Читать книгу The Orchid Nursery - Louise Katz - Страница 15

‘Fools Rule OK.’

These words are written below the ugly face. Whatever that means. What is this creature? An animal thing or a grown dudbub? A mutant Man or a misspelling?

Below this incomprehensible legend is another image drawn by an amateurish hand. It shows the wall that surrounds Perfect State and the narrow path that wends its way into Stone Plain towards BigAmass, that great pile of licheny rocks by the curved finger of Yellow Swamp from which one may see, if the sky is clear and cloudless, the tilt of the roof of Hagovel, under which she grovels in a stew of her own filth, or wallows in nearby muddy streamlets to salve her lust-scorched hungry loins. We have no maps that extend further than BigAmass for we have no need of them. Yet this one shows several more landmarks dotted throughout the desert of sickly grass and into the main body of the swamp. I note Tor Man, longer and narrower than BigAmass; then Black Defile that dips down, down into Longully, then up onto higher ground and a dotted line marked as Last Beat. There are other signs leading towards the green line of forest – One Tree, Womanbane and a few more – thence to the extreme edge of Perfect State and onwards, into Unrule, clinging to the land’s end, beyond which is only the terrible sea. Comprehensive instructions, but no key telling exactly how far it is – though I could guess at roughly two days walking, possibly less, judging by the distance from BigAmass.

But inevitably, my eye is drawn to that dire crossroad, clearly marked at the edge of Civilisation, whither that foul enchantress had been banished: Hagovel. Once one of us, the Hag now lives in a muddy hovel that half-melts when the winter rain comes, so she is always caked in filth and thus suffers from a mortifying skin disease; her armpits and groin are paved in ulcerated sores, the skin of her face and arms is as warty as a toad’s, and like a toad she lays in stagnant streams her strings of tadpoles conceived in rut with any number of the semi-corporeal ghouls whose reeking gelatinous bodies she presses up against in the heat of her loathsome lust. Her broods of halflings grow there and when they are mature, populate the forest; their groaning cries are sometimes carried to us if the wind is right. I have heard them and pitied them, for they are vengeful and hate-filled and half-starved. But they are known to catch and dismember anyone unfortunate enough to lose their way beyond the city walls. They are particularly fond of sucking the soft organs from their cavities of flesh and gristle while their victims still breathe, so strong is their craving for fresh meat. The Hag lives alone with her demons and this punishment is adequate.

Everyone knows she lives at the crossroad. One path goes from Perfect State through Stone Plain, all jaggy granite and tall thin grasses hiding scorpions, trapdoor spiders and the treacherous holes of small burrowing things with teeth white and sharp as ice-chips, then further into Yellow Swamp and on into the forest. The other path skirts its edges and forms the boundary between Civilisation and Unrule.

The route is clear. By His Cock-and-Muscle, alive-alive-oh, even to think of the Hag, Satan’s emissary, stirs my gut to a stew, would make me tremble were I that kind of girlie. But though I do not quake I do admit that the idea of her chills me, oh yes it does.

Two simple facts: here is a map; Pearl has not been seen for weeks.

So she was not the rose vessel?

This is her map and she has followed it, though it shows the way to the forest with its savages and monsters, beyond which is the blank space whose far side is Unrule where Agnostic Rogues live and breed like human tumours feeding on the world’s flesh.

Who provided her with these directions, I could not know, nor why. But – and here is the heart of the strangeness that my experience in the Nursery has wrought in me – I now know what I will do. It is written: ‘The ways to ensoulment are various.’ I must follow this strange way.

Nothing else is possible for me now, for when I had crouched fainting in the Orchid Nursery I had felt a deep spiritual tremor, portending perhaps a loss of faith. I cannot bear this. To have all that I believe in and live for, my entire life, sullied and spoiled? The nobility of the aspiration to Perfection all stained and smeared by traces of doubt, the narrow edge of the wedge of apostasy? I feel the bonds that hold me to the life I know unravelling around me, as if my life were nothing more than an old garment that has outlived its utility. No! I will rewind the threads and mend the garment if I can, and to do this I will set out on my own in search of Pearl. This will be the first step towards the redemption of my home, my faith, my reason to live. Then I will return with Pearl to Perfect State, our perfect state, the birthright hard won by Men so many years ago. Though the punishment for disobedience will be severe. But I put this from my mind.

Pearl is my friend, and so it is my duty to do what I can to save her as well as myself, even if that means saving her from herself. And there is something else still, yet another reason, simple and definitive: I need her. My friend who has patently not taken the map with her – who has left it behind for no credible purpose unless it was for me to find. She would have known not to speak to me of such a plan, for she knows me well. It would have caused me a fatal torment of divided loyalties. I am glad she did not put me to such a test, for what would I have done? Betrayed my friend – or betrayed my home and all the people in it who have raised me and taught me and trusted me to be what I am meant to be?

As I sit on her bed I am visited by a clear vision of her face lost in concentration as she commits to memory each turn of the path. I re-fold the map along its creases, and as I do, I am surprised to see that it forms a paper aeroplane, such as we used to make to play games with when we were little. This makes me smile. Pearl used to like this game.

There is no reason to wait. There is nobody for me to speak to, for what would I say? Only this: I am abandoning you, Mother Oblation, Stone sisters, soldiers and Men, to seek my beloved traitor. I will take nothing with me but the map, this notebook in which, as well as my day-to-day doings, I have recorded so much sage advice carefully copied down in recent lessons, and my little knife that once belonged to my friend. Nothing more, for what am I owed? The worst punishment should be reserved for me. I could never explain the complexities of my rationale to the Properganders. They would see – and rightly too – disobed­ience and fatal feminine weakness. If not burned for heresy I will likely receive a flaying at least, or a starfish splaying atop the Orchid Nursery with my face exposed to all and my body open to any violation or insult. But better this than excommunication and no chance to Beseech on my next birthday or any of those to follow. Better any of these than enduring a long life without the comfort of True Belief. Yes, I must go, for this way lies redemption. I will kill what I can catch. I will drink from unhallowed streams.

I close the door behind me. There is a careforcer sweeping the corridor, her form hunched as she forces the brush into the corner, scouring for dust. Very thorough. Her lips have been only recently grafted together, so I do not like to look on her. But I feel her concentrated gaze on me, willing me to meet her eyes. Why such impertinence? I see it is Xeniicut227. I dislike that way she has, a kind of discreet knowingness. So superior. Though not uncommon among some of the more recently inducted xeniicuts, it’s true. But what could a careforcer know? And neither she nor anyone else can have any idea of what I intend to do. Nevertheless, before approaching the outer door I wait until she has passed, breathily whistling through the feeding hole in her suture.