Castles Made of Sand (55 page)

So he climbed on board the fucking horse, and the Cornish all ran along with him, cheering, through a gate, onto a flowery hillside where hordes of barmies came racing down to join the fun shouting madly—

‘It’s Sage!’ ‘It’s Aoxomoxoa!’

Ax and Bronwen stood and stared while waves of barmies swept by, whooping and shouting. The roan horse came up, surrounded by the tumult, and then the crowd stopped shouting. Sage and Ax looked each other over, the horse took a few more steps; it stood and Sage slid down, very carefully, as if he were deeply suspicious of this mode of transport. He leant on the big roan’s shoulder.

‘Hi, rockstar.’

‘Hi, other rockstar. How was Ireland?’

‘Terrific. But I don’t think I’ll be going back for a while.’

Sage dropped the reins. Bronwen Palmer (what a story to tell) caught hold of them and stood there at the turning point. Mr Dictator walked into his Minister’s arms, and the crowd of barmies gave way to a second wave of staff, officers, war correspondents and close friends. ‘Ah,
shit
, muttered Sage, head down, his face hidden against Ax’s throat. ‘Can’t do it. Brother, get me out of this,
please
.’

‘No problem. Leave it to me.’

Ax left the hero propped against the bonnet of Bronwen’s jeep. He was shocked and frightened: when he’d seen his big cat riding up the field like that he’d thought,
thank God, he’s not so badly hurt
. But he showed no sign of fear as he advanced on the eager company. ‘Okay, fuck off. He’s
my
boyfriend, have a bit of sensitivity. I get him first. You can have him later. You heard me,
go away
.’

Everyone backed off very smartly. Ax returned to the jeep, smiling. ‘See. Nothing to it. I could have been taking lessons from Aoxomoxoa—’

Sage wanted to tell Ax that he’d been sure he must die on the beach at Drumbeg, and ever since then he’d felt that he was dying, dreaming all this while he was dying. But now he knew he was alive, and he was sorry, again, sorry, Ax, I fucked up, I didn’t mean to do this to you. He wanted to explain so many things, but there was no time. There was blood in his mouth.

He stood on the cliff. He leaped.

‘
Sage?
’ said Ax.

Sage tumbled forward, so Ax had to take his whole weight, and felt the rigid body brace, and laid him down with terrified care on the bruised grass—his head thrown back, blood on his lips, wide-open eyes still passionately reflecting the blue of the sky.

‘Sage! Oh shit, please, no,
Sage
—’

Fiorinda walked along a corridor in the Rivermead medical centre. Reading had been in Ax’s hands since the day battle of Glastonbury had been averted, a week ago. She didn’t think she’d ever feel the same about Reading site, but the medical centre was okay. It was very quiet. She opened a door and looked into a pleasant room filled with summer daylight, simply furnished. There were two empty beds with covers and pillows piled and folded on them: slight burdens, and lying very still. She stood for a moment, looking at that scene, then turned from what might have been, to the world that she had made.

The third bed was also empty. Sage was propped in the windowseat with his feet up, wearing white pyjamas and a shabby blue cardigan. His scalp wound was taped up, his face bruised and he was holding himself oddly. He looked a little rough, but if you didn’t know better, you’d never have guessed the state he was in… That’s why they were at Reading. The staybehinds had been able to protect a great deal by co-operating with the usurpers—including the cutting-edge full-cover health clinic; here where Ax had provided a safe refuge for the future he believed in. This was the first time she’d been allowed to see him since that insane stunt at the battle ground, but
Sage was going to be all right
. No dirty magic involved, thank God, just the staggering miracles of modern medicine.

‘Hello,’

‘Hi.’ He turned his head; he smiled at her dreamily.

‘How are you?’

‘Oooh, not too bad. Patched up again. Got through countless pints of other people’s blood while they were doin’ it, as the synthetic kind don’t work very well on me. Some of it Bill’s and George’s and Peter’s.’ His voice shook, his eyes tearing.‘I always d-did find it useful to have a band with the same blood group.’

‘Rock and Roll feudalism can’t be all bad. Does it hurt very much?’

‘Nah, I’m fine. Got a shunt in my arm: I’m tanked to the eyeballs, an’ I intend to stay that way.’ He tried to laugh. ‘You know, I don’t understand Olwen Devi. One minute she tells me I must never, never touch any kind of recreational drug again in my life, ever. Next thing I know she’s giving me unlimited access to this
excellent
smack—’

Fiorinda crossed the room. They were silenced, solemn-eyed and almost afraid, because of what they had done together at Drumbeg.

‘I killed your father, Fiorinda.’

‘
I hope he stays dead
,’ said Fiorinda, with feeling.

‘Well,’ said Sage, lightening up, ‘if he doesn’t—’ Deliberately, he took his hands out of his cardigan pockets, and folded them around his knees, ‘I’ll just have to kill him again.’

‘Augh!
Sage!
’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Your hands!’

‘What, these?’ He held them out: Fiorinda grabbed them, these undisfigured hands, tanned from outdoor living, with long squareish palms, square-tipped fingers, strong thumbs set wide: hands she’d never seen before but instantly familiar, full of life, full of Sage.

‘Oh, my God… Were your hands like this in Ireland?’

‘Yeah. I
thought
you hadn’t noticed, you strange girl.’ He blinked. ‘Woman.’

‘
I had a lot on my mind…
Oh, Sage, how? How did this—?’

‘I don’t know. When I came back from the Zen, at Caer Siddi, these were my hands, that’s all. I didn’t do it, I didn’t even ask…well, shit, maybe I did. I just came back and these were my hands,’ he repeated. ‘Call it a side-effect.’ His face broke up, like a little child’s. He reached for her awkwardly, without moving his rigidly held torso, tears spilling through thick yellow lashes.

‘
Oh, Fiorinda
, I don’t want to die! I thought I would, I would achieve the Zen Self, and beat Rufus and I would die, I thought that was the deal, but
I don’t want to leave you
. I want to stay with you and Ax, but I’m so scared this damage can’t be fixed. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, oh, and
I left you alone with him
, why am I such a fuck-up, why am I
always
like this? Oh Fee—’

She held his head against her breast, she had meant not to cry, she’d meant to be cheerful and positive, but she couldn’t help it. ‘Hush, hush, poor baby, you are
not
a fuck-up, my Sage, you are my darling, you did fantastic, you are going to be all right, little Sage, baby Sage, we will look after you, poor baby—’

Ax had allowed himself to be waylaid because he wanted to give them space. The three of them were so shattered and battered it would be a while before the love affair was an issue, but he wanted to signal that he understood, and that it was okay. He walked alone to Sage’s room, rehearsing what he would tell them,
I love you both very much. Whatever you want, that’s what I want for you too
. They’re the lovers, I’m their friend. We get that straight, from the start…

His big cat was in Fiorinda’s arms, both of them sobbing like fools. His heart turned upside down, he was across the room in a second and taking Sage from her, completely unable to stop himself:
I’m never going to let you go
, he was babbling,
I’m never going to let you out of my sight again—

‘You shouldn’t have left us!’ wailed Fiorinda. ‘It wasn’t his fault!’

‘I know, I know—’

Ax held Sage’s battered face between his hands, God what a
joy
to touch him, and kissed him, tenderly and delicately, not to hurt him, but then, irresistibly, they were kissing each other deep, soul-deep—

Fiorinda got up on the windowseat, took possession of Sage’s free hand and watched, her heart filled with golden light. ‘Maybe this is the moment,’ she said, ‘when I have to remind you he’s off sex for a while.’

‘Oh really?’ said Ax, with a shaky grin. ‘How long?’

‘No time limit. Until his new liver gets big enough to kick in.’

‘Shut up, Fee.’

‘And the nanobots have picked out all the tiny bone fragments from his chest cavity and his right lung, so then he can have the artificial lung rem—’

‘I said
shut up
. You’re scaring me—’

‘I was barely getting started.’

‘I think we want you scared,’ said Ax, fervently, ‘I think we want you
terrified
. Listen, Sage. As soon as they’ll let you out of here, we’re going to Tyller Pystri. We’ll stay there, the three of us, long as it takes to get you totally well, and then I don’t know what the fuck we’ll do, we’ll do whatever we like. I’m quitting the Dictatorship anyway. But if we go Cornwall, you have to promise me—’ He broke off. They were both staring at him with strange expressions.

‘Oh shit,’ said Ax. ‘I’m doing it again aren’t I? I’m taking over—’

‘You’re quitting the Dictatorship?’ repeated Sage, slowly.

‘Yes. I haven’t done my five years, but I want out. It’s my decision, you’re not responsible. I’ve had enough. I’ve realised what a wanker I was being—’

‘Oh, hush,’ said Fiorinda. ‘Forget all that.’ She held Sage’s beautiful hand against her cheek. ‘Er…these plans. Do they imply we’re going to give our fucked-up, ridiculous relationship another try?’

‘Aren’t we?’ asked Sage, anxiously.

‘If you’ll have us, Fiorinda,’ said Ax.

A short time later Olwen Devi, Dilip Krishnachandran and some Rivermead medical centre staff came into the room. Sage was in his bed, propped up high (his torso must be upright). Fiorinda was curled up on the coverlet, beside him. Ax fast asleep in the chair by the bed, holding Sage’s hand. Carefully, Olwen checked the telltales taped to the back of Sage’s left hand, the tube in his nose, the diamorphine shunt in his arm. She studied the monitor screens, consulted silently for a moment with Serendip, and seemed satisfied.

‘Should we wake Mr Preston and Fiorinda?’ asked one of the nurses softly.

‘No,’ said Olwen. ‘Make up the other two beds, and then we’ll leave them. Sage will come to no harm. I believe there are two people in this room who have more power over life and death than anything I can offer.’

Dilip knelt, lifted Ax’s free hand and pressed it to his brow.

‘And the third is just the king of England.’

He replaced the hand gently. Ax never stirred.

*: This insight from Karl Lutchmayer, visiting professor at Trinity Music College, via Gabriel Jones