It twisted and slapped at it just before its feet left the girder. I tried to drop back and go into a crouch at the same time, raising my arms for balance, for protection.
It hit me, but not in the throat or heart. It struck against my left shoulder, clawing wildly, raking my left arm and side. And then it fell.
An instant of thoughts and actions inseparable: Regain my balance, save the nasty little thing-for whatever it knew-right arm crossbody, weight shift to left foot, left hand dipping, hooking, seizing-don’t overcompensate!-comes now the jerk, the tugging, the pull-
I had it! I had hold of it by the tail! But-
A brief resistance, a sudden ripping, a new shifting of moment …
I held only a black, stiff, artificial tail, shreds of some rubbery costume material still attached. I caught a glimpse of the small, dark form as it passed through the area of greater illumination below. I don’t believe that it landed on its feet.
Chapter 12
Time.
More fragments, pieces, bits … Time.
Epiphany in Black & Light, Scenario in Green, Gold, Purple & Gray …
There is a man. He is climbing in the dusky daysend air, climbing the high Tower of Cheslerei in a place called Ardel beside a sea with a name he cannot quite pronounce as yet. The sea is as dark as the juice of grapes, bubbling a Chianti and chiaroscuro fermentation of the light of distant stars and the bent rays of Canis Vibesper, its own primary, now but slightly beneath the horizon, rousing another continent, pursued by the breezes that depart the inland fields to weave their courses among the interconnected balconies, towers, walls and walkways of the city, bearing the smells of the warm land toward its older, colder companion …
Climbing from hold to green stone on the seaward side of the structure, he has contrived to race with the last of the day as it flees upward, tilts, prepares to jump. In the antic light of evening the top of the Tower of Cheslerei is the last spot touched by the daygold before its departure from the capitol. He has given himself the time from the beginning of sunset to race the final light from bottom to top, to be on hand to take the night as it comes into the last place.
He is racing with shadows now, his own already diffuse about him, his hands darting like fish above the darkness. In the great high places above him the night continues with the minting of stars. Through atmosphere’s crystal mask, he glimpses their englossment as he goes. He is panting now, and the spot of gold has diminished. The shadows begin to pass him as he mounts.
But it lingers, that tiny touch of gold on the green. Thinking, perhaps, of another place of green and gold, he moves even faster, pacing his shadow, gaining on it. The light fades for an instant, returns for another.
During that instant, he catches hold of the parapet and heaves himself upward, like a swimmer departing the water.
He draws himself up and stands, turning his head toward the sea, toward the light. Yes …
He catches the final fleck of gold that it tosses. For a moment only he stares after it.
He seats himself then on the stone and regards the night’s other thousands, as he had never seen them before. For a long while, he watches … I know him well, of course.
Portrait of Boy & Dog Romping on the Beach, TickTock and Tempest Past, Fragment- “Fetch, boy! Fetch!”
“Damn it, Ragma! Learn to throw a frisbee properly if you want to play! I’m getting tired of going after it!”
He chuckled. I recovered it and sailed it back. He caught it and threw it, to lose it again in the bushes upshore.
“That’s it,” I said. “I quit. It’s hopeless. You catch fine, but you throw lousy.”
I turned and headed back toward the water. A few moments later I heard a scuffing noise and he was at my side.
“We have a game somewhat like that back home,” he said. “I was never very good at it there either.”