cb.imajica2-第38节

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　midsummer。　He　doesn't　want　you　playing　the　Reconciler　and　letting　his　enemies　into　the　Fifth。　Who　can　blame　him？　He　intends　to　build　a　New　Yzordderrex　here；　to　rule　over　the　Fifth　from　pole　to　pole。　Did　you　know　that？〃
　〃He　did　mention　it。〃
　〃And　when　that's　done；　I'm　sure　he'll　embrace　you　as　a　brother。〃
　〃But　until　then…'〃
　〃…I　have　his　permission　to　do　whatever　I　must　to　keep　you　from　being　a　Reconciler。　And　if　that　means　driving　you　insane　with　memories…〃
　〃…then　you　will。〃
　〃Must；　Maestro；　must。　I'm　a　dutiful　creature。〃
　Keep　talking；　Gentle　thought；　as　ifwaxed　poetic　describing　its　powers　of　subservience。　He　wouldn't　make　for　the　door；　he'd　decided。　It　was　probably　double…　or　treble…locked。　Better　that　he　went　for　the　window　by　which　he'd　entered。　He'd　fling　himself　through　if　need　be。　If　he　broke　a　few　bones　in　the　process；　it'd　be　a　small　price　to　pay　for　escape。
　He　glanced　around　casually；　as　if　deciding　where　he　was　going　to　lay　his　head；　never　once　allowing　his　eyes　to　stray　to　the　front　door。　The　room　with　the　open　window　lay　ten　paces　at　most　from　where　he　stood。　Once　inside；　there'd　be　another　ten　to　reach　the　window。　Little　Ease；　meanwhile；　was　lost　in　loops　of　its　own　humility。　Now　was　as　good　a　time　as　any。
　He　took　a　pace　towards　the　bottom　of　the　stairs　as　a　feint；　then　changed　direction　and　darted　for　the　door。　He'd　made　three　paces　before　it　even　realized　what　he　was　up　to。
　〃Don't　be　so　stupid！〃　it　snapped。
　He'd　been　conservative　in　his　calculation；　he　realized。　He'd　be　through　the　door　in　eight　paces；　not　ten；　and　across　the　room　in　another　six。
　〃I'm　warning　you；〃　it　shrieked；　then；　realizing　its　appeals　would　gain　it　nothing；　acted。
　Within　a　pace　of　the　door；　Gentle　felt　something　open　in　his　head。　The　crack　through　which　he　allowed　the　past　to　trickle　suddenly　gaped。　In　a　pace　the　rivulet　was　a　stream；　in　two；　white　waters；　in　three；　a　flood。　He　saw　the　window　across　the　room；　and　the　street　outside；　but　his　will　to　reach　it　was　washed　away　in　the　deluge　of　the　past。
　He'd　lived　nineteen　lives　between　his　years　as　Sartori　and　his　time　as　John　Furie　Zacharias；　his　unconscious　programmed　by　Pie　to　ease　him　out　of　one　life　and　into　another　in　a　fog　of　self…ignorance　that　only　lifted　when　the　deed　was　done；　and　he　awoke　in　a　strange　city；　with　a　name　filched　from　a　telephone　book　or　a　conversation。　He'd　left　pain　behind　him；　of　course；　wherever　he'd　gone。　Though　he'd　always　been　careful　to　detach　himself　from　his　circle；　and　cover　his　tracks　when　he　departed；　his　sudden　disappearances　had　undoubtedly　caused　great　grief　to　everyone　who'd　held　him　in　their　affections。　The　only　one　who'd　escaped　unscathed　had　been　himself。　Until　now。　Now　all　these　lives　were　upon　him　at　once；　and　the　hurts　he'd　scrupulously　avoided　caught　up　with　him。　His　head　filled　with　fragments　of　his　past；　pieces　of　the　nineteen　unfinished　stories　that　he'd　left　behind；　all　lived　with　the　same　infantile　greed　for　sensation　that　had　marked　his　existence　as　John　Furie　Zacharias。　In　every　one　of　these　lives　he'd　had　the　fort　of　adoration。　He'd　been　loved　and　lionized：　for　his　charm；　for　his　profile；　for　his　mystery。　But　that　fact　didn't　sweeten　the　flood　of　memories。　Nor　did　it　save　him　from　the　panic　he　felt　as　the　little　self　he　knew　and　understood　was　overwhelmed　by　the　sheer　profusion　of　details　that　arose　from　the　other　histories。
　For　two　centuries　he'd　never　had　to　ask　the　questions　that　vexed　every　other　soul　at　some　midnight　or　other：　〃Who　am　I？　What　was　I　made　for；　and　what　will　I　be　when　I　die？〃
　Now　he　had　too　many　answers；　and　that　was　more　distressing　than　too　few。　He　had　a　small　tribe　of　selves；　put　on　and　off　like　masks。　He　had　trivial　purposes　aplenty。　But　there　had　never　been　enough　years　held　in　his　memory　at　one　time　to　make　him　plumb　the　depths　of　regret　or　remorse；　and　he　was　the　poorer　for　that。　Nor；　of　course；　had　there　been　the　imminence　of　death　or　the　hard　wisdom　of　mourning。　Forgetfulness　had　always　been　on　hand　to　smooth　his　frowns　away；　and　it　had　left　his　spirit　unproved。
　Just　as　he'd　feared；　the　assault　of　sights　and　scenes　was　too　much　to　bear；　and　though　he　fought　to　hold　on　to　some　sense　of　the　man　he'd　been　when　he'd　entered　the　house；　it　was　rapidly　subsumed。　Halfway　between　the　door　and　the　window　his　desire　to　escape；　which　had　been　rooted　in　the　need　to　protect　himself；　went　out　of　him。　The　determination　fell　from　his　face；　as　though　it　were　just　another　mask。　Nothing　replaced　it。　He　stood　in　the　middle　of　the　room　like　a　stoic　sentinel；　with　no　flicker　of　his　inner　turmoil　rising　to　disturb　the　placid　symmetry　of　his　face。
　The　night　hours　crawled　on；　marked　by　a　bell　in　a　distant　steeple；　but　if　he　heard　it　he　showed　no　sign。　It　wasn't　until　the　first　light　of　day　crept　over　Gamut　Street；　slipping　through　the　window　he'd　been　so　desperate　to　reach；　that　the　world　outside　his　confounded　head　drew　any　response　from　him。　He　wept。　Not　for　himself；　but　rather　for　the　delicacy　of　this　amber　light　falling　in　soft　pools　on　the　hard　floor。　Seeing　it；　he　conceived　the　vague　notion　of　stepping　out　into　the　street　and　looking　for　the　source　of　this　miracle；　but　there　was　somebody　in　his　head；　its　voice　stronger　than　the　muck　of　confusion　that　swilled　there；　who　wanted　him　to　answer　a　question　before　it　would　allow　him　out　to　play。　It　was　a　simple　enough　inquiry。
　〃Who　are　you？〃　it　wanted　to　know。
　The　answer　was　difficult。　He　had　a　lot　of　names　in　his　head；　and　pieces　of　lives　to　go　with　them；　but　which　one　of　them　was　his？　He'd　have　to　sort　through　many　fragments　to　get　a　sense　of　himself；　and　that　was　too　wretched　a　task　on　a　day　like　this；　when　there　were　sunbeams　at　the　window；　inviting　him　out　to　spy　their　father　in　Heaven。
　〃Who　are　you？〃　the　voice　asked　him　again；　and　he　was　obliged　to　tell　the　simple　truth。
　〃I　don't　know。〃
　The　questioner　seemed　content　with　this。　〃You　may　as　well　go；　then；〃　it　said。　〃But　I'd　like　you　to　e　back　once　in　a　while；　just　to　see　me。　Will　you　do　that？〃
　He　said　that　of　course　he　would；　and　the　voice　replied　that　he　was　free　to　go。　His　legs　were　stiff；　and　when　he　tried　to　walk　he　fell　instead；　and　had　to　crawl　to　where　the　sun　was　brightening　the　boards。　He　played　there　for　a　time　and　then；　feeling　stronger；　climbed　out　of　the　window　into　the　street。
　Had　he　possessed　a　cogent　memory　of　the　previous　night's　pursuits　he'd　have　realized；　as　he　jumped　down　onto　the　pavement；　that　his　guess　concerning　Sartori's　agent　had　been　correct；　and　its　jurisdiction　did　indeed　halt　at　the　limits　of　the　house。　But　he　prehended　not　at　all　the　fact　of　his　escape。　He'd　entered　number　28　the　previous　night　as　a　man　of　purpose；　the　Reconciler　of　the　Imajica　e　to　confront　the　past　and　be　strengthened　by　self…knowledge。　He　left　it　undone　by　that　same　knowledge　and　stood　in　the　street　like　a　bedlamite；　staring　up　at　the　sun　in　ignorance　of　the　fact　that　its　arc　marked　the　year's　progression　to　midsummer；　and　thus　to　the　hour　when　the　man　of　purpose　he'd　been　had　to　act…or　fail　forever。
　
　
　9
　
　Although　Jude　had　not　slept　well　after　Clem's　visit　（dreams　of　light　bulbs；　talking　in　a　code　of　flickers　she　couldn't　crack）；　she　woke　early　and　had　laid　her　plans　for　the　day　by　eight。　She'd　drive　up　to　Highgate；　she　decided；　and　try　and　find　some　way　into　the　prison　beneath　the　tower；　where　the　only　woman　left　in　the　Fifth　who　might　help　empower　her　languished。　She　knew　more　about　Celestine　now　than　she　had　when　she'd　first　visited　the　tower　on　New　Year's　Eve。　Dowd　had　procured　her　for　the　Unbeheld；　or　so　he　claimed；　plucking　her　from　the　streets　of　London　and　taking　her　to　the　borders　of　the　First。　That　she'd　survived　such　traumas　at　all　was　extraordinary。　That　she　might　be　sane　at　the　end　of　them；　after　divine　violation　and　centuries　of　imprisonment；　was　almost　certainly　too　much　to　hope　for。　But　mad　or　not；　Celestine　was　a　much　needed　source　of　insight；　and　Jude　was　determined　to　dare　whatever　she　had　to　in　order　to　hear　the　woman　speak。
　The　tower　was　so　perfectly　anonymous　she　drove　past　it　before　realizing　that　she'd　done　so。。　Doubling　back；　she　parked　in　a　side　street　and　approached　on　foot。　There　were　no　vehicles　in　the　forecourt　and　no　sign　of　life　at　any　of　the　windows；　but　she　marched　to　the　front　door　and　rang　the　bell；　hoping　there　might　be　a　caretaker　she　could　persuade　to　let　her　in。　She'd　use　Oscar's　name　as　a　reference；　she　decided。　Though　she　knew　this　was　playing　with　fire；　there　was　no　time　for　niceties。　Whether　Gentle's　ambitions　as　a　Reconciler　were　realized　or　not；　the　days　ahead　would　be　charged　with　possibilities。　Things　sealed　were　cracking；　things　silent　were　drawing　breath　to　speak。
　The　door　remained　closed；　though　she　rang　and　rapped　several　times。　Frustrated；　she　headed　around　the　back　of　the　building；　the　route　more　choked　by　barbs　and　stings　than　ever。　The　tower's　shadow　chilled　the　ground　where　Clara　had　dropped　and　died；　and　the　earth；　which　was　badly　drained；　smelled　of　stagnancy。　Until　she　walked　here　the　thought　of　finding　any　fragments　of　the　blue　eye　had　not　occurred　to　her；　but　perhaps　it　had　been　part　of　her　unconscious　agenda　from　the　start。　Finding　no　hope　of　access　on　this　side　of　the　building；　she　turne