Chapter 37 Chapter Thirteen

"How did you get here?" I snapped.This is not a random question.Skimmers, landing ships, helicopters, these things have not had much luck on their way to the Time Tomb in recent years.Those machines arrived, but "without" passengers.These oddities are adding to the Shrike mythology. The little man shrugged, hiding in a crumpled cape.His outfit was meant to be grand and flamboyant, but it only made him look like a potbellied clown. "I came with the last pilgrims," ​​he said, "and crawled-crawled down from the Fortress of Time to see you. Ma-ma-ma-ding, I found you Haven't written a word in months. Can you explain to me why?"

I glared silently and sidled closer. "Maybe I can explain," Billy King said.He glanced at the last page of the Hyperion Psalter, where the answer to this long and convoluted puzzle seemed to lie. "The last stanza was written the week of last year, the week that Jan Te Trio disappeared." "And then?" I had already walked to the far end of the table.Putting on an air of casualness, I pulled the little stack of manuscripts closer to me, out of reach of Billy. "That-that-that-day...according to the SDF monitor...is the day when the most-most-last resident of the City of Poets died," he said, "the last, except- Except—except you, Martin."

I shrugged and started walking along the table.I had to get to Billy's, and I had to keep the manuscript out of the way. "You see, you're not--not-finished, Martin," he said in a low, mournful voice, "and it's still possible that the human race will survive the fall by luck-for-fortune." "Impossible," I said, coming closer. "But you can't write it, can you, Martin? You can't write-write-write-write this poem unless your miao-miao-muse starts slaughtering, can you?" "Fuck your shit," I said. "Perhaps. But the coincidence is intoxicating. Have you ever wondered why your life was spared, Martin?"

I shrugged again and pulled another stack of papers out of his reach.I'm taller than Billy, stronger, and more unpredictable, and I have to make sure that when I lift him out of the chair and throw him, he won't damage the manuscripts. "It's—it's—it's—it's time to settle this matter," said my benefactor. "No," I said, "it's time for you to go." Pushing the last pile of poems aside, I held up my hands, and I was surprised to see that one of mine was holding a brass candlestick. "Please stop," King Billy said softly, taking a nerve stunner from his pocket.

I just stopped for a second.Then I laughed and said, "You poor cheap liar," I said, "that fucking weapon is your lifeblood, don't you dare to use it?" I stepped forward, held up the candlestick and smashed it, trying to block him out. With my face resting on the courtyard stone, one eye barely open, I saw the stars still shining through the grating of the dilapidated dome of the Windsor Galleria.I can't lift my eyelids.Limbs and torso felt a dull tingling, and the feeling finally came back.It seemed that the whole body had fallen into a deep sleep, and now it was just waking up in pain.I wanted to scream out in pain, but my jaw and tongue stopped working.Suddenly, I was lifted up and leaned against a stone bench. I could see the entire courtyard and the waterless fountain designed by Lismet Corbett.Under the flashes of the meteor shower before dawn, the bronze Laocoon was fighting with the bronze python.

"H-huh-sorry, Martin," came the familiar voice, "but-but-but this crazy-crazy-crazy has to end." Billy appeared in front of me, his hand There is a large stack of manuscripts in it.Other piles of paper are lying on the skeleton of the fountain, perched on the soles of the metal Trojan warriors.An open bucket of kerosene squatted beside it. I try to blink.Eyelids move like rusted iron. "Your dizziness is seconds-seconds-seconds...in minutes it's going--going-off," Billy King said.He walked to the fountain, held up a bundle of manuscripts, flicked the lighter, and ignited it.

"No!" I cried out through clenched teeth. The flame danced and went out.King Billy let go of the embers and dropped them into the fountain, then picked up another stack of papers and rolled them into a cylinder.The flames illuminated the tears on his wrinkled face. "It was you who brought--led--led it out," the little man gasped, "this must end." I struggled to stand up.My hands and legs were twitching, like the limbs of a marionette being pulled randomly.The pain was unbelievable.I yelled again, and the anguished voice echoed among marble and granite. King Billy picked up a large bundle of papers, paused, and read the poem on the first page:

"No legend, no backer This feeble death I harbor, This eternal silence I bear, This unchanging darkness, these three motionless figures, Like a full moon, pressing on my heart. Though my brain burns, my discernment is still in my heart, The silver moonlight filled the night. Day after day I think, Haggard eats me, demons eat me— Every moment I pray, Death came and took me from the valley, All burdens, leave me. Desperate gasping, the day turned upside down, Every second, I curse myself. " King Billy looked up at the stars and burned the page. "No!" I yelled again, bent my leg hard, then knelt on one knee, trying to flatten with one arm?I grabbed my body, but the hand stabbed so badly that I fell powerlessly to one side.

The figure in the cloak picked up another stack of paper, which was too thick to be rolled up, and stared at it in the dim light. "I saw a pale face, Not a bit sad, but white and miserable. Eternal disease comes to haunt each other, but Lord Death doesn't care, The disease is constantly changing, and happiness and death are not rushed. That face that never dies, than lilies and sorrows, I can't think of anything else, but I saw that face..." Billy King picked up the lighter, and this page and the other fifty were ablaze.He threw the burning paper into the fountain and went for the rest.

"Please!" I cried, got up again, and leaned against the stone bench, I ignored the occasional nerve-stimulated twitch, and straightened my legs, "Please." The third one didn't really emerge from the darkness much, and didn't hit my consciousness; it seemed like it was there all along, and King Billy and I didn't notice it at all until the flames grew brighter, I just saw it.Impossibly tall, with four arms, cast of chrome and cartilage, this is the Shrike.Its red eyes turned to us. Gasping, King Billy stepped back, then stepped forward to throw more verses into the fire.Under the warm wind, the ashes slowly piled up.A flock of pigeons took off from the steel girders of the cracked dome covered in vines, with a burst of flapping wings.

I moved forward, staggering rather than walking.The Shrike was motionless, and neither was the blood-red gaze. "Go away!" cried King Billy, who had forgotten his stuttering, and his voice was passionate, holding a handful of burning poems in both hands, "Go back to whichever pit you came from!" The Shrike seemed to tilt its head slightly.Red light flickered on the sharp surface. "My Lord!" I cried, and I didn't know whether I was speaking to King Billy or to this ghost from hell, and even now I don't know.I took the last few shambling steps forward, reaching for Billy's arm. He's not there anymore.One second ago, the old king was only a hand away from me, and the next moment, he was ten meters away, being lifted high off the courtyard stone.Fingers of steel thorns pierced his arms, chest, and legs, but he still writhed, and my Psalms still burned in his fists.The Shrike lifted him out like a father offering his child to christen him. "Destroy it!" cried Billy, his pinned arm swaying pitifully. "Destroy it!" I stopped on the edge of the fountain, struggling weakly on the verge of falling.At first I thought he meant destroying the Shrike...then I thought he meant poetry...then I realized it meant both.More than a thousand pages of manuscripts lay untidy in the dry fountain.I lifted the bucket of kerosene. The Shrike didn't move, just pulled King Billy back to his chest slowly, in a strangely loving way.Billy writhed, screaming silently as a long steel spine protruded from his jester's satin, jutting just above his breastbone.I stood there dumbfounded, remembering the collection of butterflies I exhibited as a child.I picked up the kerosene bucket slowly, mechanically, and poured the kerosene on the scattered papers. "Finish it!" gasped Billy. "For God, Martin!" I picked up the lighter he had dropped on the floor.The Shrike remained motionless.The blood soaked the black patches of Billy's coat, and then mixed with the dark red squares on the clothes.I thumb the ancient lighter, once, twice, three times; only sparks.Through my tears I can see the work of my life lying in the ashes of the fountain.I threw away the lighter. Billy screamed.As he writhed in the Shrike's arms, I faintly heard the sound of blades scraping against bone. "Finish it!" he exclaimed, "Martin . . . oh, God!" I turned around, took five quick steps, and dumped half a barrel of kerosene out.The smoke blurred my already blurry eyes.Both Billy and the incredible creature holding him up are soaked like two burlesque actors in a zany hologram.I saw Billy blink and gibberish; I saw the smooth chiseled muzzle of the Shrike reflecting the night sky lit by meteors, and then the burning embers of the paper still clutched in Billy's hand, that lit kerosene. I threw up my hands to shield my face—too late, beard and eyebrows were scorched by fire—and I staggered back, until at last the edge of the fountain barred my escape. For a moment, the pyre was a perfect fiery statue: the blue and yellow Pieta, a statue of the four-armed Virgin Mary cradling a glittering gold Christ.The flaming body writhed and arched, still impaled on steel spines and twenty-odd dissecting claws, and a cry resounded through the air that I still can't believe came from someone who embraced death.The cry knocked me to my knees, echoed on every hard surface in the city, and sent the pigeons spinning in shock.The cries continued for several minutes, until the flames were extinguished.Ashes, eye-mask images, nothing left.Then, another minute or so later, I realized that the shouts echoing in my ears were my own.