String is in the large tent, sitting at a table in the corner. The space beneath the main canopy is divided by swaying curtains of the same material. I touch it, rub it between my fingers, surprised at how light it is. It feels almost oily to the touch, yet I can see through it.
“It’s extremely strong,” String says. “It’s all that survived the crash. Apart from me, of course.”
“What about the motors, engines? Weapons?”
String shakes his head. “The mechanics of the Ship burned when the pile melted down. I got away before it went up. The fire didn’t touch this lot, thankfully. It was built to endure. As for the weapons, that was a fallacy. The Lord Ships never carried weapons. We were a mobile, self-sufficient government, not an army.” He stands, gestures us towards him. Tiarnan is already there, along with several other men and women. There is food on the table, glasses, bottles of wine and, in the centre of the table — as if honoured for its very existence — a large bottle of Metaxa.
“Please sit down.” String waits until Jade and I have taken our places before he sits. He turns to me, his expression slipping into seriousness for a moment.
“Tomorrow morning, I will cure you.”
“How?”
“A potion. Simple. Rubbed into your chest, your temples, your stomach, it acts quickly. By tomorrow evening the growths will have hardened and dropped off. They will not recur.” String hands me a glass of wine. His blase statement stuns me with its simplicity. He is talking about my life or death, yet he promises everything with a confidence that makes it difficult not to believe.
I turn to Jade, who is staring ravenously at the food arrayed across the table. “This is how he did you?”
She nods, but does not look at me. I can hardly blame her. There is more food here — in both variety and quantity — than I have seen in months. Lamb, roasted whole; a piglet, apple stuck in its mouth like a swollen tongue; fresh fruit; duckling, sliced and presented with pancakes and sauces; crispy vegetables, steaming as if to gain our attention.
“Why not now?”
String shakes his head. “Tomorrow. The power of the place is at its greatest around dawn. You’ll feel it when you wake up. You will be fresher, stronger from the food. Tomorrow, Gabe.”
I am too tired to argue, and I have come too far to risk upsetting him now. I wish Della was here with me, ready with an apposite phrase or two, but at the same time I’m glad she is not. At least at a distance I can adore her fully. If she were here, it would be too obvious.
We eat. We drink. The evening passes gloriously slowly, and I surprise myself by enjoying most of it. Dusk falls, but the heat remains, trapped within the tent by the folds of strange material hung out like drying hides. String is a polite host, accommodating and generous with his precious food and drink. I satisfy my hunger ten-fold, feeling guilty when I think of what Della may be eating tonight, but also aware that if she knew she would be selflessly happy for me.
We emerge into the night with the stars and the alcohol flows ever-more freely. String makes his excuses and disappears. Couples pair off and begin to make love shamelessly under the heavens. I see the occasional light scar on chests or abdomens, but no signs of the fully-fledged Sickness. It is like a new world. I see a flash across the horizon and Jade points it out. “Shooting star,” she says.
Soon, the revelry dies down and is replaced by the soft moaning of lovers, the slow movement of shadows close to the ground. Jade and I walk to the banks of the dried stream and sit amongst the fruit bushes and rows of tomatoes. The smells tempt our taste buds, even though we are still full from the meal. I pluck a tomato and bite in, closing my eyes as the warm juices dribble down my chin. I see small shadows skipping between plants, scratching on the dry ground; a lizard, as long as my foot and with glittering eyes, runs up the slight bank towards us. We sit as still as we can, waiting for it to scamper away. It waits, frozen by starlight, staring at us before turning and walking casually back into the stream of plants.
Jade giggles. It is a sound I have not heard from her, and I like it. She reaches for my shirt but I push her away.
“I’m ugly,” I say. “This is a good place. I can’t show my ugliness to it.” I wonder if the Metaxa or wine was drugged, because I cannot help but feel fine.
“You’re not ugly. It’s the Sickness that’s ugly, the world, the people in it. Not you.” She shuffles next to me and begins unbuttoning my shirt. This time I let her. “Tomorrow, all the ugliness will be gone.”
“Is there anything else, Jade? Anything you haven’t told me? Is this it, is this all?” But she is taking her own clothes off now and she does not answer me. I think I see tears, but it could just be other worlds reflected in her eyes.