Chris Beckett - Beneath the World, a Sea

BENEATH THE WORLD, A SEA

ALSO BY CHRIS BECKETT

Novels

The Holy Machine

Marcher

Dark Eden

Mother of Eden

Daughter of Eden

America City

Short Stories

The Turing Test

The Peacock Clock

Spring Tide

Chris Beckett

Published in hardback in Great Britain in 2019 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright Chris Beckett, 2019

The moral right of Chris Beckett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

, reproduced with permission from the song In the Land of Grey and Pink performed by Caravan: written by Pye Hastings, Richard Coughlan, David Sinclair and Richard Sinclair; Published by Aristocrat Music Ltd.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Hardback ISBN: 978 1 78649 155 8

E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 156 5

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

2627 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

T he figure of the Palido appears in village folklore across the entire Submundo Delta. He has immensely long, stilt-like legs, skin that is completely white and a pointed tongue. Hes usually depicted at least twice as tall as normal human height, stick thin, with elaborately curled moustaches, in a top hat and a brightly coloured waistcoat. He can fly through the air, make himself invisible, and be in two places at the same time. He can also raise corpses from their graves to run errands for him. The corpse servants whisper the Palidos messages with shrivelled grey lips.

There are many versions of the story, but in all of them, the Palido tricks the first Mundinos by opening some sort of door for them.

Enter, my friends! he purrs, stooping almost double to bring his smiling face level with theirs. Enter, and you will come to a place of peace and plenty.

They hesitate.

My dear friends, there is no need to worry, says the Palido. His moustaches twitch, his long thin arms beckon them forward, his narrow pink tongue runs over his lips. As a token of my friendship, I will give you piglets and chickens to take with you, and tobacco plants, and maize, and tools, and a whole big sack of sweet potatoes. I will even give you goats.

They look at each other. They accept the gifts. They step through the door.

But the door leads into a cage, just big enough to hold them all. Its a cage, but its also a coffin, and the corpse servants laugh as they dig a hole for it. Ha ha! they hiss to one another. Now the dead are burying the living! The dead will walk while the living lie where no one will ever find them.

The corpses are immensely strong. They dig so fast and so deep that the coffin drops right through the earth, for the ground of one world is the sky of the world below.

Hyacinth Young, Myths and Legends of the Submundo Delta

B ecause the truth is

Because the truth was what? It was obvious that hed just written the words the notebook was open on his lap, his pen poised over that final S but Ben had no idea what hed been about to say. And why was the sun suddenly shining? And what was that strange scent, like nothing hed ever smelt before? Only seconds ago, or so it seemed, hed been sitting here on deck in the warm darkness of a tropical night with green rain forest passing by in front of him, dimly illuminated by the deck lights of the boat. It had been seven days into the four-week river journey to the Submundo Delta, and his excitement and anxiety had been mounting as he approached that band of territory surrounding the Delta that was known as the Zona de Olvido.

The Zona de Olvido. The Zone of Forgetfulness. That, of course, was the explanation, but though he had known in advance of the Zonas unique quality and understood perfectly well that once youd passed through it and come out again, no trace of your time there remained in memory, the actual experience was so sudden, so total, so shocking, that it took him several seconds to grasp what had happened. It was like a cut between two scenes on a cinema screen. He had been in that green forest at night but now the sun was shining and he was right in the middle of something else entirely. He looked up from his notebook and there it was, the Submundo Delta, the Delta Beneath the World.

The trees, if they could be called trees at all, came in shades of pinkish purple without the slightest trace of green, and grew in a mass of spirals and helices, constantly recurring at many different scales of magnitude. Huge, magenta leaf stems the size of arms uncoiled from the branches, and then themselves unfurled smaller spirals from bead-like nodes along their lengths, these spirals in turn releasing rows of still smaller ones. And the branches were spirals too, spirals branching out from spirals, giving the effect of some kind of ornate three-dimensional calligraphy in an unknown and untranslatable language. They hung over the water, these branches, their tips curling back on themselves in yet more spirals, and put out delicate, helical flowers if flower was the right word that were dazzlingly white except for their bright pink mouths. On a wooden hut that stood at the waters edge, a faded mural depicted grinning skeletons digging a grave, watched by a little group of living human beings confined inside a cage, while, beneath the grave, a many-armed creature waited, its round head covered in eyes. The air was thick and humid and that strange pervasive aroma wafted from the forest, a hint of burnt sugar in it, and honey, and bitter lilies, but something else there too so completely unfamiliar that Ben could find nothing to compare it with. The sky was covered in white, translucent cloud through which burnt a huge white sun, seemingly much larger than in the world outside, and with tiny flashes of pink and blue and green glinting around its edges, as if it was ringed with diamonds or splintered glass.

Spitting out fumes and bilge water, the boat chugged steadily onwards through all this strangeness, the river twisting and looping like the one viable path through some vast maze, with countless side channels to tempt it off its course. Some of these channels were navigable and marked with rusty signs bearing arrows, crosses, exclamation marks or the names of villages Ca do Santos, Bom Presago, Al do Mortos but most of them were clogged with purple water plants and one was blocked by the half-submerged wreckage of a Dakota plane, its exposed wing and fuselage covered with the twisted filigree pattern of some white and glistening growth.

Ben was entranced. The coils and spirals stirred something inside him that was close to nightmare, but that was part of the appeal. Half an hour had passed before he thought, with a tiny twinge of unease, about the vanished days in the Zona.