A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked - By Magnus Mills Page 0,42

getting plenty of darkness as things stood, but they wanted it in the afternoons, not in the mornings.

With these thoughts in mind, the cabinet unanimously agreed to revoke the offending edict. Whimbrel was given the task of calculating exactly what time it would be if the clocks hadn’t been altered. Then a date was chosen for the ‘great readjustment’ and a public half-holiday proclaimed by way of recompense. As Wryneck observed, it was the least we could do. The cabinet quickly voted these measures through and by the end of the meeting we were feeling very pleased with ourselves.

Only later did it occur to me that maybe I should have mentioned the railway. After all, its rapid encroachment was bound to affect life in the empire just as surely as the episode of the clocks. I was reminded of it on my next visit to the orchestra. I’d decided it was high time I dropped in on Greylag, whom I hadn’t seen since our foray to the edge of the wilderness. As I neared the cake there suddenly came an extraordinary sound from within. It was very like the shrill piping we’d heard in the east, and for an instant I thought the railway engine was inside the building. This was impossible, of course, so I listened again and realised that what I could hear wasn’t the exact sound but rather an impression of it.

After a few moments it ceased and silence returned. I opened the door and entered the auditorium. Down in the orchestra pit I could see the musicians having one of their pauses for reflection. They were talking quietly to one another and attending to their instruments. In the meantime, Greylag sat at the piano plinking odd notes and making alterations to a manuscript. Nobody had noticed my arrival so I found a seat in the back row and watched. After a while Greylag went to the podium and gave some instructions to the orchestra. Then he held his baton aloft before quickly bringing it down again. Gradually he spread his arms outwards and the sound returned, distantly at first but steadily drawing nearer, then rising up in a great single chord. It immediately conjured up the railway engine, but now transmitted through ninety-eight musical instruments! Yet at the same time there was something else as well. The chord Greylag had created contained not only an industrial shrillness, but also a kind of sad cry. It was as if he had attributed feelings to this mechanical beast.

Eventually Greylag gave another signal and the music stopped. Then he returned to the piano and began making further adjustments. To me it sounded perfect already, but I had come to know that for Greylag perfection was unattainable. It was evident he was wholly absorbed in his work, so quietly I left the auditorium and went outside.

Darkness had fallen, but for some reason I wandered into the royal park and began roaming amongst the ancient trees. I quite liked their timeless presence, especially on winter evenings when the wind roared through the empty branches. Some distance away I could see the lights of the observatory tower. These told me that Whimbrel was at home, and I made my mind up to call on him later. Oddly enough, however, I thought I saw some other lights moving amid the trees. I remained standing where I was, and the lights drew closer. Finally, two figures appeared out of the gloom. The first I recognised as Mestolone. The second, who I did not know, was carrying a torch.

‘How does the night?’ he asked.

‘The moon is down,’ replied Mestolone. ‘I have not heard the clock.’

‘And she goes down at twelve,’ said the other man.

They obviously hadn’t noticed me standing there in the shadows, and for a few moments I listened with interest as they continued discussing how dark it was. Then I deliberately stepped on a dead branch that was lying nearby.

‘Who’s there?’ they said.

‘Only me,’ I answered. ‘I was on my way up to the observatory when I heard you coming.’

‘Ah, good evening,’ said Mestolone. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Ortolan?’

I was introduced to the other actor, and Mestolone enquired if I would be coming to see their play when it was ready.

‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘I’m looking forward to witnessing a professional performance.’

‘It’s sixpence a ticket,’ said Mestolone.

Just then another light approached through the trees.

‘Who’s there?’ said Ortolan.

‘A friend,’ said a voice, and presently Gallinule emerged from the darkness. He, too, was carrying a