Damien Broderick - Strange Attractors by Original (pdf) (no david read aloud txt) 📕

He lifted his feet alternately, reclaiming them from the darkness.

He twisted his neck, but the distant mountains could no longer be

seen. The wind was cold on his cheek. Fingers flexed, he touched

contact pads on the chair arm, blinked as he was inserted into an

elsewhere where the light was bright. His ears popped.

Before him, Clouis stood for a megachronon like a statue, mouth

open, one hip dropped, knee bent, one arm half raised. Then he

came to life and said, ‘Hi, Bern-EE, hi hi!’

‘Hello.’ Bernheddin looked down as he thrust himself from the

chair to stand erect on the metal disc where it now rested.

‘Bernie, I was so anxious about you.’

Looked up. ‘I wish you wouldn’t always wait here for me.’

Through a round white arch a dazzling white terrace was visible,

a corner of balustrade, the spikes of an agave, and sunlight entered.

‘But Bernie, I was lonely.’ From a suggestion of pout he

chameleoned a smile, and, posing: ‘Do you like this gorgeous garment? I found it.’

It draped from his small shoulders in ivory folds, leaving bare his

arms and his legs from above the knees. There was a thin em broidered border. With this Clouis wore sandals; he had touched his eyelids with lilac.

Bernheddin ran thumb and curled forefinger along Clouis’s

sharp jawbone. ‘It’s very nice. You know, I do believe you’re growing a beard.’

‘Ber-NEE! T hat’s a revolting joke. And you’ve said it before.’

He wished to avoid any quarrel, but whatever he might have said

was too slow in coming.

‘Anyway, my new garment isn’t just very nice, it’s lovely.’

‘It’s a chiton.’

‘W hat?’

‘Your new garment — it’s a chiton.’

Clouis put an arm round him playfully. ‘You know everything.’

His own arm seemed wooden. ‘They were wearing them when I

was young, I had one.’

Tim e andflowers

31

‘You talk as if you were old, Bernie. You’re not old. Do you love

me?’

‘O f course I love you.’ He kissed him dutifully. The boy’s soft lips

and the scent of his face stirred him. Lust was an undeniable force;

it had driven evolution through the megayears. Kissed him again,

longer.

Clouis broke away, ‘Would you like some tea?’

They sat on the terrace in the brilliant light. As well as agaves

there were small palms, hibiscus with sensual pink flowers, and

bougainvillea climbing the white walls, breaking on the tiled roof

in a spray of lilac. The rim of the thousand-foot cliff on which they

perched was covered with white terraces and houses, all empty save

for themselves, all clean. Below, the sea was a brilliant crystalline

blue, and there were islands.

Clouis’s sunglasses matched the bougainvillea flowers. A single

shield deeply notched over the nose, glinting and opaqueing as he

turned, it gave him an incongruously aggressive look. Perhaps it

was the glasses hindering the meeting of eyes, but the conciliatory

mood was lost. Clouis was saying, ‘Why do you have to ride that

thing?’

Bernheddin sipped from the amber glass. ‘It’s perfectly safe.’

‘It’s not safe. You said — it can come back without you.’

‘Only if the line of the journey intersects a chronal distortion.

And then it will only return empty if the rider leaves the chair.’

‘W hat would happen then?’

‘I never leave the chair.’

‘But what do you do? You’re riding it all the time. It’s as if you

can’t stand me anymore — you always want to be away.’

‘No, Clouis. You know that’s not true. I am rarely gone more

than an hour or two. You should take a ride yourself, sec what it’s

like.’

Clouis shook his shoulders in a theatrical shiver. ‘Uff! You won’t

catch me in that decadent thing.’ He stood, poured Bernheddin

more tea from the glass jug in which floated ice and slices of lemon.

Like Ganymede, thought Bernheddin, with his tight golden

curls. He found it within himself to grin, for he felt not at all like

Zeus.

‘But Bernie, what would happen if it came back without you?’

‘Sweetheart, it won’t.’

‘But if it did?’

‘Well, nothing would happen, I guess.’

32

Anthony Peacey

‘You couldn’t get back without it, could you?’

‘It would be a little difficult.’

‘Could I find you?’

‘Well, no . . .’

‘I know. I read in that decadent book.’

The Charting and Navigation of Chronal Dichotomies. The wave with

which Clouis dismissed this text conjured for Bernheddin the thin

foreclaw of Tyrannosaurus rex, a wonder of the vast past he had so far

neglected to seek out.

Clouis went on, ‘Well, where do you go all the time?