THOMAS CORFIELD
Panda Books Australia Sydney — New York — Tokyo — Berlin
LICENCE NOTES Thank you for downloading this free eBook. You are welcome to share it with your friends, or even force it upon them if they’re not interested. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for noncommercial purposes, or even printed out to then write shopping lists on, provided the book remains in its complete original form, which implies a lot of shopping. Consider visiting VelvetPawofAsquith.com for music, dancing and much merriment. Copyright 2015 Thomas Corfield
SAMPLE As the world turned faster, a vicious jolt tore through him as the Seven intervened. His eyes were pulled and his ribs twisted, and breath was leveraged from lungs as his heart was sought. With gasps and clutches, the Returned Poet curled himself into a ball and screwed his eyes tight, concentrating on reciting the words fizzing in his vision. As they blurred and tore upon page, he shouted them instead, battling to finish stanza while the Seven refused him every means to. He began to spin then, within his turning world, nausea enveloping him in a torrent of river. But still he incanted, the more desperate his hollering, the larger words grew until vision was swamped with individual letters. Spinning faster, his attempts to remain coiled were undone as paws were flung from his circumference. His shouting became scream until he saw
only the letters’ black stroke. And when brightness became obscured by stroke, the only thing emanating from his throat was vomit. Spinning, his head and tail were pulled apart. Joints popped and gristle tore like boiled chicken in frenzied feast. His throat elongated, tore and grew holes. His chest opened, inverted, and spilt ribs into air like an over ripe fig, innards spilling between worlds like wet stars across sky. From Chapter 11
CONTENTS Title Page Licence Notes Sample Some Relevant Links Opening Chapter
SOME RELEVANT LINKS Writing Wrongly Music From The Books Certificate of Achievement A Bit About the Author The Other Dooven Books
With Eyes No Longer Blind
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“Modesty is hard: to try is not to try.” – The Loud Purr of Asquith.
ENEATH countless stars, the city of Lubnatsi twinkled with as many lights. It was large and beautiful, and sprawled down a hillside as though having been pushed from its crest once upon a time. Despite the starlight, it was dark. There was no moon this night. But one animal tearing through it cared little. His eyes were strong. As was he. And fighting a screaming throng of animals fleeing in the opposite direction, he was about to prove it. An explosion burst several streets away, its 1
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flash bathing the city in day. The animal ducked and skidded to a stop. Others cowered, before realising the next thing bursting into flame would be them, leaving them to scream again and continue in flee. The dog pushed through them and tore down a side street. Throwing himself over a wall, he tumbled over the otherside, clattering through garbage bins and spilling burst bags across bitumen. He cursed, shook his paws free and continued on. When rooftops were lit from a fireball rising into the sky, he realised his direction was wrong, and cursing, Letherin doubled back, taking a different route that would get him closer. But its streets were also choked with fleeing animals, leaving him to again battle their torrent. He flailed through them, his paws pushing blindly at fur and limp and spoons. When he rounded a corner, he slid to a stop and gawked at something very insidious indeed. And despite his determination to find them, Letherin then wished he had not. The creatures were huge. At least three times his height—and Letherin 2
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was taller than most. Their dark bulk shimmered in the heat of blaze roaring in their wake. They lumbered with enormous bolts of limb suggesting they were from another world entirely. Hairy and muscular, the beasts pounded at walls, powdering great chunks of masonry to rubble and skittling sparks through the air like fireworks. Nearby, animals meandered in daze, numb with fear. When a beast swiped at them, one was struck hard and thrown across the road to slam into a wall. With a crumpled whimper, he fell to the pavement and rolled into a gutter. Horrified, several others hurried to his aid and dragged him from harm’s way. But their rescue rendered them targets, and the beasts stopped their pulverisation of building and turned to pulverise things far fluffier. When they thundered in roar, Letherin eased himself along a blistered wall in an attempt to flank the things. They stalked those withering in the road with a mass dark and calculating, and hissed with breath so vile, that were the flames any closer, it would surely ignite. Gagging in terror, the stragglers gaped up at the things. 3
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“Please,” one began, raising a tentative paw, “please don’t tear us apart. We haven’t got our spoons you see. And we really ought to have our spoons under these sort of circumstances.” He glanced at those trembling beside him, and then the crumpled one they’d absent-mindedly sat upon when their knees no longer worked. “Ideally, I’d go home and get some,” the cat continued. “Enough spoons for us all—you included. But I can’t by virtue of your having set fire to it.” He waved frantically his paws in apology, adding, “Not that I blame you for doing so! I mean, clearly you had some pretty important reasons to burn it, rather than smash it to pieces as you’ve done with so many others. Perhaps you’d enlighten us? We’d like to help. It’s clear you’re not particularly keen on buildings. I feel that way myself sometimes. Not about buildings per se, but I’m certainly indifferent when slamming my paw in doors, for example—though I’d probably refrain from responding with arson.” The cat was rambling. But terror has that effect. The beasts snarled. 4
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“Perhaps you might like to come over to dinner or something?” he tried further. “We could have some curry, perhaps. I’m rather good at curries. And maybe sing a song or two? Although I’m not vey good at those.” The beasts took a collective step toward them. “May I say you attire is most exotic,” the cat said, retreating as much as his legs allowed— which was not at all. “You are not from around here, I imagine? In which case, may I welcome you on behalf of all residents of Lubnatsi—even the ones burning, and hope that your stay is filled with our warmth of hospitality, and less with the choking fumes of its burning infrastructure. Had we known of your arrival, we could have organised some buildings for you to destroy without harming those residing within—although may I emphasise that is in no way a criticism of you, but rather a reflection on our eagerness to ensure you have a pleasant visit. Perhaps we could have organised a fete of some sort. We like fetes.” The beasts thundered again, appearing keen to roast something small and fluffy on the 5
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buildings they’d set fire to. The cat swallowed and glanced at those beside him, who were unable to offer anything other than what one might expect under the circumstances—much to the dismay of the animal they sat upon. “It can be terribly frustrating not to find a decent hotel,” the cat tried again. “Is that possibly from where your indignation with buildings arise?” The beasts stepped toward him and raised their limbs in a stance bristling with power. “Perhaps you might like to stay with us?” he tried. “I’m certain my mother would love to meet you. She likes foreigners immensely, you see.” But rather than any pounding, there was instead a shattering roar of pain. Which was followed by two more. Not from those cowering, but from the beasts themselves. All three arched backwards, taught in spasm when several bits of them sailed through the air to slop upon the road a distance away. They swayed then, like slain trees deciding on which direction to 6
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fall, before collapsing into the road with a sickening thud, and bled in a manner akin to repainting. The ground shook, smoke billowed and Lubnatsi echoed in thunder. It was then too quiet for even for this time of night. Their eyes wider than the collective surprise of an Annual Astonishments Convention, the cowering animals stared at the pile of inert beasts, leaving the cat to mutter, “A simple no would have sufficed.” With one next to him adding, “Clearly they’d already met your mother.” Through smoke, Letherin appeared. Panting, he held a shovel in his paws and his robes glistened with the soggy bits of beast traditionally found internally. Treading across the slain mass, he stood upon its summit, the blaze framing him in shimmer. The cowering animals swallowed, before one asked, “Do you perhaps require a hotel?” “Or indeed some curry?” offered another. “Though you certainly don’t have to meet my mother.” 7
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Letherin ignored them and stepped from the steaming mound, ensuring the beasts were rendered incapable of wreaking any more havoc. The animals stared at him, bewildered. “Their journey had been long,” he growled, pulling his hood down to hide his face. “They were tired. And in dire need of sleep.” “Aha,” the cat said. “So they were looking for a hotel.” “They can’t have been,” another said. “There’s one over there, look. But they set fire to it. You don’t set fire to hotels if you want to stay in one, surely.” “Perhaps they didn’t like the decor,” the first suggested. “Yes, but my point is that they didn’t have to burn it down. They could have just gone to another hotel.” “Unless they really loathed it.” “It probably depends on how tired they were.” “They weren’t tired enough to not set fire to it.” “Or perhaps they were too tired to not set fire 8
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to it.” “That’s what I said.” “Did you?” “Possibly.” “Well, anyway, they did set fire to it.” “Yes, which suggests just how tired they were.” The animals nodded, finding some sense in the explanation. Letherin ignored them and inspected the slain beasts again, kicking at a severed bit to ensure it didn’t move of its own accord. “But what about their bits?” the cat asked him, peering at a soggy bit lying in the gutter. “Won’t they be needing those in the morning? I mean, they can hardly have breakfast if their bits are all over the place.” Letherin growled. Exhausted, he would not discuss the matter further. Despite having slashed three monsters to pieces, he had other concerns. “Have you heard how your palace has fared this night?” The animals looked at each other while the crumpled one stirred underneath. 9
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“The palace?” the cat replied. “I have no idea. Certainly I’ve nothing that it has been harmed. Mind you, we’d only just begun to flee ourselves. I was cooking curry, you see. A nice one, too. And was desperate to wait until the very last minute before fleeing because I didn’t want it to burn. Which is ironic considering my house is currently a blazing inferno.” “They arrived so quickly this time,” another said. “Without any warning. They just appeared. Indeed, we didn’t even have time to take our spoons.” And they peered at the shovel Letherin held. “That’s an awfully big spoon,” the cat observed. “You were fortunate to have had sense enough to take it.” Letherin glanced at it. Bits of slain creature slid down the handle, blood and gristle glistening in the firelight. Sickened, he hid it behind him before stepping toward them. He was big and strong and taller than them all. Mind you, they still sat on the one rescued— which was becoming difficult when he wriggled 10
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beneath them indignantly. Relieving him of their bottoms, they helped the animal up and dusted him down. Composures returned, the cat was about to say something regarding the shovel again, when several animals appeared carrying buckets of water which they sloshed onto flames. More joined them until an efficient bucket brigade had formed. “I say,” the crumpled one said to those who’d sat on him, “thanks awfully for your help. I really don’t know what happened.” He peered then at the pile of slain beasts. “And judging by the state those creatures are in, I don’t think they do either. Were they looking for a hotel, perhaps?” The others murmured that they’d been wondering the same, before again peering at Letherin with his hood and massive spoon. “May we inquire,” the cat began, “as to what it was you actually did to put them to sleep? I mean it was very good, obviously. And unanimously appreciated, I’m sure. But I don’t think any of us are entirely sure what it entailed. I’m presuming it had something to do with your enormous spoon?” 11
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But Letherin had no intention of explaining. “Go home,” he growled, turning to leave. “Go home to your curry.” “It’ll be burnt now.” But Letherin staggered away through smoke and cinder. The cat called after him, “It’s just that next time they arrive we might have a better idea of what to do if you told us what you did, rather than leaving us to simply offer curries? Because my feeling is they weren’t really into curries.” “Or hotels,” another said. “Or hotels, indeed.” Another then wondered, “Do you think the hotel perhaps offered them a curry?” “Would you perhaps like to join us?” the cat called further. “My curry might be salvageable, considering I took it off the stove before my house exploded.” “You can bring your enormous spoon if you like,” another encouraged. But Letherin had already disappeared into shadow. He had to. 12
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Because he was sobbing uncontrollably.
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N a large stone hall, animals worked in silence. Cloaked in black, they wrote frantically upon paper. Attention on their task was absolute. None dared raise their head, or hesitate in scribble. Huddled over tables, they scribed words in a frenzy at the expense of legibility. In the scratched silence, the air sang with a high note of tension, a whining that pierced wall, air and skull. It was why they wrote so feverishly. They were being watched. Occasionally, an animal would stand and hurry with paper to the rear of the hall. Upon a large stone altar, the page’s scrawlings would be copied into typography using stone letters. Once done, the paper would then be crumpled up and eaten, afterwhich the animal would brace himself 14
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against the altar and recite the words. Gripping the stone, his posture would suggest that having eaten the paper, there was an immediate need to excrete it. But should the recital conjure nothing, the animal would tremble in relief and return to his desk, whereupon another piece of paper would be scribbled upon. Amidst all this, no animal dared glance at another. Nor did they speak. All cowered beneath that high pitched whine of scrutiny. When an animal left for the altar, there’d be fretful glimpses at an empty throne ahead. While it remained vacant, to a degree they were safe— providing they continued writing, didn’t glance at each other or successfully pooh paper. A cat who’d been scribbling furiously, stopped and stared at what he’d composed. His breathing became shallow, and a heat of despair flooded him. The piercing whine bore into his head, a scrutiny that bruised his skull. Trembling, he stood and hurried between his colleagues’ desks to hall’s rear. With knees so shaky he may as well 15
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have left him behind, he placed his paper upon the altar and scrabbled with pieces of stone across its surface. Ready then, the cat took his paper, scrunched it up and stuffed it into his mouth. It was dry and scratchy, and did little more than afford retches and gags. Nevertheless, when eventually swallowed, he recited the words and braced himself for nasty things to happen. Which they did. There was a flash, the altar spat stone and the cat was hurled across the hall. Smashing into desks, he slid along the floor to flounder amongst them. In a chorus of fright, his colleagues fought to get away from him. But their scrabbling withered when the omnipresent whine grew louder, leaving them to stare in horror at the throne. There was a sound of whipping wire which had them duck instinctively, and then cover their eyes when the hall surged in light. When it died, so did the whine, and a large dark dog sat upon the throne. Bulbs fizzled and spat, and sparks burst from metal. Every animal froze. The arrival watched them with a steeled gaze, 16
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glaring at each in turn. He sat casually, but with an intention absolute. And despite the throne having been vacant for days, he resided upon it as though he’d been doing so all along. He said nothing, but stood in a sweep of robes, leaving his audience to wither still further. “Who was responsible?” the dog said. None dared reply. The question was repeated. Helped to his paws by colleagues, the cat was encouraged to surrender and forced to raise a paw. The arrival turned upon him with a gaze pummelling. “What verse have you found, cat?” The cat tried words, but they came out strangely, as though he’d two tongues entwined. The cat was pressed toward the throne. With a sneer, the arrival said, “Do you truly speak in tongues, cat? Or merely pretend to?” Horrified, the cat shook his head, before realising doing so might confirm the dog’s suspicions. So he nodded instead, and then worried that did the same. He made some garbled noises and his eyes went wide. Although he was a gifted poet, he was bereft of words—which was 17
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surprising considering he’d just swallowed some pretty significant ones. The arrival stepped closer, eyed him and said, “Then we shall see what you have found, shall we not?” The audience retreated still further. “Let us see whether you have honoured us, or whether I am to inform the Ar'dath-Irr that a poet has stumbled across little more than mist and spark?” The cat trembled and sagged, fear closing his throat to breath. The arrival strode to the still smoking altar, indifferent to the bursts of sparks still skittling from it. Turning to his horrified colleagues, the cat pleaded in silence, but knew they could do nothing to help. In despair, the cat followed the dog, his limbs barely able. The arrival stepped to the altar and raised his robe covered paws. Shaking them, the sleeves fell back. “Stand beside me, cat,” he ordered. With whimpers, the cat struggled to, climbing the steps with knees no longer worthy of title. Racked with silent sobs, he shook beside the dog, 18
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who remained with paws raised. He flicked them once. Then twice. And then turned them inwards. Another flash, and the world skittled sideways. Animals lurched in spin as wall blurred into floor, into table, into throne and altar. The nausea was overwhelming and most succumbed. When the blurring lessened, all were left giddy, teetering against each other and retching. All, that is, except two. For the dog and cat no longer remained. In the confusion that followed, the poets lurched back to their tables, dragging them back into position and righting chairs—before scrabbling again for paper to continue as they had been. Two of them hurried to the cat’s desk and groped through scattered papers until paws came across one in particular: the cat had managed a copy before leaving his desk. When the high pitched whine began again, the two poets glanced at the throne. Rolling up the parchment, one hid it beneath his cloak, before both hurried back to their desks. 19
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USH now and sleep, I am here. Close those tired eyes, I am here. The night is warm, I am here. While the world turns, And I am here. Be still—� Lyeia clutched at wet rock and waited with eyes screwed shut. As she had many times before, 20
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she begged to return to a world far less frightening—despite being worth nothing in it. She clung. Amidst ferns. And between crags of rock. But her pleas withered, not wanting to return to see Oscar crushed into pavement. So she sobbed. Trapped between reality and madness, she was cornered in fright. And then the voices began. In the distance, their screams arose. Choking on sobs, she sang her mother’s lullaby. “Hush now and sleep I am here—” The screams got closer, drowning her words. Fear strangled her breath: this time, she would remain here. This time, she would be torn apart. Just as Oscar had been. And of this, she was deserving. 21
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The screams grew louder. Resigned, she pressed her nose into wet earth and wept. Shuddering in sob, its rich scent was then overwhelming. She blinked through tears. And frowned at the stone she clutched. And then at the tangles of root she’d dislodged. She looked at her soil-caked paws and watched dirt fall when she wriggled them. Why would her madness conjure such detail? She looked up at ferns crowding the narrow crevice. Beyond them, green-grey cloud passed, suggesting the forest was thick enough to colour both land and sky. It was cold, too. Such particular detail. Being insane-of-the-mind might render terror, but surely not an entire world to perform it in. When the voices grew louder, their shrieks echoed off mountainside. With puzzlement winning over dread, she peered from her nook. The dark had lessened: perhaps dawn had broken. Leaves continued to rain, the path now swamped in 22
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muddy pages. Beyond it, a valley fell away in mist. Above her, the mountain rose steeply, thick with fern and tree, giving the impression that the world was vertical. Screams split the air, and with paws upon her ears she fought panic. When they were almost upon her, she thought of Oscar and everything they’d been through. Resilience flared and she readied to face what she’d spent a lifetime avoiding. A horde of animals appeared. And then scurried past in flee. Lyeia stared at them, astonished to realise their screams were not because they wished to flay her, so much as something wished to flay them. They fled in panic. There were lots of them. And oddly, they waved spoons. In fact, there was nothing threatening about them at all. Which left her stunned that after a lifetime of avoidance, they were about as frightening as an overtly enthusiastic hiking club. They wore nice jumpers, too. 23
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And what’s more, clearly liked spoons. Bemused, she stepped from her nook and watched them pass. But then she was spotted. By a dog who stopped. Those behind him didn’t, however, which resulted in a pile-up that had their screaming tumble into a swathe of apologies. After the dog assured them he was fine, the others recommenced their screaming and ploughed through the leaves after the others. The dog blinked at her, before hurrying over and waving his spoon frantically. She stared at it, and then him, having no idea what to do with it— which is odd, considering it was a spoon. When his waving became a desperate semaphore, she took it. Relieved, he took a deep breath and then screamed. When she stumbled backwards, the dog turned to scarper after those already absconded. For some time, Lyeia sat in her nook and looked at the spoon, struggling to come to terms with a lifetime of fear having revolved around no more than an unconventional cutlery acquisition. It was definitely a spoon. 24
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An ordinary, everyday spoon. Which was ironic considering she’d acquired it in circumstances quite the opposite. She chinked it against stone. There was nothing peculiar about it at all, and appeared quite capable of coping with most demanding spoonrelated tasks. Indeed, the only explanation she could muster for them waving the things was in response to some particularly dreadful soup. Poking her head from the crevice, she hoped for something resembling explanation. A chef, for example. With a horrid, flaky skin disease. But there was nothing of the sort. So she looked at the spoon again. But it offered even less of an idea than she. The leaves had stopped falling, but had buried the path completely. Amidst them, she then sat, realising the last time she’d brandished cutlery was when trying to insert forks into Oscar. Which left her sobbing again. She wailed at the low clouds, her cries echoing off a shape of world she knew nothing of. With lethargic stabs through leaves, she dug the 25
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spoon at the earth to punish the world for its invention of suffering. She then lay amongst wet leaves and stared at the swirling grey above. She closed her eyes, her body bruised with loss, knowing that in a world left behind, Oscar did the same. And then his voice arose. “Well, I hope you have something resembling explanation,” Oscar said. “Because I must admit to having none whatsoever.” At first, Lyeia thought it imagination, understandable considering it was likely to be responsible for all of this—and probably for the latter part of book four, for that matter. She kept her eyes closed, however, preferring illusion to despair. “Can you hear me, Lyeia? I said I hope you have something resembling explanation to all this, because I certainly don’t.” Amidst a joy wretched, she smiled. Which annoyed Oscar. He’d had enough bizarre behaviour for one day, and was not keen on getting another bout of it from a clinically insane dog who lay in leaves, 26
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smiling inanely and clutching spoons. So he said as much. And because this was not the sort of thing Lyeia expected her imagination to come up with, she opened her eyes. Silhouetted against clouds, Oscar TeabagDooven glared down at her. With paws upon hips, his stance was one of having had quite enough for one day. “Oscar?” she cried, flailing through leaves in an attempt to get a better view. “Oscar? Is it really you?” On four paws she stared up at him, worried that any further move might have him disappear into mist. He glared at her with a what-on-earth-doyou-think expression, followed by an I-am-clearlywaiting-and-have-already-asked-twice sort of expression. Trembling, Lyeia stood and swiped at tears. “I thought you were dead!” she cried. She lunged at him, clutching him with a snugness one might expect from a particularly well-made collar. Sobbing in gutted relief, she 27
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refusing to let him go, even when he began suffocating—an irony not lost upon him. But Lyeia was having none of it. It no longer mattered. Oscar was here. Her friend. Her only friend. Which did seem odd, considering he’d just been run over by an ambulance. Relinquishing him, Oscar stumbled backwards in dire need of air. “Really! I thought you were dead!” Oscar coughed amidst frantic pulls at his collar, unable to reply. “Why aren’t you dead!” He then doubled over. “Are you sure you’re not dead?” Oscar continued as he had. “You’re dead aren’t you!” she realised. “You’re dead and I’m having an episode within an episode!” She shook her head. “I should have known: you’re a figment. You’re a figment of my imagination and you’re dead!” Having recovered, he stared at her. It was bad enough having dealt with the absurdity of the 28
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closing chapters of the previous book, but to then find himself cast upon some mountainside with a dog, who was by her own admission, even more insane than she’d been previously, did little to fill him with encouragement. “I think,” he said, “that is quite possibly the single most insulting thing I have ever heard.” “You’re dead,” she continued, ignoring him, “I saw it happen. Right in front of me. You’re dead. It’s as simple as that. I saw you get mashed into the pavement by a very large ambulance.” “And that’s not very nice either.” Lyeia shrugged. “What does it matter? This is all made up. You’re dead. You’re not real. None of this is. This is my screwed up mind having decided to really let its fur down and come up with the most insane episode of insanity I have ever had the misfortune to experience!” “Lyeia—” “Shut up, figment!” She hit her paws upon her head then. “I am so stupid! I should have known! How can this be anything other than total immersion into psychosis? After all these years of struggle, it’s actually happened: I am now 29
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irretrievably insane-of-the-mind. There’s no way back. This is it: welcome to insanity Lyeia. You’re here to stay!” Oscar stared at her. “I just watched you die!” she swore. “You got run over by an ambulance! Do you have any idea what that’s like?” “Well, yes, actually—” “It was horrible. Just awful. There was nothing good about it at all. And witnessing it has clearly pushed me over the edge.” She turned from him, waving her paws as detail fell into place. “I understand now: all these years of punching animals in the face, and not speaking to any creature for longer than twenty minutes, was an unconscious means of prevention! To preserve the small bit of sanity keeping me free of this place!” Oscar blinked at her, surprised she’d found an explanation, and hoped his would soon be forthcoming. Turning to him again, there was nothing of her prior affection. “This is your fault!” “What?!” “Yes. Your getting run over has pushed me 30
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over the edge! I am here because of you! Thank you so much! Thanks very much indeed!” Oscar sighed and looked across the valley, not knowing where to start. He’d begun this conversation hoping Lyeia might offer explanation. And she had. Just a ridiculous one. Which wasn’t her fault. She was after all, insaneof-the-mind. But, judging by this chapter, so was he. He turned to her. “Is insanity contagious?” “What?” “Insanity. Is it contagious perhaps?” She frowned. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t think so.” “It’s just that insanity might be my explanation as well. Remember in the library you said you were about to have one of your turns, and I said I think I’m about to join you?” “Not really.” “Well, I think you are possibly so deeply disturbed, Lyeia, that I am now clinically insane as well.” “You must be joking!” “No, I’m serious. Think about it: how on 31
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earth did I come to be here when I’ve just been run over?” “You didn’t. You’re dead.” “I’m insane, Lyeia. Not dead. There’s a difference. You of all animals should know that.” “You’re dead, Oscar.” “I can assure you I am not.” “You must be.” “I think I’d know.” “How?” she asked. “You’re dead. You can’t know anything when you’re dead.” “No, but I can if I’m insane.” “I still think you’re dead.” “Well, I’m not.” “You are.” “No, I’m not.” “I’m telling you, Oscar, you are dead. I saw you get run over. We all did.” Oscar frowned in thought. “But I don’t feel dead.” “Well, you must be. You were in pretty bad shape before being run over, and I dread to think of the shape you were in afterwards.” “Do I look dead?” 32
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She peered at him. He didn’t look dead at all. In fact, she’d never seen him so smart. He even wore a splendid pair of fresh pantaloons. And his fur was no longer grubby or singed, but instead beautifully white and fluffy. He wore a smart blue collar as well. With a bell. “You don’t look dead,” she admitted. “In fact, you look wonderful.” Oscar humphed. “If I don’t look dead, and I don’t feel dead, then I don’t think I am dead. I am certain however, that I am now quite insane.” “I’m sorry, Oscar, but you’re just a figment of my imagination. You’re here as a coping mechanism.” “A coping mechanism?” “Yes. To manage my immersion into fullblown psychosis.” “Well, that’s strange, because I don’t feel like a coping mechanism either. I do, however, feel completely insane-of-the-mind.” Regardless, Lyeia realised she was no longer alone, and lunged at him a second time. Holding him tight, she refused to let him go even when he again insisted upon air—which inadvertently went 33
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some way to proving he wasn’t dead. “Welcome to my world, Oscar,” she said, when relinquishing him. He nodded, coughed and pulled at his collar again. “Are you quite certain you’re not dead?” Sighing, Oscar shrugged and sat down in the leaves. “I don’t know. One minute I was extremely sore in Liebe, and the next I’m standing on the side of a mountain without a bruise upon me.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I am dead and you’re a figment of my imagination?” But Lyeia shook her head. “I’m not dead, Oscar. And this place is not new to me. I have been here many times before. And anyway, I didn’t get run over by an ambulance.” “I don’t actually remember the ambulance. And I feel remarkably well for an animal whose apparently been run over by one.” Lyeia sat next to him. “Well, it must be one or the other. Either you’re dead or insane. I can’t really help you with the former, but certainly have ample experience with the latter.” “Perhaps I was already going mad, but just 34
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wasn’t aware of it,” he wondered. “I’ve had some pretty strange experiences in corridors recently. And hearing paws bereft of owners. And seeing horrible monsters. And fighting animals that disappear—” “I saw then too, remember?” “Yes, but you’re already mad. Perhaps I was merely in the process of becoming insane. It really wouldn’t surprise me, actually. I’ve dealt with a fair bit of absurdity over the past four novels. Perhaps meeting you has pushed me over the edge.” “Perhaps we’ve both gone over the edge together.” They sat for a while. “So where are we?” Oscar asked. And Lyeia shrugged while playing her spoon through leaves. “I have no idea. Which is odd considering I’ve been here many times before. It is both familiar and unfamiliar. Though whenever I’ve arrived previously I’ve never remained long enough to find out. There were always screams encroaching upon me. In as much, I often woke up in a mess of my own making.” 35
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“I sometimes have the same trouble on bath night.” She looked at him puzzled. “With screams?” “No. A mess of my own—look it doesn’t matter. Why have you got a spoon?” Lyeia peered at it. “It was given to me.” “By who?” “One of the animals screaming past me in flee.” Oscar blinked at her. “You didn’t see them?” she asked. Oscar shook his head. “They just careered past me on this path, screaming and waving spoons around.” “Why?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. To some degree I’m not surprised. My being mad has me accepting a great deal of peculiarities. Not the least of which is a horde of hysterical animals in colourful jumpers offering cutlery.” “But why hysterical?” She shrugged again. Oscar turned back to the view. “Being insane sounds exhausting.” 36
With Eyes No Longer Blind
“It’s not that difficult, really. Just don’t question anything and smile a great deal.” He looked at her. “But you don’t smile, Lyeia. You punch animals in the face.” “Yes, but I’ve had a lifetime of insanity, Oscar. My bitterness is earnt. You, however, have just been born into it.” “But why a spoon?” “Just accept it, Oscar. Don’t question it.” “Yes, but why were they screaming?” “Again, just accept—” But he couldn’t, and stood in frustration. “I can’t just accept it, Lyeia! I don’t know where I am! And where’s the Loud Purr? He was here a moment ago! And Binklemitre? And the Great Library of Liebe for goodness sake?” He pointed across the valley. “It was there a moment ago! Right there! I know it was there because we’d just fled the place! Now there’s nothing resembling Liebe here whatsoever! Just a great big valley shrouded in mist, which, when one thinks about it, is almost the complete opposite of a library!” He glared at her. “Where is the city of Liebe, Lyeia? Where have you put it?” 37
Thomas Corfield
“Me? I haven’t put it anywhere.” “Then where is it?” She sighed and shrugged in accepting that it was gone. “Don’t you think it strange to say the least?” he implored, paws in the air. “Insane or not, surely you must acknowledge the question as to where on earth—literally—we actually are?” But she didn’t, and looked at him instead. “Welcome to my world,” she said, before digging at leaves again. ####
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