Theatre of the Gods (27 page)

Inside the cottage they found what Miss Fritzacopple instantly recognised to be a botanist’s lair. The shelves were stacked with plant catalogues and thousands of sample jars. It was a simple home with a table, a stove and a single bed, and on that bed was a skeleton. The skeleton held his journal in his hands and grinned with delight.

‘Well, this is nice,’ said Descharge. Outside the sky was turning grey.

CARING FOR YOUR CARNIVOROUS PLANTS

Fig. 1

Your plants are your friends, your family, your mistresses and your masters. Give them all the care and caution you can muster. (But mostly caution.)

Your garden is not the plants, it is the space between the plants. Your plants are like stars and planets: they should be alone, to be appreciated individually, and yet when viewed from afar they should join to create galaxies of colour. Yourplants should have the space to speak, to sing, to wander! (Sometimes literally.)

The gardener must learn to paint with life: the orange of the viro-carrots, the purple of the tongue of the Venusian man-trap, the blue of the septicflesh-lichen, the ochre of thefloating spores of the haemorrhagic moss.

Enjoy your garden. Love it. Nurture itfor all your life.

The Deadly Gardener, Herbert M. Connofeast; translated by R.I.P.Q Volcannon III

Fig. 2

Fig. 3

DAYLIGHT

Roberto sat on the other side of the room, as far from the corpse as possible.

‘He was olden,’ said Lenore. ‘He liked raw meats, and to smoke the pipe. There was the lady too, shortly, but she has not been here for many a time.’

‘Neither has he,’ said the bosun. The bare skull rested on a pillow yellowed by the years. ‘He liked the whiskies,’ said Lenore. ‘There’s many bottles up in the cupboard there.’

‘Well, praise heavens!’ said the bosun as he flung open the cupboard. He returned to the table with an amber bottle and glasses. Outside they heard the shrubs stirring.

‘We are safe in here from getting plant-acid in our eyes,’ said Fabrigas as he took off his glass dome, and as the heat from their bodies quickly caused a fog in the forgotten room they all sat around the table and drank a breakfast toast to a certain death that, so far, they’d managed to avoid. Before long they were merrily oblivious to the snapping and spitting all around them. Even Descharge relaxed a little and stopped telling Fabrigas he was going to hang him.

‘They really have taken over the entire moon,’ said Miss Fritzacopple. She had moved away from the table to stand in the larger of the windows. She stood gazing out over the jungle. The cottage was at the top of a steep rise and for the first time they had a view across the endless expanse of ravenous green. The plants were throwing
themselves against the glass dome, desperate to get at the tiny treats behind the windows. And this went on all day, the noise and movement and the ceaseless song of fangs on glass. The day seemed to last forever; soon they all felt the first whispers of madness.

‘I need to get out of here,’ said the bosun. ‘I’m getting
the fear
!’

‘It will be night soon, and then we can go back to our ship,’ said Descharge.

*

‘And just when
is
the night arriving?’ said Miss Fritzacopple lazily. She had an arm slung back over the chair and one leather boot resting on the table. It was a good point she made, too. It had now been at least forty naval hours since night had last fallen.

‘I expect it will be along presently,’ said the old-beard. ‘My calculations prove it!’ Though it was clear he’d taken no measurements recently, except regarding how much whisky was in his glass. ‘We must make a toast!’ he said. ‘From now on, we must stick together. No more fighting,’ and he threw a glance at Descharge. ‘From now on we are one family!’ and everyone raised their glasses, even Descharge, reluctantly. ‘I will agree to a temporary truce while we find a way out of this mess.’

‘Hear, hear!’ cried the bosun, who had drunk a bottle to himself.

Hours later, night was still absent and the atmosphere was becoming tense again.

‘So, does anyone have any grand plans?’

‘Why don’t we ask the old man?’ said Descharge. ‘His plans always work. Why don’t you make us some soup!’

‘My soup plan might have worked if we hadn’t been attacked by our own ships.’

‘Why would our own ships attack us? It was clearly an enemy fleet, and when I get you back to our universe and into a stockade I can prove it to you.’

‘Are we even
in
another universe?’ said the botanist. ‘You said in your letter your engine didn’t even work.’

‘It didn’t. It was never supposed to. I just wanted to prove a point. The most likely conclusion is that I never did come from another universe.’

‘But you tried to convince the whole universe you did.’

‘I decided to take on the difficult task of convincing the universe before attempting the relatively easy task of convincing myself.’

No one quite knew what to say about that.

‘So assuming we have somehow crossed over,’ said the bosun, ‘how do we cross back?’

‘I really do not know,’ admitted Fabrigas. ‘Akropolis provided ideal conditions for a jump. We would have to find somewhere at least as good.’

‘You could always ask your imaginary friend.’ The botanist was slurring slightly.

‘Imaginary friend?’

‘Yes, the one I hear you ranting at on the observation deck. “Carrofax! Stop meddling in my experiments!” And so forth.’

‘He is not imaginary, just invisible.’

‘You have an invisible friend?’ said the bosun.

‘A friend who happens to be invisible to you, yes. What of it?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ said the botanist. ‘It’s just strange to see a grown man with an imaginary friend.’

‘As I said, he is invisible, not imaginary. There is a difference.’

‘Is there?’

‘Well, you tell me,’ the old man said and gestured to a talisman around the botanist’s slender neck. ‘You should not be the one to talk about invisible chums.’

‘And where is your friend now? Is he sitting on your lap?’

‘Carrofax is not here. He is no doubt seeking information about the nature of the universe we’re in.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he is what, a ghost?’

‘He is … a phenomenal being.’

‘A demon?’

‘I would not say that word around him.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in magic.’

‘I believe only what I can test, and I have tested him thoroughly.’

‘And how did you two lovebirds meet?’

‘That is a long story.’

‘It seems as if we have all the time we need.’

CARROFAX

Among the many books which came to his mansion in those long, lonely years was a particularly interesting volume on geometry:
A Book of Symbols: Progressive Geometry and the Structure of the Universe
, by a man called Vangetz. Young Fabrigas absorbed the book like no other, reading it dozens of times, recreating a number of Vangetz’s experiments involving the transformative symbols contained within. He revived dead plants with these dark symbols, he transmuted matter, he trapped mice within invisible cages painted in shapes upon the floor. He painted a large symbol on the outer wall of his compound which allowed him to magnify the sound of approaching people, no matter how quietly they stalked. He sent messages out into the heavens to a race of people Vangetz referred to as the ‘Immortals’. He begged them for deliverance. He put aside all his other studies to concentrate on this one book. In short, he ignored Vangetz’s preface which stated: ‘This work is for your interest, not your practice. No amateur will be able to recreate these experiments, and indeed should not.’ If he was wrong about ‘will be able to’, he was dreadfully right about ‘should not’. It did not take the boy long to go too far.

Young Fabrigas decided to revive his mother, whom he had buried in the yard at the back of the mansion. The experiment was a great success – at least in a literal sense. She did indeed rise from the grave, still in her decomposed state, and she pursued her son out of the
compound, and down the street, and through the deserted avenues of Carnassus’s Fancy District. The corpse followed her tearful son through the dark wet alleys, calling to him in a gravesick voice through bloody lips: ‘My son! My son!’ He fled into a sewer and she followed. He heard her voice always just behind him. The chase went on for hours until he could finally steel himself to return her to death, and to the pit in the yard.

He dug down another three feet to ensure she would not rise again, and his shovel hit a solid object. He was digging down not through natural soil, but through an impasto of oily filth laid down over centuries. He pulled out the strongbox. Inside the box was a book and a note:

Dear younger Fabrigas,

You do not know us, though we know the older you. You are a good boy, but the man in the book you possess is a fool. He is meddling in forces he does not understand. It is sad that you had to go through such a terrifying experience to discover that. But it will get better. If you follow the instructions in the book we’ve given you very carefully, and keep to the simple life and good intentions of a monk, you will do powerful and wonderful things. This book holds the ancient hexagrams given to us by the Immortals – the oldest species in the universe. Their science is a wonderful thing. Do not listen to anyone who tells you this is magic. These are natural laws. Magic dies in its shadow.

We are afraid to inform you that your early experiments in this field have attracted the attention of powerful monsters. You are now in great danger. This plague is just the beginning. We are in a battle to control these dark forces. It is a battle on a scale you could not even begin to comprehend. We will protect you, and in return we will ask you to play a small part in our struggle. One day soon you will solve a problem given to you by a drunk and will be invited to join a prestigious academy. So long as you stay there you will be well protected. Be sure to read our book before then.

You might feel very alone and frightened, but you will not be alone for much longer. If you are brave and clever you will soon have a friend and servant. (See
Chapter 48
: Hexagrams of Entanglement.)

Kind regards,

Dark Hand

PS If you bury your mother unprotected she will rise again in 3.5 days to torment you. Draw hexagram 84984 upon her forehead and bury her well.

A few nights later Fabrigas heard noises in his room. Someone had entered without triggering any of his traps or alarms. Was it Mother? Had she risen again? Perhaps he had painted the symbol on her forehead wrong. Every night the noises arrived around the same time and sent him ducking under. This was not an easily frightened child. He was used to the ugly rhythms of the Sphere. He was used to the thrum of the shipyards and the hoots and cries from the slums nearby. But it is a fact that you can be as brave a boy as you like outdoors, but noises in your own room are impossible to bear.