Turned out that if a man wanted to visit a ghost town by himself, that was his prerogative. This was all personal enough, he reckoned, and if enough money changed hands, then whose business was it where he went? Still, the place was nearly two miles out from the red city proper. He’d been guaranteed that this gawky, bizarre beast – they’d called her Clary, like that was supposed to reassure him – was docile as a lamb, that the breeder, some mincing Thibault, would’ve trusted her with his own children.
Thibault had picked her out because none of the rest of them had wanted to go near Tom, much less let him on. I’ve never seen anything like it, he’d said. I’m terribly sorry, sir.
Clary was pretty, Tom reckoned, all rich brown and burnt umber. Something fair like a spice market, like kofi har – something like that. Didn’t look too smart compared to the others, though. Maybe that’s why she’d let a monster like him ride her. He couldn’t help but feel like he was slipping on thin ice; animals didn’t like him anymore, he kept telling himself, and kept gripping the reins tighter. She kept walking, navigating the rocky path with expert feet, head bobbing and harness jingling quietly, and he tried not to worry.
As soon as the first crisp rays of sunlight treacled over the horizon, he saw it: a little cluster of clay buildings, huddled together as if to ward off the chill. He had to admit it was peaceful out here, no matter his jangling nerves, no matter the frustration and alienation and fear of the last two weeks. The only sound was the wind, the bending and snapping of boughs, birds breaking from branches and alighting on others – wings whirling, faceless beaks cracking out hoarse calls somewhere distant. He was just starting to relax when the smell of thick dust and ancient stone reached him; he breathed deeply of it, and felt a lump rise up in his throat.
“Hey, now –” He tugged the reins. Clary stopped gracefully, head bobbing for a moment as if confused. Biting his lip and lifting an eyebrow, he gave her neck-feathers a gentle pat; she made a little humming noise in her throat. “We’re here, eh? ’nother step closer to answerin’ our question, love?”
But his throat felt dry as a bone, dry as the dust. Dry as the dead.
This was the question: What the fuck happened to Tom Cooke?
A hypothesis wasn’t a guess, he reckoned; “hypothesis” wasn’t a word he’d known six months ago – there were a lot of words he hadn’t known six months ago – but he knew it didn’t mean “guess”. “Educated guess” was closer, maybe. So if you had a question and you wanted to make a hypothesis, you had to get yourself educated, and then your guess was a hypothesis. When you had a hypothesis, you could start experimenting. But without a hypothesis, without research, you couldn’t do any of that. You were just stuck with a question without an answer.
Tom thought about this as he dismounted, thought about the past week – at Brunnhold, at this bang moony place so far out of reach for the real Cooke, the one that’d lived in Old Rose. But so damned crucial for this Cooke.
Gods damn him – not that they hadn’t already – if he had to sit through another soiree, exchange pleasantries with another brown-nosing researcher looking for funding, pick up another stopclocking cheese fork – gods damn him if he had to do any of this and not get any closer to what he needed. He was ready to prostrate himself and beg, gnash his teeth and curse, make it work: damn you damn you damn you, help me understand this! Teach me how to die! Make things normal again!
But the mona was a shut door, and an angry one at that. How can the gods hate me? Didn’t they make me this way? The Madame couldn’t make heads or tails of it, thinking it was a Perceptive backlash, and she was starting to get impatient; it was his fifth day here, and yet they’d made no headway. And that Hoxian lad. Gods – Tom had spotted him staring out of the corner of his eye, waiting, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know if he should yet. Waiting. Soft-spoken, pleasant as you like. There was something there, and Tom didn’t like it.
He tried to get his mind off of it as he tied Clary’s reins to a worn old post, but as he looked out at the phasmonia, he didn’t feel any better. He’d never seen one before, or he’d never thought he had. (Something about it felt familiar; he didn’t want to know why.) In the crisp morning sun, the houses cast clear, eggshell shadows over the winding dirt path; their circular doors reminded him of moaning little mouths, sad and hungry.
As he started down the path, he was conscious of the sound of his boots scuffing in the dust. It was loud in the sudden silence; it was as if he’d passed beneath a blanket of wool, or – as if he’d stepped into a tomb. His breath steamed on the air and he frowned deeply, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. He found himself holding his breath at intervals, waiting – as if he expected something, some ghost to waft out of one of the houses like smoke – some answer from a quiet voice in the dark. He wandered up to one of the little houses, bending to peer through the door. A spot of sunlight illuminated the inside; as he blocked the light, his shadow stood inside, warped by the angle. Small.
He drew back.
“I don’t want to go in there.” His voice shook; he hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t meant to think it. Gotten his wires crossed, or something. He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut tightly, and tried to banish the image. “I don’t want to live there,” he whispered, “ever, ever.”