I forgot to mention I’m in Kiev for most of this week, so I’ll have troubles posting on time. We’re here for the board meetings. Yesterday was spent entirely travelling thanks to a stopover in Istambul, but I’m mostly recovered now :) Probably because of the travel you’ve got something that isn’t Derby today (but you’re probably fed up with him after nearly a solid week) but is still a familiar setting.
The probe The probe
Cold fog drifted up from the river, shrouding the Embankment with a whiteness that reminded Hopscotch of the shrouds they wrapped the dead in. He scurried along, feet slapping against the ancient paved slabs barely as loudly as the water lapped at the built-up riverbanks, pulling his jacket tighter around his scrawny frame. He ran past the end of Horseguards parade and on towards the West End, turning away from the river and towards where Charing Cross station stood massive and immobile, the monument to Eleanor in the courtyard pinning the Unreal City to the real world. Viliers street was as steep as ever, and he grew winded as he ran up it, and he finally stopped at the top, his hands leaning on the clammy wall that bordered the station, just outside the glow of the lamps and in the protective shadows. The hands that fell upon his shoulders shifted silkily across them and down his arms and he froze, terrified that the City’s ancient monsters had found him. Goosebumps rose on his skin and warm breath fell on his neck, and he felt like every muscle was tensed so tightly that something had to rupture and split, pitching him over to the ground and leaving him defenseless against the Thrones and their servants. “Hopscotch,” whispered a voice in his ear, and he unfroze just enough to tremble. “You’re early.” The sense of relief was so strong it was like drinking coffee at dawn after a heavy night’s drinking. The trembling subsided and the cold terror dissipated, only to be replaced by the uncontrollable shaking of an adrenaline comedown. “We agreed to meet at Comptons,” whispered Hopscotch. The pub was one of the old places, where different monsters lurked and conspired. Hopscotch dreaded it, but he dreaded many of the places in the Unreal City, and Comptons at least housed monsters who liked him. Or least regarded him not unkindly. “We agreed to meet,” whispered his captor, and Hopscotch felt the friction of dry lips against his ear. The image of a large cat gnawing on bones for the marrow, something he’d seen in the Unreal Zoo, sprang unpleasantly to mind. “And here we are.” Horses dashed past on the Strand ahead, their hooves striking sparks against the cobbles and a shadowed carriage pulled silently behind them. It was a Boschean terror at that moment: the wild, demented beasts hauling the silence of a funeral to god-knows-where. “What do you want me for?” Hopscotch wished he could stop shaking, but hunching his shoulders only set his knees knocking, and tensing his legs only made his ribs shiver. “I need information.” The voice always wanted information, this was like the sun telling him that it was daytime. “Tanner Ned?” “No, nor Flensing Jenny, nor the Lawyer Rook, nor the homeless of Beacon Hill. They have all spoken, and all tell lies.” “You say everyone tells lies!” Hopscotch had heard that dessicated whisper say those words so often that he sometimes woke from nightmares where a newspaper held over his head to protect him from the rain whispered ‘they all lie’. “Everyone does, so we will probe the future.” Hopscotch’s knees gave way and he fell, painfully, to the pavement. “Go to the bitch Sosotris.”
2 comments:
I forgot to mention I’m in Kiev for most of this week, so I’ll have troubles posting on time. We’re here for the board meetings. Yesterday was spent entirely travelling thanks to a stopover in Istambul, but I’m mostly recovered now :)
Probably because of the travel you’ve got something that isn’t Derby today (but you’re probably fed up with him after nearly a solid week) but is still a familiar setting.
The probe
The probe
Cold fog drifted up from the river, shrouding the Embankment with a whiteness that reminded Hopscotch of the shrouds they wrapped the dead in. He scurried along, feet slapping against the ancient paved slabs barely as loudly as the water lapped at the built-up riverbanks, pulling his jacket tighter around his scrawny frame. He ran past the end of Horseguards parade and on towards the West End, turning away from the river and towards where Charing Cross station stood massive and immobile, the monument to Eleanor in the courtyard pinning the Unreal City to the real world. Viliers street was as steep as ever, and he grew winded as he ran up it, and he finally stopped at the top, his hands leaning on the clammy wall that bordered the station, just outside the glow of the lamps and in the protective shadows.
The hands that fell upon his shoulders shifted silkily across them and down his arms and he froze, terrified that the City’s ancient monsters had found him. Goosebumps rose on his skin and warm breath fell on his neck, and he felt like every muscle was tensed so tightly that something had to rupture and split, pitching him over to the ground and leaving him defenseless against the Thrones and their servants.
“Hopscotch,” whispered a voice in his ear, and he unfroze just enough to tremble. “You’re early.”
The sense of relief was so strong it was like drinking coffee at dawn after a heavy night’s drinking. The trembling subsided and the cold terror dissipated, only to be replaced by the uncontrollable shaking of an adrenaline comedown. “We agreed to meet at Comptons,” whispered Hopscotch. The pub was one of the old places, where different monsters lurked and conspired. Hopscotch dreaded it, but he dreaded many of the places in the Unreal City, and Comptons at least housed monsters who liked him. Or least regarded him not unkindly.
“We agreed to meet,” whispered his captor, and Hopscotch felt the friction of dry lips against his ear. The image of a large cat gnawing on bones for the marrow, something he’d seen in the Unreal Zoo, sprang unpleasantly to mind. “And here we are.”
Horses dashed past on the Strand ahead, their hooves striking sparks against the cobbles and a shadowed carriage pulled silently behind them. It was a Boschean terror at that moment: the wild, demented beasts hauling the silence of a funeral to god-knows-where.
“What do you want me for?” Hopscotch wished he could stop shaking, but hunching his shoulders only set his knees knocking, and tensing his legs only made his ribs shiver.
“I need information.” The voice always wanted information, this was like the sun telling him that it was daytime.
“Tanner Ned?”
“No, nor Flensing Jenny, nor the Lawyer Rook, nor the homeless of Beacon Hill. They have all spoken, and all tell lies.”
“You say everyone tells lies!” Hopscotch had heard that dessicated whisper say those words so often that he sometimes woke from nightmares where a newspaper held over his head to protect him from the rain whispered ‘they all lie’.
“Everyone does, so we will probe the future.”
Hopscotch’s knees gave way and he fell, painfully, to the pavement.
“Go to the bitch Sosotris.”
Greg - you should know by now that I could never be fed up with Derby :)
But also you should know that I appreciate insights like this into the Unreal City.
Best of luck in Kiev, I hope all went well for you.
Post a Comment