The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers (58 page)

After a while, Chegory realised he had still not had breakfast. What was the time? To judge by the sun, it was getting on for lunchtime. What could he eat? Bananas? The tumescent purple quills on the banana trees nearby were as yet far from fruition. At least there was water. He sought a fountain, then drank of its effortless water.

Water, water.

Oh, to be clean!

Well, why not?

Chegory stripped off and washed himself slowly and methodically. He even washed his hair. He even picked out the dirt from underneath his fingernails. Then he did what he could for the much-tattered remnants of the canary robes which had been so glorious when first given to him in the pink palace. He put them on wet without worrying about it. They would dry quickly enough in the heat of the day.

He felt much, much better, even though a faint, ineradicable hint of dikle and shlug still hung about him.

But he was still hungry.

‘Make us some food,’ said Chegory.

‘I would, Chegory dearest,’ said Shabble. ‘But I don’t know how.’

‘I’m talking to this demon,’ said Chegory.

‘There’s nobody here, Chegory. Nobody but us.’

‘Look,’ said Chegory, ‘just stay out of this, okay? I want to have a talk with my demon. Okay, Binchinminfin. We’re hungry. We have to eat.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ said Shabble.

Chegory was sorely tempted to threaten the imitator of suns with a quick visit to the nearest therapist. After a struggle, he resisted the temptation, and again demanded food from his demon. Nothing happened. Chegory was disappointed, to say the least. When one endures demonic possession, one expects to at least enjoy a few fringe benefits.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Chegory. ‘Are you tired? Or what? Hello? Is anyone home? Are you still there?’

A thought answered him:

I am.

But immediately he knew it was his own thought. The demon Binchinminfin was silent. If it was still there at all. Maybe it had been killed at a distance by some subtle magic worked by the Hermit Crab. Or driven back to the World Beyond from whence it had come in the first place. But:
ik
).
It had told him its host had to die before it could get home.

Gtdsf So what if it kills me?

The thought left Chegory horrorstruck. Then he pulled himself together. If the demon had wanted him dead it would haw killed him already. Maybe it couldn’t. Or didn’t want to. After all, how many people had the demon actually slaughtered since its arrival on Untunchilamon? As far as Chegory knew, it had killed precisely nobody.

Maybe the demon was a bit like a vampire rat. They do a lot of damage at times, these rats, and horror sometimes results from their depredations. But most of the time they keep themselves to themselves. Fear of them keeps much of Injiltaprajura indoors for much of the night — but such fear is mostly a nonsense.

Maybe, though, Binchinminfin was not like a vampire rat at alL Maybe it was an ethical entity with a tolerably high sense of responsibility. After all, what had the demon really done? Well, at first it had run amok. It had made blood, had made rainbows, had made krakens. But that was right at the very start when it had hardly known where it was, when it had been working with dreams and stuff. It had brought nightmares to life. Had created a dragon at banquet. But it had only created those things while it was trying to make sense of Odolo’s mind and the world that mind reflected.

Later, when the demon was properly orientated, when it knew which way was up, it had enjoyed itself, that’s all. It had partied riotously at the pink palace. It had made friends with the albinotic ape Vazzy. It had got drunk. Which was... well, was it so terrible?

Maybe demons aren’t into murder, rape, slaughter.

Maybe we just think they are.

Maybe we think so because that’s what we’re into. Maybe we think it all on to demons to make ourselves think better of ourselves. Or something.

Anyway, whatever the case, Chegory was as yet undead. Furthermore, he was free. He realised, to his surprise, that he resented his freedom. When he had accepted the rule of the demon Binchinminfin, he had not been sacrificing his freedom merely for the sake of his true love Olivia. No, it was not love alone which had commanded him. A darker, deeper urge had been at work. The desire to surrender. To be ruled, imprisoned, enslaved. To escape the torments of choice.

Chegory Guy had expected the demon to take him over entirely, and to run his life thereafter, just as it had on first possessing him during their drinking session at the pink palace. He realised this was but a variation on a familiar theme. He had thought of possession as his chance to become, in effect, no more than a rock. To be but a powerless observer housed in his own walking corpse. To die out of the world of will without dying out of the world of sensation. To have no more problems, no more decisions, no nothing.

But he found himself left with his freedom, his identity, and all the problems which go with those things.

He tried again.

‘Demon-thing, are you there or aren’t you? At least give me a sign! I have to know.’

But no sign was granted unto him.

Therefore he was faced with a philosophical problem as well
as
an array of practical problems. The demon had said it could only go home to the World Beyond if its host died. But that might not be true. So how was he to know whether he
was
still demon-possessed if his demon refused to speak to him? He so wished to be demon-possessed that his own mind was ready to fake demon-flavoured whisperings,
which
made the exercise of judgement all the more difficult.

‘I can’t know,’ whispered Chegory at length. ‘But I must
presume.’

He must presume that the demon Binchinminfin still rode
with him,
silent for
the
moment merely because it was
recovering
its strength. How far it had fallen!
At
the
beginning,
it had been able to colour the entire sky with
rainbow
and fill the Laitemata with krakens. Then, after
the
battering it had taken from a series of mind-shifts and
a
horrifying exorcism, it had been scarcely strong enough
to manipulate
its hosts’ voices so they spoke with a foreign
accent.

‘Maybe,’
whispered Chegory, ‘it’s power’s almost dead.
Maybe
it can’t kill its host even if it wants to. Even if it wants to go home.’

In
any case, whether Chegory was with demon or
without,
he was still a hunted animal, so it was best that
he wait
and do nothing. He was safer here than elsewhere.

He waited.

In
time, he was found. By one of the small, omnivorous
black
pigs of Injiltaprajura. Which snoinked at him, then
went on
its way. Later, he heard something in a nearby tree —
a
tree he might find himself climbing to be out of the
way
of vampire rats if he was still in Thlutter come nightfall.

The
intruder in the tree was only a small monkey. It
reminded
him of one of the theological disputes current in
the
conversation of Injiltaprajura. Had some deity created
monkeys as a
cruel caricature of humanity? Or had humans
been
created as a cruel caricature of monkeys?

Since
Chegory Guy adhered to the evolutionary heresy, he cleaved to neither side of the argument. But, if he had been forced to choose, at that moment he would have said it was more probable that humans were created as a most unkind parody of that less uncivilised beast, the monkey.

What was the point of being human?

Was it worth the struggle?

Particularly when one was an Ebrell Islander, faced with death and disaster at every turn?

What was life but the grim endurance of this sullen flesh? Moist armpits which must be scratched. Sweat and stench. Lust and appetite. The ravings of the blood. Lungs which must of necessity intercourse promiscuously with the very air, that atmosphere which intermingles freely with the outbreathings of dogs, pigs and vampire rats. What is life but an endless battle against fleas, lice and bedbugs, and, rarely to be forgotten for long in Injiltaprajura, nature’s abomination, the relentless mosquito, persecutor of sleep and tormentor of dreams?

No wonder the demon was homesick! No wonder the demon wanted to go home! They probably didn’t have these things in the World Beyond: sweating armpits, legs which ached from carrying empresses, hangovers, the hunger of an unbreakfasted and unlunched stomach.

‘What are you thinking of, Chegory dearest?’ said Shabble.

‘Of killing myself,’ said Chegory sullenly.

‘Oh, you can’t do that!’ said Shabble in alarm. ‘Don’t kill yourself, Chegory! I should be lonely.’

‘I’ll kill myself if I want,’ said Chegory. ‘It’s my life.’

‘Ah,’ said Shabble slyly. ‘But then you’d never know what happens next.’

It was a telling point.

On Untunchilamon, anything could happen next.

Of course, we all know what would have happened to Chegory in any properly ordered society. He would have been caught! Then punished! Then killed! For he had leagued with a demon in defiance of the demon’s would-be destroyer. Worse, he had made a criminal conspiracy with a delinquent Shabble. As for that Shabble - what did that Shabble deserve?

Why, that Shabble rightly deserved at least ten million years of the most intensive algetic therapy imaginable. For it had innumerable crimes to account for. Trespass. Infringement of personal privacy. Kidnapping. Unlawful imprisonment. Terrorism. Exceeding a velocity often luzacs per arc in a speed-controlled corridor. Disobeying a lawful and legitimate order from a duly authorised dorgi. Attacking a dorgi worth over fifty million drax. Consorting with enemies of the state. Wantonly and maliciously impersonating a loyal servant of the state, namely Anaconda Stogirov, Chief of Security of the Golden Gulag.

The list goes on and on. Without limit, without end. Cruelty to animals. Displaying by night a light bright enough to have the potential to interfere with official astronomical observations. Communication of privileged state information to unauthorised persons. Impersonating a deity. Espionage. Treason. Disorderly conduct. Contempt of court. I could be here all day reciting the names of this Shabble.

Fools!

You think that this is a joke. It is no joke. Anaconda Stogirov lives. That alone is proof that the Golden Gulag is not yet dead. It can be revived in all its glory. Once Stogirov knows that a Shabble yet resides on Untunchilamon and a functional therapist likewise, then the Gulag will soon be resurrected in all its glory. Then it will be I, I, I who will take the credit. Who will be Lord Axeblade, king of executioners.

My just reward!

[One does not like to be called a fool. Nevertheless, rather than react to the insult with a childish display of petulance, it is better to analyse the Originator’s claims dispassionately. As I stated at the outset, on my own visit to Untunchilamon I myself never sighted either this Shabble or this Downstairs. On the other hand, I was not looking for either. Furthermore, it must be admitted that the Chief of Security who presently serves Aldarch III in Obooloo is a woman named Anaconda Stogirov. That in itself proves nothing, but suggests that a supplementation of our data base is in order. In short, I recommend that we send further spies to Yestron, despite the lamentable fate which has met the best and the bravest to date.
Drax Lira, Redactor Major.]

[One notes with interest that the Text suggests that ‘drax’ denominated a unit of exchange in the days of the Golden Gulag. Names often have very, very ancient origins. These vocables oft survive bereft of any known meaning. A case in point is the personal name of our beloved Redactor Major himself.
Soo Tree, Redactor Subminor
.]

As Chegory Guy was not living in a properly ordered society but in Injiltaprajura, he remained (for the moment) at large, contemplating life, death and eternity.

Life felt, at the moment... almost worthless. Yet something made it worthwhile for Things from Beyond to pact with sorcerers so that they might in measure enjoy this very flesh, this world of sensation. Sometimes, indeed, they dared as much as to venture to this aspect of the Possible to take full possession of one human’s liberties.