Free The Library of Forgotten Books by Rjurik Davidson
Authors: Rjurik Davidson
front of him lies a paper. “Heavy Defeat on Chinese Coast” and “Labour Party refuses to end war”.
From the window Faulkner can see the great inland sea, glistening in the midday light. Everything is painted in brilliant kaleidoscopic colour: tall red and yellow flowers emerge from swamps, the grass-lands are a deep and luscious green, the sea water a light aqua, darkened only by the shadows of schools of fish moving restlessly beneath.
Three giant lizards, eight-metre long goannas, drink at the edges of the sea; one of them cranes its neck to peer at the passing train before returning to the water.
Around the curve of the coast the Inneminkan Metropolis rises, a hundred futuristic spires gleaming in the sun. Between them what looks like kilometres of industrial works—great arrangements of interlaced piping and tanks—runs along the shore.
The lush Australian heartland, centre of industry, thinks Faulkner. What a strange country this would have been, without the inland sea: just a far-off hell, dry and dusty, the big nowhere. But there’s no plenty here for me. Oh no. No inland pleasure-garden will satisfy me. Not now, not after all that’s happened. There’s only one place for me, and that’s to go back.
Faulkner leans forward, pours a small pile of dream-dust into his hands, and sniffs it. Slowly he places his head down onto the table before him, and closes his eyes, and he slowly slowly fades to the past where he dances with Lucy in the middle of a room, a band playing Smoke Gets In Your Eyes behind them. Chinese lanterns throw a warm glow on the wooden floorboards. Lucy’s red dress, with golden dragons on it, shimmers in the light. Even Faulkner’s suit seems sharp and clean. The forms of other dancers are silhouettes moving softly around them.
“You’re quite a number,” says Faulkner.
“Don’t make me throw you again.”
“Well, I always like it when you’ve got me on my back.”
“You know who wears the pants in this relationship.”
“Definitely a number.”
“What’s on tomorrow?”
“Let’s not talk about tomorrow. Let’s just have tonight. You and me and tonight.”
And the world descends back into darkness, like a ship sinking slowly beneath the waters.
TALES OF CAELI-AMUR
Lovers in Caeli-Amur
Anton Moreau stepped from his carriage, dressed in his finest suit, his long sleeves puffing out from beneath his jacket, and held his breath in anticipation. House Arbor had always held the most famous balls in Caeli-Amur. The Directors constantly tried to outdo each other in opulent decoration, sumptuous food, and extravagant entertainment. And this would be the night of Anton’s greatest triumph.
He passed along the wide street, where bulb-trees lined the sides like marshals standing to attention, and drifted with other guests through the gates of Director Lefebvre’s mansion. As with most House Arbor buildings, the walls were covered with Toxicodendron Didion, which reached out ominously towards the passersby, green fronds waving, hoping to wrap the guests in their deadly embrace. Sometimes when the Toxicodendron was cut back, the skeletons of thieves were found hanging within the vines’ wiry branches.
The gardens of Lefebvre’s mansion were immaculately sculpted, with olive trees lining the walls. On the front lawns the guests—men in bright red coats, women in grandiose dresses—watched as jugglers tossed burning sticks in the air, contortionists squeezed their way through impossible frames, and sleight-of-hand magicians sat next to thaumaturgists, daring the crowd to decide who was the real and who the fake. Arbor was obsessed with appearances, with fronts, with displays.
Anton walked into a grand entrance hall with great staircases, its floor a massive mosaic depicting an augurer, her hair wild and matted, as she overlooked the rugged and dry mountains to the west of Caeli-Amur. The design was in the manner of the ancients, and there were frescoes—painted
From the window Faulkner can see the great inland sea, glistening in the midday light. Everything is painted in brilliant kaleidoscopic colour: tall red and yellow flowers emerge from swamps, the grass-lands are a deep and luscious green, the sea water a light aqua, darkened only by the shadows of schools of fish moving restlessly beneath.
Three giant lizards, eight-metre long goannas, drink at the edges of the sea; one of them cranes its neck to peer at the passing train before returning to the water.
Around the curve of the coast the Inneminkan Metropolis rises, a hundred futuristic spires gleaming in the sun. Between them what looks like kilometres of industrial works—great arrangements of interlaced piping and tanks—runs along the shore.
The lush Australian heartland, centre of industry, thinks Faulkner. What a strange country this would have been, without the inland sea: just a far-off hell, dry and dusty, the big nowhere. But there’s no plenty here for me. Oh no. No inland pleasure-garden will satisfy me. Not now, not after all that’s happened. There’s only one place for me, and that’s to go back.
Faulkner leans forward, pours a small pile of dream-dust into his hands, and sniffs it. Slowly he places his head down onto the table before him, and closes his eyes, and he slowly slowly fades to the past where he dances with Lucy in the middle of a room, a band playing Smoke Gets In Your Eyes behind them. Chinese lanterns throw a warm glow on the wooden floorboards. Lucy’s red dress, with golden dragons on it, shimmers in the light. Even Faulkner’s suit seems sharp and clean. The forms of other dancers are silhouettes moving softly around them.
“You’re quite a number,” says Faulkner.
“Don’t make me throw you again.”
“Well, I always like it when you’ve got me on my back.”
“You know who wears the pants in this relationship.”
“Definitely a number.”
“What’s on tomorrow?”
“Let’s not talk about tomorrow. Let’s just have tonight. You and me and tonight.”
And the world descends back into darkness, like a ship sinking slowly beneath the waters.
TALES OF CAELI-AMUR
Lovers in Caeli-Amur
Anton Moreau stepped from his carriage, dressed in his finest suit, his long sleeves puffing out from beneath his jacket, and held his breath in anticipation. House Arbor had always held the most famous balls in Caeli-Amur. The Directors constantly tried to outdo each other in opulent decoration, sumptuous food, and extravagant entertainment. And this would be the night of Anton’s greatest triumph.
He passed along the wide street, where bulb-trees lined the sides like marshals standing to attention, and drifted with other guests through the gates of Director Lefebvre’s mansion. As with most House Arbor buildings, the walls were covered with Toxicodendron Didion, which reached out ominously towards the passersby, green fronds waving, hoping to wrap the guests in their deadly embrace. Sometimes when the Toxicodendron was cut back, the skeletons of thieves were found hanging within the vines’ wiry branches.
The gardens of Lefebvre’s mansion were immaculately sculpted, with olive trees lining the walls. On the front lawns the guests—men in bright red coats, women in grandiose dresses—watched as jugglers tossed burning sticks in the air, contortionists squeezed their way through impossible frames, and sleight-of-hand magicians sat next to thaumaturgists, daring the crowd to decide who was the real and who the fake. Arbor was obsessed with appearances, with fronts, with displays.
Anton walked into a grand entrance hall with great staircases, its floor a massive mosaic depicting an augurer, her hair wild and matted, as she overlooked the rugged and dry mountains to the west of Caeli-Amur. The design was in the manner of the ancients, and there were frescoes—painted