Free Castles Made of Sand by Gwyneth Jones Page B

from her singing. Sage and Ax went to Yorkshire with the Chosen for a one-off gig at Bradford Civic Centre, where they debuted the immersions (diluted to visuals for the concert hall) that Sage had written for ‘Blues In C#’; and for the Ax and Jordan Preston classic ‘Dark They Were And Golden Eyed’. Sayyid Mohammad Zayid, premier leader of English Islam was there—the man who’d received Ax into the Faith, the conversion that had ended the Islamic Separatist War. The Dictator and his Minister also met with the Islamic leaders, reinforcing the peace; as if nothing was wrong. Sage also went on working with Ax on a secret and delicate investigation of the strength of the quarantin
    But the rift showed no sign of healing. At the Reading Mayday concert the crowds went crazy for the Heads’ dance mix of ‘Little Wing’, featuring Ax Preston on guitar. Silver and Pearl Wing, Anne-Marie’s nine-year-old and seven-year-old little girls, whirled around on stage, dressed as butterflies, each convinced that Ax Preston had written this song, and Aoxomoxoa had mixed it, just for them. Celtic bonfires were discouraged. Techno-Green Utopia was talked-up. At the end of Sage’s masque (Sage’s masques were Reading tradition) the Dictator and his Minister did Hendrix’s ‘Third Stone From The Sun’, with the spaceship dialogue and some truly amazing immersion effects…and then walked off stage in opposite directions, without having exchanged a word that wasn’t scripted.
    Fiorinda was having nothing to do with either of them. If rumour could be trusted, she spent the night in a hospitality benders, with Cafren Free of DARK and/or three or four husky and thrilled male crewpersons.
    It could only be a matter of time before things went horribly public.
    The last Saturday of May was invite-only Dance Night at the Blue Lagoon. Snake Eyes were playing, the Few were to be there in force. It would be a private gala, and everyone was hoping it would be more fun than Mayday. In the afternoon Ax called Fiorinda to say he couldn’t make it. She decided to go by herself, took the train and flagged a taxi at Reading station, dressed in her best and feeling defiant.
    ‘I had that boyfriend of yours in the back of my cab the other day—’
    Oh yeah, thought Fiorinda. Which one? The one who dumped me, or the one who’s too busy saving the world? The people of Reading were privileged: they didn’t have to pretend the Few were invisible. Equally, the Few didn’t have to be polite. The driver met a stony, glacial stare in his rear mirror and shut up until they hit Richfield Avenue.
    ‘Blue Gate, Fiorinda?’
    ‘No,’ she said. ‘No. Drop me here.’
    The taste-free Leisure Centre buildings were being demolished, to make way for something…not yet fully worked out. The tented township stretched into the distance, drainage ditches twinkling, nylon hummocks and teepees, turf-roofed shanties and lake-village platforms; the firetowers with their banners standing out like marker bouys on a rainbow sea. She took off her shoes and walked barefoot through the site gates, where chickens scratched, every conceivable support was festooned with tomato vines.
    What a hideous mess we made here, in Dissolution Summer. Dear Lord, we reached new depths. My God, the mud, my God, the cans, the trashed cars, the plastic fires, the streaming middens of human excrement. What a way to start an eco-friendly revolution. Yet there was logic in it. The kids came to the rock festivals, trusting little lambs, and had their own souls sold back to them, bubble-packed; and I remember what a feeling it was to break out of that damned trap. No sense, no reason , no ideology. Just NO, actually. No, I won’t shuffle obediently into the slaughterhouse, not today, thank you. There’s this plate-glass window saying throw a chair at me. It was mad and stupid, filthy and infantile, nothing built on it can possibly last, and I’m still glad I was there.
    In the arena she