Grimus - By Salman Rushdie Page 0,21

or futures we choose not to enter. What has happened to you is that you have fallen into a different historical continuum, in which Calf Island, and all of us, have our being. The place you came from knows nothing of us.

—So you are all ghosts, said Flapping Eagle, and I am mad. Is that what you are saying? I’m seeing things, places, that do not exist.

—That is really too depressing a notion, said Virgil Jones. Because it has this obverse: perhaps it is you who is the ghost. And your sister Bird-Dog.

—Where is she? asked Flapping Eagle viciously, as though seeing her would resolve all his confusions.

—I’m not sure, said Virgil. Up there somewhere. I assure you that the chances of finding her are remote; even if your arrival here proves you to be highly sensitive to the existence of the Dimensions.

—It’s not that big an island, cried Flapping Eagle.

Virgil Jones said nothing for a moment, and then: —Please think about it, Mr Eagle. You see why we wished to wait until you were well.

—I’ll find her, said Flapping Eagle.

—Touch wood, said Virgil Jones. He walked to a tree and did so.

—In a structure of reality where anything is possible, he said shamefacedly, I find it better to be safe than sorry. Hence my somewhat ridiculous predilection for superstition. There might be an evil spirit in that tree, after all. There might be an avenging god. It might be possible to conjure demons. The lines on one’s palm might speak the truth. Symbols might be as real as people. One theory has it that in this dimension, as indeed in yours, we overlay our symbolic natures with this vast, obscurantist weight of personality. Thus making it very difficult for us to know the true forces that move us. Given this never-ending stream of possibilities, I find my little foibles a comfort.

Flapping Eagle was sitting very still, his knuckles white, his fists locked shut, his mouth a thin, tight line.

—Come, come, Mr Eagle, said Virgil Jones. I had thought you were a more flexible soul than this.

—I’m going up the mountain today, said Flapping Eagle. I want to find Bird-Dog and Sispy and get myself out of this whole vile mess.

—O, but you mustn’t, said Virgil Jones.

—Why not? shouted Flapping Eagle.

—It’s the Grimus Effect, said Virgil Jones. It gets more powerful all the time. To tell the truth, it’s just a question of waiting until its power reaches down here. I really wouldn’t advise you to climb.

Flapping Eagle felt ill again.

—What Effect? he asked, wearily.

—Grimus. The Grimus Effect.

—What the hell is that?

—Ah, said Virgil, I think you’ve had enough for one day. Suffice to say this: the slopes of Calf Mountain are full of monsters, Mr Eagle. You’d never survive without a guide. Possibly not even then.

Flapping Eagle shook his head, an utterly bewildered man, and buried his face in his hands. Virgil Jones came over to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

—I’m very sorry, he said. I’m very, very sorry.

—No. It’s my turn to apologize, said Flapping Eagle. I’m behaving like a bad-tempered child.

—Entirely understandable, my dear fellow, said Virgil Jones, good-naturedly,

—Perhaps you could explain about the monsters?

Virgil Jones nodded sadly.

—You are quite resolved, are you not? he said.

—Yes, said Flapping Eagle. For better or worse.

—What I have been describing are the Outer Dimensions, said Mr Jones. There are Inner Dimensions as well. One never knows what universes may lie locked within one’s mind. The Effect can work upon the mind with devastating effects.

He fell silent. Flapping Eagle pressed him for more, but he would only say:

—There are some things about Calf Mountain which cannot be explained, only experienced. I hope you never experience them, Mr Eagle. I have grown fond of you. There is a great deal of spirit in that questing frame, is there not?

Flapping Eagle smiled uncertainly.

—Consider this well, gestured Virgil quickly to cover his embarrassment. It is physical proof that not all superstitions are effective. It was, as a matter-of-fact, the use of a divining-rod that settled me on this spot; and as you see it is bone-dry. But one does not have the heart to fill it up; one hopes against hope that water will begin to seep through those parched walls.

—But you didn’t need a well, said Flapping Eagle. There’s the stream. He pointed at the freshwater rivulet that ran through the trees.

Virgil Jones snorted. —It was something to do, he said, even if it was a bad idea.

—It’s a sad