Memories changed. That was the first symptom of the Typhon’s triumph. The Ashurs and the few noötics disappeared almost immediately. Records and texts throughout the city faded. People began to misremember their lives, then to lose them—distortion of the fate-lines, forgetting, then falling away into gritty black dust, a final kind of mercy for a blessed few.
Until the last instants of freedom, Nataraja’s philosophers tried to comprehend the new order, but there was nothing to comprehend, only a boil of ceaseless disorder. Change without purpose. Human senses seemed to cause the Typhon both puzzlement and pain.
The Typhon probed the remaining minds, the memory stores, the souls of all living things, posing questions that in themselves tilted some into madness. To see was pain. To remember was a new kind of forgetting.
To the Typhon, this was simple curiosity. Even after trillions of years of effort, it had not found its recipe for cosmos. This made it redouble its efforts—and quicken its failures. The Chaos was a piecework, poorly conceived and poorly assembled—failing everywhere except along its vast membrane of change, the many-dimensional front along which the old cosmos was being gnawed and absorbed. Ishanaxade alone—as her father had anticipated from the beginning, from his time among the Shen—was spared to remember all.
CHAPTER 107
Ginny thought it might have been a gigantic flower. Much taller than her, it rose from a cracked, rolling pavement in the shadow of the dangling, treacherous remains of the heart of this city, hanging like gigantic, moldy Christmas trees left behind by a receding flood, tossed into an awful heap, somehow still wearing their ornaments. But these ornaments seemed wider than entire towns on Earth. And no lights, of course.
The power had long since gone out for these ruins.
The flower—or was it a mushroom?—asserted a ghastly kind of independence below the architectural deadfall. As she walked around it, she noticed that it was made of elongated arms, legs, bodies, with an occasional head poking out. The anatomies within the stalk shivered and the heads opened their eyes, not to see—the eyes were blank, blind—but to express discomfort.
These were not marchers—not like Tiadba. They were more like Ginny. Contemporary to her. And there were many more flower-mushrooms, she saw, sprouting up beneath the hanging ruins. Something had gone about gathering the people, the survivors who had been so unfortunate as to find themselves delivered along with a cross section of endtime.
That’s why all the old parts of the city had seemed deserted when she left the warehouse. There had already been a sweeping, a mopping up. And something—perhaps the servants that moved along the trods—had brought a few or all of them here, where they had been arranged to form awful warnings. Scarecrows.
This gave Ginny both a frightening chill and an odd sensation of encouragement. You didn’t set up scarecrows unless you were afraid something could come and take what you had. She glanced at the towering base of the mushroom, looking for faces she might recognize, anybody she’d known: friends, the witches.
Miriam Sangloss.
Conan Bidewell.
She recognized nobody. But there were so many. Maybe the ones she’d come in contact with had been reserved for a particularly painful punishment.
“ I hate you,” Ginny said, eyes narrowed, growling her contempt at whatever might be listening. “I am not afraid, and I HATE YOU!”
She leaped aside with a small shriek as a velvet softness rubbed against her ankle. When she had gathered enough courage to come out of her crouch and actually look, she saw a small shadow…watched it approach her again in a low, cautious slink.
The shadow resolved into bright and dark splotches against the uniform murk. It made a soft grumbling sound.
Ginny felt her eyes fill and tears spill down her cheeks, slipping salt into the corners of her mouth. She reached down and scooped up the blotchy shadow, rubbed its furry head against her cheek, and began to cry.
It wasMinimus, six toes on each front paw, and small, ecstatically flexing thumbs! The cat rumbled and climbed and rumbled some more and settled into her arms.
“How?” she managed between childlike sobs. These sounds might or might not have ever left the bubble, might or might not have reached far enough to be heard by the human mushroom-flowers, but it seemed for a moment as if the whole awful foundation of the False City shivered. Something new had arrived. There would be change.
Minimus squirmed and strained his head forward, looking down and around and issuing another urgent meow.
She was surrounded by cats.
Hundreds of them.
Thousands.
Ginny was not afraid. “What haveyou been hunting?” she asked in a wheedling tone, still oddly certain of the relationship between human and cat. “What haveyou been eating?”
Minimus regarded her with a slow, wise blink, then made a considerable effort, lips contorted, and spoke in a soft, hissing whisper: “We’re Sminthians, remember? We’re gods of mice and things that gnaw.”
The cats milled in a gray eddy of fur.
Of all the impossible things she had seen and experienced, this broke the mirror—this totally popped the cork. Ginny narrowed her eyes, blinked—hard—and pinched her finger until it hurt. Reality had just finished its long dying.
CHAPTER 108
Tiadba drifted in and out of the ancient story. She closed her eyes and again imagined words printed in their books. This took her back again to her last solace—remembered moments with Jebrassy, the letterbugs, the shake cloths, their rolling and combining.
The female was not allowed to forget the time when she had fallen in love. She could not leave behind the hope of memory itself.
On one of the far necklace worlds of the Shen, Ishanaxade was found by Sangmer. They spoke on the shores of the silvery vector sea:
“I am not truly anyone’s daughter. Many have given me what form I have. I call Polybiblios father because he has been most patient with me, and in his way has loved me.”
“Where did they find you?”
“I have been gathered from all the inhabited worlds for longer than anyone can recall—some say since the end of the Brightness. Bits and pieces—a gleam here, a quality there, a suspicion or speck…All treasured, transported, traded, by many, and then collected by the Shen, who amassed so much that I would have bulked larger even than the necklace-worlds or the sixty green suns around which they whirl.”
Sangmer found this unlikely, and said so.
“Look at me. Do I appear likely? Am I like any other you have seen?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I am young. How did you become so much smaller?”
“The Shen are very old and exceptionally curious. They worked for a long time to distill me. What was most essential they kept. But then they tired of the puzzle. When Polybiblios arrived, he resumed the task—and made me as you see me now. He believes he understands what I truly am. I do not judge his beliefs.”
“What does he think you are—or were?”
“A muse,” Ishanaxade said.
“Like, an inspiration?”
“Muses were once very important to the cosmos. They labored for a hundred billion years, cleaning up after Brahma, who could not stop creating, could not stop the outpour of his kind of love. The muses allowed memory and the flowering of all the little observers, so beloved of Brahma, who was careless, but vast and full of passion.
“And then, creation stopped. The Trillennium followed—nothing new, just clever rearrangements of the old. Some say Brahma slept. And while he sleeps, there is no need for any muse. We condensed out like snow or rain, a flurry of jewels spread over the dark light-years.”
“An old name, Brahma.”