cb.imajica2-第43章

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　asylum。
　The　shadows　were　much　thickened　by　the　dust　that　danced　in　the　air；　an　aftermath　of　the　forces　that　had　been　unleashed　inside。　But　Celestine　was　visible；　lying　crookedly　against　the　far　wall。　He'd　done　her　harm；　no　doubt　of　that。　Her　pale　skin　was　seared　and　ruptured　at　thigh；　flank；　and　shoulder。　Roxborough's　purgative　zeal　still　had　some　jurisdiction　in　his　tower；　Jude　thought。　She'd　seen　three　apostates　laid　low　in　the　space　of　an　hour　one　above　and　two　below：
　Of　them　all；　his　prisoner　Celestine　seemed　to　have　suffered　least。　Wounded　though　she　was；　she　still　had　the　will　to　turn　her　fierce　eyes　in　Jude's　direction　and　say；　〃Have　you　e　to　crow？〃
　〃I　tried　to　warn　you；〃　Jude　said。　〃I　don't　want　us　to　be　enemies；　Celestine。　I　want　to　help　you。〃
　〃On　whose　mand？〃
　〃On　my　own。　Why'd　you　assume　everybody's　a　slave　or　a　whore　or　somebody's　damn　dog？〃
　〃Because　that's　the　way　the　world　is；〃　she　said。
　〃It's　changed；　Celestine。〃
　〃What？　Are　the　humans　gone　then？〃
　〃It's　not　human　to　be　a　slave。〃
　〃What　would　you　know？〃　the　woman　said。　〃I　don't　sniff　much　humanity　in　you。　You're　some　kind　of　pretender；　aren't　you？　Made　by　a　Maestro。〃
　It　would　have　pained　Jude　to　hear　such　dismissal　from　any　source；　but　from　this　woman；　who'd　been　for　so　long　a　beacon　of　hope　and　healing；　it　was　the　bitterest　condemnation。　She'd　fought　so　hard　to　be　more　than　a　fake；　forged　in　a　manmade　womb。　But　with　a　few　words　Celestine　had　reduced　her　to　a　mirage。
　〃You're　not　even　natural；〃　she　said。
　〃Nor　are　you；〃　Jude　snapped　back。
　〃But　I　was　once；〃　Celestine　said。　〃And　I　cling　to　that。〃
　〃Cling　all　you　like；　it　won't　change　the　facts。　No　natural　woman　could　have　survived　in　here　for　two　centuries。〃
　〃I　had　my　revenge　to　nourish　me。〃
　〃On　Roxborough？〃
　〃On　them　all；　all　except　one。〃
　〃Who？〃
　〃The　Maestro。。。　Sartori。〃
　〃You　knew　him？〃
　〃Too　little；〃　Celestine　said。
　There　was　a　weight　of　sorrow　here　Jude　didn't　prehend；　but　she　had　the　means　to　ameliorate　it　on　her　tongue；　and　for　all　Celestine's　cruelties　Jude　wasn't　about　to　withhold　the　news。
　〃Sartori　isn't　dead；〃　she　said。
　Celestine　had　turned　her　face　to　the　wall；　but　now　looked　back　at　Jude。　〃Not　dead？〃
　〃I'll　find　him　for　you　if　you　want；〃　Jude　said。
　〃You'd　do　that？〃
　〃Yes。〃
　〃Are　you　his　mistress？〃
　〃Not　exactly。〃
　〃Where　is　he？　Is　he　near？〃
　〃I　don't　know　where　he　is。　Somewhere　in　the　city。〃
　〃Yes。　Fetch　him。　Please；　fetch　him。〃　She　hauled　herself　up　the　wall。　〃He　doesn't　know　my　name；　but　I　know　him。〃
　〃So　who　shall　I　tell　him　you　are？〃
　〃Ask　him　。。。　ask　him　if　he　remembers　Nisi　Nirvana。〃
　〃Who？〃
　〃Just　tell　him。〃
　〃Nisi　Nirvana？〃
　〃That's　right。〃
　Jude　stood　up　and　returned　to　the　hole　in　the　wall；　but　as　she　was　about　to　step　out　Celestine　recalled　her。
　〃What's　your　name？〃　she　asked。
　〃Judith。〃…〃Well；　Judith；　not　only　do　you　stink　of　coitus；　but　you　have　in　your　hand　some　piece　of　flesh　which　you　haven't　given　up　clutching。　Whatever　it　is；　let　it　go。〃
　Appalled；　Jude　looked　down　at　her　hand。　The　curiosity　was　still　in　her　possession；　half　hanging　from　her　fist。　She　pitched　it　away；　into　the　dust。
　〃Do　you　wonder　I　took　you　for　a　whore？〃　Celestine　remarked。
　〃Then　we've　both　made　mistakes；〃　Jude　replied；　looking　back　at　her。　〃I　thought　you　were　my　salvation。〃
　〃Yours　was　the　greater　error；〃　Celestine　replied。
　Jude　didn't　grace　this　last　piece　of　spite　with　a　reply　but　headed　out　of　the　cell。　The　mites　that　had　exited　Dowd's　body　were　still　crawling　around　aimlessly；　looking　for　a　new　bolthole；　but　the　flesh　they'd　vacated　had　upped　and　gone。　She　wasn't　altogether　surprised。　Dowd　was　an　actor　to　his　core。　He　would　postpone　his　farewell　scene　as　long　as　possible；　in　the　hope　that　he'd　be　at　center　stage　when　the　final　curtain　fell。　A　hopeless　ambition；　given　the　fame　of　his　fellow　players；　and　one　Jude　wasn't　foolish　enough　to　share。　The　more　she　learned　about　the　drama　unfolding　around　her；　with　its　roots　in　the　tale　of　Christos　the　Reconciler；　the　more　resigned　she　was　to　having　little　or　no　role　in　it。　Like　the　Fourth　Magi；　expunged　from　the　Nativity；　she　wasn't　wanted　in　the　Gospel　about　to　be　written；　and　having　seen　the　pitiful　place　a　king's　testament　had　e　to；　she　was　not　about　to　waste　time　writing　her　own。

　
　13
　
　Clem's　duties　were　done　for　the　night。　He'd　been　out　since　seven　the　previous　evening；　about　the　same　business　that　took　him　out　every　night：　the　shepherding　of　those　among　the　city's　homeless　too　frail　or　too　young　to　survive　long　on　its　streets　with　only　concrete　and　cardboard　for　a　bed。　Midsummer　Night　was　only　two　days　away；　and　the　hours　of　darkness　were　short　and　relatively　balmy；　but　there　were　other　stalkers　besides　the　cold　that　preyed　on　the　weak…all　human…and　the　work　of　denying　them　their　quarry　took　him　through　the　empty　hours　after　midnight　and　left　him；　as　now；　exhausted；　but　too　full　of　feeling　to　lay　down　his　head　and　sleep。　He'd　seen　more　human　misery　in　the　three　months　he'd　been　working　with　the　homeless　than　in　the　four　decades　preceding　that。　People　living　in　the　extremes　of　deprivation　within　spitting　distance　of　the　city's　most　conspicuous　symbols　of　justice；　faith；　and　democracy：　without　money；　without　hope；　and　many　（these　the　saddest）　without　much　left　of　their　sanity。　When　he　returned　home　after　these　nightly　treks；　the　hole　left　in　him　by　Taylor's　passing　not　filled　but　at　least　forgotten　for　a　while；　it　was　with　expressions　of　such　despair　in　his　head　that　his　own；　met　in　the　mirror；　seemed　almost　blithe。
　Tonight；　however；　he　lingered　in　the　dark　city　longer　than　usual。　Once　the　sun　was　up　he　knew　he'd　have　little　or　no　chance　of　sleeping；　but　sleep　was　of　little　consequence　to　him　at　the　moment。　It　was　two　days　since　he'd　had　the　visitation　that　had　sent　him　to　Judy's　doorstep　with　tales　of　angels；　and　since　then　there'd　been　no　further　hint　of　Taylor's　presence。　But　there　were　other　hints；　not　in　the　house　but　out　here　in　the　streets；　that　powers　were　abroad　which　his　dear　Taylor　was　just　one　sweet　part　of。
　He'd　had　evidence　of　this　only　a　short　time　ago。　Just　after　midnight　a　man　called　Tolland；　apparently　much　feared　among　the　fragile　munities　that　gathered　to　sleep　under　the　bridges　and　in　the　stations　of　Westminster；　had　gone　on　a　rampage　in　Soho。　He'd　wounded　two　alcoholics　in　a　back　street；　their　sole　offense　to　be　in　his　path　when　his　temper　flowed。　Clem　had　witnessed　none　of　this；　but　had　arrived　after　Tolland's　arrest　to　see　if　he　could　coax　from　the　gutter　some　of　those　whose　beds　and　belongings　had　been　demolished。　None　would　go　with　him；　however；　and　in　the　course　of　his　vain　persuasions　one　of　the　number；　a　woman　he'd　never　seen　without　tears　on　her　face　until　now；　had　smiled　at　him　and　said　he　should　stay　out　in　the　open　with　them　tonight　rather　than　hiding　in　his　bed；　because　the　Lord　was　ing；　and　it　would　be　the　people　on　the　streets　who　saw　Him　first。　Had　it　not　been　for　Taylor's　fleeting　reappearance　in　his　life；　Clem　would　have　dismissed　the　woman's　blissful　talk；　but　there　were　too　many　imponderables　in　the　air　for　him　to　ignore　the　vaguest　signpost　to　the　miraculous。　He'd　asked　the　woman　what　Lord　this　was　that　was　ing；　and　she'd　replied；　quite　sensibly；　that　it　didn't　matter。　Why　should　she　care　what　Lord　it　was；　she　said；　as　long　as　He　came？
　Now　it　was　an　hour　before　dawn；　and　he　was　trudging　across　Waterloo　Bridge　because　he'd　heard　the　psychopathic　Tolland　had　usually　kept　to　the　South　Bank　and　something　odd　must　have　happened　to　drive　him　across　the　river。　A　faint　clue；　to　be　sure；　but　enough　to　keep　Clem　walking；　though　hearth　and　pillow　lay　in　the　opposite　direction。
　The　concrete　bunkers　of　the　South　Bank　plex　had　been　a　favorite　bete　grise　of　Taylor's；　their　ugliness　railed　against　whenever　the　subject　of　contemporary　architecture　came　up　in　conversation。　The　darkness　presently　concealed　their　drab；　stained　facades；　but　it　also　turned　the　maze　of　underpasses　and　walkways　around　them　into　terrain　no　bourgeois　would　tread　for　fear　of　his　life　or　his　wallet。　Recent　experience　had　taught　Clem　to　ignore　such　anxieties。　Warrens　such　as　this　usually　contained　individuals　more　aggressed　against　than　aggressive；　souls　whose　shouts　were　defenses　against　imagined　enemies　and　whose　tirades；　however　terrifying　they　might　seem　emerging　from　shadow；　usually　dwindled　into　tears。
　In　fact；　he'd　not　heard　a　whisper　from　the　murk　as　he　descended　from　the　bridge。　The　cardboard　city　was　visible　where　its　suburbs　spilled　out　into　the　meager　lamplight；　but　the　bulk　of　it　lay　under　cover　of　the　walkways；　out　of　sight　and　utterly　quiet。　He　began　to　suspect　that　the　lunatic　Tolland　was　not　the　only　tenant　who'd　left　his　plot　to　travel　north　and；　stooping　to　peer　into　the　boxes　on　the　outskirts；　had　that　suspicion　confirmed。　He　headed　into　shadow；　fishing　his　pencil　torch　from　his　pocket　to　light　the　way。　There　was　the　usual　detritus　on　the　ground：　spoiled　scraps　of　food；　broken　bottles；　vomit　stains。　But　the　boxes；　and　the　beds　of　newspaper　and　filthy　blankets　they　contained；　were　empty。　More　curious　than　ever；　he　wandered　on　through　the　rubbish；　hoping　to　find　a　soul　here　too　weak　or　too　crazy　to　leave；　who　could　explain　this　migration。　But　he　passed　through　the　city　without　finding　a　single　occupant；　emerging　into　what　the　planners　of　this　concrete　hell　had　designed　as　a　children's　playground。　All　that　remained　of　their　good　intentions　were　the　grimy　bones　of　a　slide　and　a　jungle　gym。　The　paving　beyond　them；　however；　was　covered　in　fresh　color；　and　advancing　to　the　spot　Clem　found　himself　in　the　middle　of　a　kitsch　exhibition：　crude　chalk　copies　of　movie…star　portraits　and　glamour　girls　everywhere　underfoot。
　He　ran　the　beam　over　the　ground；　following　the　trail　of　images。　It　led　him　to　a　wall；　which　was　also　decorated；　but　by　a　very　different　hand。　Here　was　no　mere　copyist's　work。　This　image　was　on　such　a　grand　scale　Clem　had　to　play　his　torch　beam　back　and　forth　across　it　to　grasp　its　splendor。　A　group　of　philanthropic　muralists　had　apparently　taken　it　upon　themselves　to　enliven　this　underworld；　and　the　result　was　a　dream　landscape；　its　sky　green；　with　streaks　of　brilliant　yellow；　the　plain　beneath　orange　and　red。　Set　on　the　sands；　a　walled　city；　with　fantastical　spires。
　The　torch　beam　caught　a　glint　off　the　paint；　and　Clem　approached　the　wall　to　discover　that　the　muralists　had　only　recently　left　off　their　labors。　Patches　of　the　paint　were　still　tacky。　Seen　at　close　quarters；　the　rendering　was　extremely　casual；　almost　slapdash。　Barely　more　than　half　a　dozen　marks　had　been　used　to　indicate　the　city　and　its　towers；　and　only　a　single　snaking　stroke　to　show　the　highway　running　from　the　gates。　Moving　his　beam　off　the　picture　to　illuminate　the　way　ahead；　Clem　realized　why　the　muralists　had　been　so　haphazard。　They　had　been　at　work　on　every　available　wall；　creating　a　parade　of　brightly　colored　images；　many　of　which　were　far　stranger　than　the　landscape　with　the　green　sky。　To　Clem's　left　was　a　man　with　two　cupped　hands　for　a　head；　lightning　jumping　between　the　palms；　to　his　right　a　family　of　freaks；　with　fur　on　their　faces。　Farther　on　was　an　alpine　scene；　fantasticated　by　the　addition　of　several　naked　women；　hovering　above　the　snows；　b