Chapter 27 27. Platform

My soul slips into a bough: sit there and sing like a bird And combing the silvery wings... ——Andrew Marvell [Andrew Marvell (16211678), a famous British poet] Once Mulfa started building the platform for Mary, they did it fast and well.She loved watching them work, because they would discuss without arguing, cooperate without getting in each other's way, because they hacked and joined wood so gracefully and productively. In two days, the observation deck was designed, built and installed, solid, roomy and comfortable.When she climbed up, she was elated, in one sense, mostly in terms of what her body felt: under the dense tree canopy, with the dark blue sky among the leaves, the breeze keeping the skin cool and light. The scent of the flowers brought joy to her at any moment, the rustling of leaves, the singing of birds, the distant murmur of waves crashing on the shore; all her senses were hypnotized and nourished.If she could stop thinking, she would be completely intoxicated with happiness.

But thinking about problems is her main purpose on the platform. When she saw through the telescope that the slavs, or shadow particles, were continually floating outward, it seemed to her that happiness, life, and hope were drifting away with them.She couldn't find any reason at all. Murfa said that the trees began to decline three hundred years ago.If shadow particles pass through all worlds in the same way, then it is likely that the same thing is happening in her universe, and every other universe.Three hundred years ago, the Royal Society had been formed: the first real society in her world; Newton was doing his explorations of optics and gravity.

Three hundred years ago, in Laila's world, someone invented the alethiometer. Meanwhile, in the strange world she passed through on her way here, the wonderful knife was invented. She lay down on the plank, feeling the observation platform swaying very slightly and slowly with the giant tree swaying in the sea breeze, she raised the telescope to her eyes and watched the countless tiny sparks drifting over the leaves and blooming flowers, Through the great branches, in a slow and deliberate flow that seems to be conscious, floating against the wind. What happened three hundred years ago?Did it cause the dust stream, or did the dust stream cause it to appear?

Or are they all the result of a different cause?Or are they not connected at all? Floating is hypnotic.How easy it would be to slip into a trance and let her mind drift away with the floating particles... Before she knew what she was doing, her body was hypnotized.It really happened like this, she suddenly woke up and found that she had left her physical body, and she panicked. She was a little above the observation deck, among the branches a few feet above the ground.Something has changed in the dust wind: it is no longer floating slowly, but is rushing like a river in flood, is it speeding up, or is the movement of time different because she has left her body What?Whatever the reason, she was aware of the most dire danger, for the flood was threatening to sweep her apart, and it was immense.She stretched out her arms to grab onto anything solid - but she had no arms, nothing attached.

Her body was getting further and further away from her, sleeping so deeply beneath her.She tried to cry out to wake herself up: there was no sound.The body continued to sleep, and the observing self was carried completely out of the canopy into the open sky. No matter how hard she struggled, she couldn't help it, the force that brought her out was as smooth and powerful as water rushing against a barrage: the dust particles were gurgling by, as if they too were venting to some invisible edge. She was taken from her body. She threw a spiritual lifeline to her physical self, trying to recall what it felt like to be in it: all those feelings of being alive.The feeling of friend Attar's soft nose brushing her neck, the smell of bacon and eggs, the triumphant tension of muscles when climbing a rock, the wonderful jumping of fingers on the computer keyboard, the aroma of roasted coffee beans, And the warmth of the bed on winter nights.

Gradually she stopped moving, the lifeline fastened, and she hung in the air, feeling the weight and force of the tide against her. And then a strange thing happened, little by little (as she intensified those sensory memories, adding others: sipping margaritas on the rocks in California, sitting outside a restaurant in Lisbon under a lemon tree, scraping the frost off her front window,) she felt the wind of dust slowing down, the pressure lessening. But it was just blowing at her: around, above, below, the great flood was still flowing as fast as before, and for some reason, there was a small still place around her, where the particles were resisting it. kind of flow.

They are conscious!They sensed her anxiety and responded to it, they began to bring her back to her abandoned body, a silent sob when she was close enough to see it again, so heavy, so warm, so safe It shook her heart. Then she came back into the body and woke up. With a trembling deep breath, she pressed her hands and feet to the rough wooden planks of the observation deck, almost maddened with fear a minute ago, but now full of depth and relief at being one with her body, the earth, and everything that matters ecstasy. At last she sat up, trying to gather her thoughts, and her hand found the telescope, and she held it up to one eye, supporting the trembling hand with one hand.There was no doubt about it: the slow drift had become a torrent, and there was nothing to hear, nothing to feel, nothing to see if there were no telescope, but even when she turned the telescope from When she looked away, she could still clearly feel the rapid and silent torrent, and together with it, there was something she ignored in the fear of losing her body: a deep, helpless regret in the air .

The shadow particles know what is going on, they are very sad. She herself is part shadow matter, part of her subject to this tide that is moving through the universe, and so is Murfa, and so is every human being on every world, every conscious being of every kind wherever they may be. Unless she finds out what's going on, they'll probably all float away, gone, not one. Suddenly she longed to be back on Earth again, pocketed her binoculars, and began to climb back to the surface. When the evening sun became long and mellow, Father Gomez stepped through the window, and he saw the rows of huge wheel trees and the winding roads on the plain, the same place where Mary had been a while ago. The same as seen in a place, but there is no fog in the air, because it had just rained at one o'clock earlier, so he can see farther than her, especially the sparkling sea and some sails that may be seen in the distance looming white object.

He slung the rucksack high over his shoulders, turned and walked towards them to see what he could find.In the silence before the long night, it is very pleasant to walk on this smooth road. There are some cicada-like animals in the long grass next to your ears, and the warm sunset is bathed in your face.The air was fresh, too, fresh and sweet and quite devoid of the naphtha and kerosene fumes that hung in the air in a world he passed: the world to which his target—the seducer himself—belonged. At sunset he came to a little headland beside a shallow bay.If there were waves in this sea, they were high, for there was only a narrow strip of soft white sand at the edge of the water.

Floating in the calm bay were a dozen... Father Gomez had to stop and think, a dozen huge snow-white birds, each the size of a rowing boat, with long, straight wings trailing behind them. On the water: The wings are really long, over six feet.are they birdsThey have the same feathers, heads, and beaks as swans, but those wings are arranged one after the other, sure... Suddenly they saw him, turned their heads with a snap, and all the wings were up high at once, like the sails of a yacht. exactly the same.They were all tipping inwards with the breeze, coming towards the shore. Father Gomez marveled at the beauty of those wing sails, their softness and perfect lines and the speed of these birds.Then he saw them paddling too: they had feet under the water, not one behind the other like wings, but side by side.Like wings and legs, they have unusual speed and graceful posture in the water.

The first bird lumbered up through the dry sand as soon as it landed, and made a beeline for the priest.There was a malicious hiss in its mouth, and as it lumbered ashore, it thrust its head forward, its mouth crackling, and there were teeth inside, like a row of sharp, unbent hooks. Father Gomez was on a low, grassy promontory about a hundred yards from the water's edge, enough time for him to drop his rucksack, draw out his rifle, load, aim, and fire. The bird's head exploded into a cloud of red and white, and the dead bird stumbled forward a few steps before falling to the ground.Within a minute or two it was still alive, its legs were kicking and its wings were rising and falling.The giant bird splashed round and round in the pool of blood, kicking up the rough grass, until the lungs spewed bubbles and ended in a foamy cough, and then fell down. As soon as the first bird fell, the others stopped and stood looking at it and at the man, a look of comprehension mingled with anger quickly in their eyes.They looked from him to the dead bird, from the dead bird to the rifle, from the rifle to his face. He raised the rifle to his shoulder again and saw them respond: moving awkwardly back and into a heap, they understood what was in front of them. They are good, strong animals, big and broad, in fact, like living ships.If they knew what Reaper was, Father Gomez thought, if they could see the connection between Reaper and himself, then they had the basis for a successful understanding.Once they really learned to be afraid of him, they would do exactly what he told them to do.