneath the cloud of grey balloons were as random as the crazy paving of Pathian walkways. Scraps of wood, bits of bone, animal skin and some kind of plaster created a mosaic pattern of materials and colours. While it looked strong enough, the entire structure creaked and moved in the air. I took a deep breath and tried not to think about dying.
“Drakeforth? Do you think we can climb down a rope or something?”
“I’m sure we could.” Drakeforth stood and helped me up. I brushed the sand off my clothes and took stock of our situation.
After a few seconds, I concluded that I lived a life overstocked with strange circumstances and bizarre occurrences.
“But why would we?” Drakeforth added.
“Because it seems rude to impose on this…gentleman, without an invitation or any warning t
hat we were going to drop in on him and his…flying balloon collection.”
“Goat intestines,” Drakeforth said, and went to examine the bindings on some of the more ramshackle parts of the cabin.
“Strong language, but okay.”
“The balloons are made of goat intestines. It’s an ancient nomadic tribal art form, though I can’t say I have ever seen anyone take it on a tangent that would lead to a flying machine. I think it warrants further investigation.”
“We already have an investigation that requires further investigation. A missing professor. Your wife—”
“Ex-wife,” Drakeforth corrected.
“Not relevant for the purposes of this demonstration,” I snapped.
“Why mention it, then?”
“I didn’t! Eade did. When I first met her. She made a point of mentioning it.”
“Why would someone build a machine like this?” Drakeforth asked.
Much like a life flashing past in the moment of death, an entire epic of adventure, romance, betrayal, and ultimately self-discovery, flashed through my mind. Instead, I sighed and said, “Why not?”
Drakeforth whirled and fixed me with a wide-eyed stare before marching across the creaking wooden deck and seizing me by the shoulders
“That,” he whispered hoarsely, “is the most profound thing I have ever heard you say.”
“You’re welcome?”
“Yes…” Drakeforth released me and shook himself to recover. “Yes, indeed, we are both welcome. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Not exactly reassuring.”
“Reassurance is for people who stay home and darn the holes in their socks.” Drakeforth set his hands on his hips and peered upwards through the tangled network of creaking leather cords and gently pulsing sacks of inflated goat-gut.
“Persimmon?” Our host dropped to the deck and thrust a tomato at me.
“Uhm, no thank you. I’m fine.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Drakeforth, leaning past me and taking the offering. He sniffed it and made an appreciative sound.
“I’m Drakeforth, this is Pudding,” Drakeforth said.
“Persimmon?” our host asked again, another of the tomato-berry-things in his hand.
“No, thank you. I think that’s a tomato.”
“It’s definitely a persimmon,” Drakeforth replied.
“It looks like a tomato.”
“You say tomato, I say persimmon.”
“Persimmon?” The man with the fruit was looking at each of us in turn, his offering gesture becoming more adamant.
“Very nice,” Drakeforth smiled and nodded in a way I’m sure he thought was reassuring. Our host whimpered and recoiled slightly.
“I have barely slept in the last couple of days, I’m not even sure what day it is. Drakeforth?”
“Hmm?” he said, with a mouthful of persimmon.
“What day is it?”
“Moogay,” he replied.
“What’s your name?” I asked, stepping between the two of them. “Charlotte,” I said carefully, pointing at my chest.
“Goat,” the man replied, pointing at himself.
“Yes, you are wearing what smells like dead goat. But what is your name? I’m Charlotte.” I repeated the gesture.
“Goat,” he waved again and nodded.
“Hello, Goat, where are you going in this flying machine?” Drakeforth asked.
Goat turned on his heel and scuttled to a battered trunk tied to one corner of the deck. The metal hinges screeched as he heaved the lid open and rummaged inside. We waited until he returned with a rolled-up scroll of well-scraped hide. With a grand gesture, he straightened and unfurled the skin. “Tr-” Goat stopped and turned the skin up the other way. “Tree!” he said.
A crudely painted white shape on the smooth side of the skin looked almost like a tree. Grey-white bark, gnarled branches and strange dark lines that were either leaves and twigs, or hair.
“That’s a lovely picture, Goat,” I said reassuringly.
Drakeforth stepped forward and snatched the scroll. Holding it up to the light, he studied it intently.
Goat’s nostrils flared and his eyes went wide. “Pedestrians!” he roared.
“Drakeforth… Give the nice man back his picture.”
“The Tree? You are out here looking for The Tree?”
“Tree!” Goat beamed.
“Pudding,” Drakeforth announced, “this man is completely mad.”
“Really? What gave it away? His unkempt appearance? His half-cured animal skin wardrobe? His strange manner?”
“He is seeking The Sacred Tree.”
“Looking for a tree in the desert? Isn’t that like looking for an iced tea shop out here?
“Only if people had lost their lives looking for a particular iced tea shop which no one had seen in thousands of years.”
“Persimmon?” Goat asked. I took the fruit without a word.
“I thought there weren’t any trees in a desert. It’s part of the whole desert thing. If there are trees in it, surely it’s more of a forest fire waiting to happen?”
“Goats,” Drakeforth replied, rolling up the scroll and handing it back to Goat, “are hard on trees. They tend to chew the bark off them. Once a tree has had its bark chewed off all the way around the trunk, it dies. Much like if someone was to chew the skin off your neck.”
“Eww,” I said.
“Trees have always been mythical in this part of the world. Only the nomadic nature of the goat-herding clans gave the grass a chance to grow. Even then it took a particularly grim breed of grass to survive.”
“Strain,” I corrected.
“Massive strain,” Drakeforth nodded. “The stress made the grass extremely tough, and probably quite fatalistic.”
“Goat is out here looking for a mythical tree?”
“Pretty much. It doesn’t exist, of course. It’s the idea that people become obsessed with. With enough desire, ideas take on a reality of their own.”
“Wishful thinking makes wishful reality?” I asked.
“All the wishing in the world won’t make a tree grow,” Drakeforth replied.
“I wish it did.”
“Tree!” Goat whooped and leapt into the rigging again. He leaned out into the desert sun and peered into the distance, his eyes narrowed against the glare.
“The puzzle of the persimmon has been solved,” Drakeforth announced.
“Oh, good. I was beside myself with worry about the persimmon puzzle.” Tiredness and a general sense of being buffeted by events beyond my control had honed my sarcasm to a sharp tone.
“Up here,” Drakeforth said. I sighed and went to see what the fuss was about.
Chapter 16
The sight of Drakeforth’s feet suggested he had climbed a few rungs up the network of leather rigging. I sighed again and climbed up beside him. On the flat roof of the cabin, closer to the gently undulating gas-filled sausages, a small orchard of smaller trees had borne fruit. In an equally constrained enclosure beyond the trees, a tribe of goats watched us with intense interest.
“Hey, Drakeforth. You look like you have seen a goat,” I said with a grin.
“Indeed, and the source of our host’s persimmons.” Drakeforth climbed up onto the farm deck, and against my better judgement, I followed him.
The trees were waist height, growing closely together and rooted in rich, dark soil.
“Drakeforth,” I said carefully. “Are there large areas of Pathia were fertile soils are common place?”
“No,” Drakeforth replied, and bent to examine the tree crop.
“So, if you were going to grow fruit trees and goats, what would you do for dirt?”
“It depends entirely on where you were going to live,” Drakef
orth replied, moving on to examine the goats.
I stepped carefully around the garden box and frowned at the goats.
“Sand can make an excellent building material, if you combine it with something binding and make bricks out of it.”
“Something binding?” I wanted to hear him say it.
“Yes, a high-fibre diet is essential for adding bindy-ness.”
“And the fruit?” I grinned.
“Goats can eat it. Gives you plenty of essential nutrients, and if you overdo the binding, fruit can be very persuasive.”
“You should be an advertising copywriter for laxative products,” I said.
“Advertising is all lies, told to people who want them to be true.”
“Ah, so advertising is the same as religion?” I turned the persimmon over in my hand and tried to remember if I knew how to eat the strange fruit.
“Not at all. Advertising is telling lies to people who want them to be true. Religion is telling lies to people who know them to be true.”
“Hang on, how can religious people know something is true and at the same time, they know it to be untrue?”
“Faith, Pudding.”
“Sure, but you are the living embodiment of the god Arthur, are you not?”
“I’m more sharing my personal space with a god. I am Vole Drakeforth, who has the living spirit of Arthur co-habitating in his consciousness.”
“Okay, so you are a god. Or a person containing a god. Kind of like one of those containers you put leftovers in.”
“Make your point, Pudding.”
“Then you know that religion is real. At least, Arthurianism.”
“Of course religion is real. It’s a very specific construct with a foundation in some universal truths.” Drakeforth seemed to be waiting for me to reach a conclusion that he had arrived at an hour ago.
“And yet, you have just said that religion is not true.”
“I also said that faith is how truth and untruth become interchangeable.”
“It doesn’t make it right though.” I was running out of road for this argument and had a nagging feeling that I had missed my exit. Whatever conclusion Drakeforth was expecting us to rendezvous at, he was probably on his second cup of tea by now.
Time of Breath Page 7
