Tina is hunting Liril; through dangerous byways and sharp straight courses she hunts her.
“I should be dead,” she says, to Martin, that morning. Iphigenia is looking out at the sky and Martin is applying a wrench to the pipes of the stage.
Martin makes a noncommital noise. He loosens a nut. He begins to untwist the screw. “That’s not unusual,” he says.
“There’s a need to pay the price for sin,” Iphigenia says. “Otherwise the world goes out of balance. And there she is—sinning—”
“And you weren’t sacrificed properly?”
“Yeah,” Iphigenia says.
The screw comes off. The pipe separates; a numinous mist of chaos fogs out into the room. Martin reaches a long skinny arm into the pipe and begins to feel around. Something bites him, and he pulls back a finger swollen, red, and black. He sucks on the tip and thinks.
“It is an old miracle,” says Martin. “To substitute an animal for a sinner at the moment of a sacrifice. It’s so old that even humans started doing it, but originally, it was a trick of the gods.”
“It wasn’t an animal,” Iphigenia says. “It was a Cadbury bunny.”
Martin rummages around until he finds a pair of forceps. He reaches into the pipe. He pulls out a spiny eel, its long white mouth-tendrils reminiscent of a beard. He holds it up, unhappy. Then he takes it to the window and tosses it back into the sea.
“Cadbury bunnies can die for people’s sins,” Martin asserts. “It’s allowed.”
“Communism, then,” Ink says. “Communism and capitalism. They split the world in half. One of them’s screwy and the other one never worked and whole generations grew up in fear until some drunk gorgosaurus puttering around in Party HQ knocked over the USSR. Was it some kind of weird gorgosaurus metaphor? ‘Look how deep our political theory is! This side can wear Russia like a condom whose time has come and the other can kill nuns in Nicaragua to keep America safe?'”
The bunny had burned as Iphigenia fled. The wind had carried her away, and she had left the bunny behind to burn.
And it was the nature of Iphigenia to know that chocolate is not deaf to pain; that a Cadbury creature pressed into service as a messenger is not insensate or without desire; that to leave it there was wrong. But to stay would have been more wrong. So she had left the bunny there to burn in her stead.
Tina ate some of the chocolate later. Iphigenia could never figure out why that disturbed her so.
“You’re projecting your own moral failings,” the gorgosaurus says.
Ink Catherly is running from a gorgosaurus. Its footsteps shake the firmament and the fundament. Its teeth are very sharp.
It dries Martin’s mouth out a little, watching.
It makes his stomach just a little bit sick.
So he crouches, in a high and dusty place, and looks out to sea.
“There’s something out in the sea,” he says.
The sun shines on the chaos and often its burning makes a golden road across the top. Today there is a turbulence in the chaos that breaks that road into a thousand jagged parts.
The thing that is swimming towards them is larger than the tower; larger than the sun; quite possibly larger than the sea. Its tail is lashing and there are storms for that reason everywhere in all the world.
Its name is Andhaka. It was once a dream of Mrs. Schiff’s.
“Is it my fault?” Iphigenia asks.
“For being here. For . . .”
Martin is looking at her flatly.
“No,” Martin says.
“No,” says Mrs. Schiff. “No, Andhaka is mine.”
The horn of the beast has risen from the water now.
The madness in its blind red eyes is shining through the water now.
“He is coming for me,” says Mrs. Schiff. “Because I dreamt him long ago.”
“Wait,” says Ink. “No. I’ll be good. What do you want?”
The gorgosaurus catches Ink’s leg in one hand and, without quite loosening the grip its teeth have on her arm, it jerks its head.
There is . . .
“She’s down! She’s down! Stop the show!”
That’s Sid’s voice. It’s loud and sharp and shaken.
Martin moves swiftly. He drops from his perch and catches the shutoff valve for the stage. He’s pulling it down with his weight and his feet descend onto the gears. He heaves it down the last few inches until it clicks.
It is Intermission, and a curtain falls across Ink’s fate.
The tower shines with a thousand lights; one by one, they dim. There is a potency in the air around Gibbelins’ Tower; slowly, it dissipates.
And still Andhaka comes.
Mrs. Schiff is walking out on the bridge now. She is looking at the creature now. It rises over her and there are blind and questing tendrils at its mouth. There is a wave that crashes and tears upon the tower walls and over the bridge, and only barely does Mrs. Schiff keep her grip upon the railing.
“She’ll die,” says Iphigenia.
Iphigenia’s knuckles are white.
“I liked her,” Iphigenia says. And she wills Andhaka to burn, but the beast is larger than her power.
Andhaka’s head comes down. Its mouth opens wide. It shrieks. Then it pours itself into Mrs. Schiff. It is an endless rippling tide flowing from the chaos into her soul.
Iphigenia’s eyes are closed. She does not watch.
And the broken dream that is Andhaka is now within Mrs. Schiff, twisting and turning in her mind and soul, and it is burning with madness. And Mrs. Schiff stands there, still and prim, but the edges of her soul are loose against the seething tide.
For that is what one does with broken dreams: one takes them back, and holds the madness in oneself until it turns to peace.
Such is the theory and practice of Mrs. Schiff.
Such are the things that happen, backstage at Gibbelins’ Tower.