And then, the Cradle. It appeared suddenly, the road taking them up over a headland which presented them with a sudden panorama of gray shore and silver sea. Gentle had not realized how oppressed he’d been by the hills until this vista opened in front of them. He felt his spirits rise at the sight.
There were peculiarities, however, most particularly the thousands of silent birds on the stony beach below, ail sitting like an audience awaiting some spectacle to appear from the arena of the sea, not one in the air or on the water.
It wasn’t until Pie and Gentle reached the perimeter of this roosting multitude and got out of the car that the reason for their inactivity became apparent. Not only were they and the sky above them immobile, so was the Cradle itself. Gentle made his way through the mingled nations of birds—a close relation of the gull predominated, but there were also geese, oyster catchers, and a smattering of parrots—to the edge, testing it first with his foot, then with his fingers. It wasn’t frozen—he knew what ice felt like from bitter experience—it was simply solidified, the last wave still plainly visible, every curl and eddy fixed as it broke against the shore.
“At least we won’t have to swim,” the mystif said.
It was already scanning the horizon, looking for Sco-pique’s prison. The far shore wasn’t visible, but the island was, a sharp gray rock rising from the sea several miles from where they stood, the maison de santi, as Scopique had called it, a cluster of buildings teetering on its heights.
“Do we go now or wait until dark?” Gentle asked.
“We’ll never find it after dark,” Pie said. “We have to go now.”
They returned to the car and drove down through the birds, who were no more inclined to move for wheels than they’d been for feet. A few took to the air briefly, only to flutter down again; many more stood their ground and died for their stoicism.
The sea made the best road they’d traveled since the Patashoquan Highway; it had apparently been as calm as a millpond when it had solidified. They passed the corpses of several birds who’d been caught in the process, and there was still meat and feathers on their bones, suggesting that the solidification had occurred recently.
“I’ve heard of walking on water,” Gentle said as they drove. “But driving. . . that’s a whole other miracle.”
“Have you any idea of what we’re going to do when we get to the island?” Pie said.
“We ask to see Scopique, and when we’ve found him we leave with him. If they refuse to let us see him, we use force. It’s simple as that”
“They may have armed guards.”
“See these hands?” Gentle said, taking them off the wheel and thrusting them at Pie. “These hands are lethal.” He laughed at the expression on the mystif s face. “Don’t worry, I won’t be indiscriminate.” He seized the wheel again. “I like having the power, though. I really like it. The idea of using it sort of arouses me. Hey, will you look at that? The suns are coming out.”
The parting clouds allowed a few beams through, and they lit the island, which was within half a mile of them now. The visitors’ approach had been noticed. Guards had appeared on the cliff top and along the prison’s parapet. Figures could be seen hurrying down the steps that wound down the cliff face, heading for the boats moored at its base. From the shore behind them rose the clamor of birds.
“They finally woke up,” Gentle said.
Pie looked around. Sunlight was lighting the beach, and the wings of the birds as they rose in a squalling cloud.
“Oh, Jesu,” Pie said.
“What’s wrong?”
“The sea—”
Pie didn’t need to explain, for the same phenomenon that was crossing the Cradle’s surface behind them was now coming to meet them from the island: a slow shock wave, changing the nature of the matter it passed through. Gentle picked up speed, closing the gap between the vehicle and solid ground, but the road had already liquified completely at the island’s shore, and the message of transformation was spreading at speed.