Ghosteria Volume 2: The Novel: Zircons May Be Mistaken by Tanith Lee

Author:Tanith Lee [Lee, Tanith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Immanion Press
Published: 2014-12-07T22:00:00+00:00

Putting all this out I am, evidently, procrastinating.

If I’ve shaken you up at all, I’m pretty shaky myself.

He – my Knight – agreed with the Scholar’s plan. The only thing the Knight added to me afterwards was that thing he’s mentioned before. He wants to take up arms against the horrible terrible sea of Zombies. Kill, destroy every one of them. As he is he can’t, can’t even blow in their ears. But if the Scholar’s ‘plan’ could work – then the Knight will be enabled to invade and to slaughter as many as he wants. Which, of course, is a crucial anomaly in itself. But no word from him otherwise on finer points or anything. My silly momentary fantasy was of holding my Knight in my arms. Kissing his lips. His is to go back to bloody war. And win.

Can’t blame him.

What now, then?

Well, first off I had to calm Coral down. She didn’t understand what the Scholar proposed, or rather the means whereby it would be achieved (if it were possible). So Laurel, looking almost frozen with nausea, carefully explained. Then Coral became hysterical, a perfect Victorian-novel, text-book, dramatic overload, shrieks and non-wet tears – I’d never realised till then my tears must be non-wet too – and ‘vapours’.

Once Coral had subsided, we all stayed there in the sheer lightless black room, through which we can all see with the most unflawed night-vision never allowed the living. Coral crouched and sobbed quietly, murmuring the names of her dolls, and Laurel sat like an image of snow, and he, my Knight, stood to formal attention, waiting for the signal that battle had truly begun. And I stood limply and thought of my dad, wondering what he would advise. And I felt the pain of his loss to me, fresh, the way it always returns, like a jackal tearing at a corpse, except this ‘corpse’ of mine isn’t dead, can never be, it seems, fully dead. Like the tortures in the Greek hell or wherever it was. Rolling up the mountain a stone that never gets all the way, or Prometheus with the bird ripping at his liver on and on, for-liver-ever.

Fuck this. Why can’t old men keep quiet?

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