“We have learned something of the music,” said Bao. “Singing by Timmys and drumming by Joggiwaggas, little ones and very big ones, on great singing stones set in the chasm. Some singing was by Bofusdiaga itself. Bofusdiaga is remembering the singing, which could be good clue if there were being words. It is being unfortunate there were no words.”
“We have to go down there,” said Ellin. “We have to see it, her. We can’t work on the dance at all until we see and feel where it is to be performed.”
“This is important?” asked D’Jevier.
“Oh, Ma’am, yes,” cried Ellin. “I remember the first time I encountered a raked stage! I had always danced on a flat stage, with the audience tilted up and away for good views of it, but I was transferred to another History House where they had a raked stage, higher at the back, slanted toward the audience, and, oh, the whole time I felt as though I would fall into their laps! It is also more laborious, for much of the time one is running uphill or plunging down!”
“Also, partnering,” said Bao. “With raked stage, partner is being upstage above, or downstage below, and every motion is being changed longer or shorter depending on location.”
“I see,” murmured D’Jevier. “Well, then, those of you who know something about dancing should go. I can’t imagine the rest of us would be of any help.”
Corojum, summoned, received this intention fatalistically, saying only, “You have little time.”
“Corojum, we know that,” cried Mouche. “Believe me, we’re doing everything we can as fast as we can!”
As though to underline this comment, the ground beneath them shook once more, and stones plummeted from above to splash into the Fauxi-dizalonz. Corojum looked up alertly as several Timmys came flashing into the firelight, hair wild and eyes wide.
“They come,” called one. “The jongau! The bent ones! Dozens and dozens!”
“Where?” asked Questioner. “On the road?”
“On the road, off the road, rolling, hopping, squirming, flowing, along the road.”
“When will they get here?” Questioner demanded.
Corojum said soberly, “Now is dark, only the one little moon rising will make them slow down, but they will come soon, for Bofusdiaga calls to them.”
“Why?” cried Ornery. “Why just now? Don’t we have enough to worry about without them?”
“The bent ones are not finished,” said the Corojum. “They wouldn’t go back through the Fauxi-dizalonz and get finished, so they’re only part done. Part-done things do not last well. They lose cohesion, and their substance longs for the Fauxi-dizalonz, whence it came. If they do not come now, they will disintegrate.”
“Interesting,” said Questioner. “Since they caused this mess, why don’t you just let them disintegrate?”
“Because Bofusdiaga does not waste material. Bofusdiaga alloys, changes, refines. You will see, very soon.”
“Then we must not delay,” Questioner said. “Let us go to the chasm.”
The Corojum fussed, “It is dark in the chasm … “
“Never mind that. I can light the place adequately. Let us go now, before we are overtaken by events.”
They went, Questioner and the four young people, accompanied by a small horde of Timmys trotting and Joggiwagga writhing and Eigers flying overhead and Corojum riding in the crook of Questioner’s arm. When they had gone a little way down into the chasm, a huge mooing sound began in the chasm below them, much akin to that mooing Questioner had heard in the recording.
Mouche and Ornery both sagged, stricken with such sadness they could barely move. It was the feeling each had felt before, Mouche on the bridge, Ornery in the tunnel, a terrible melancholy, an aching terror, as of something despairing over aeons of time.
Questioner turned on her lights. The area around them leapt into visibility. Across the chasm, the coal-dark drapery of Quaggima’s wings quivered against the rock wall, as though in response to the sound coming from below. As Questioner had understood the intent of the cry she had heard recorded, so she understood the plaint of this one, a fractious whine: “Oh, I am in pain, I am without ease, time drags, living drags, can no one help me, can no one help me. I want out, I want out, I want out.” The plaint had an odd reverberation, an almost instantaneous echo, as though spoken slightly out of sync by more than one voice.