Abaddon - Chapter 17

Day Eight

Loquax loped across the square and squatted obediently at Percival's right hand. It was about time. Percival had been without his shadow for too long. He nodded to acknowledge Loquax's presence, and resumed the careful folding that had occupied him for the last two hours.

The folding resulted in a paper dart. It had ended up being a paper dart all day. Or, he reflected, with a glance up at the twilight disc of sky far, far above, all night. Or all week. Days seemed to pass more quickly here.

He unravelled it, and carefully refolded it to a subtly different specification. It ended up being a paper dart again. Furiously, he tore it into a paper snowstorm and swept it onto a pile of similar paper flakes now mounting beside him. He picked up another sheet of paper from the ream at his other elbow. The paper was headed with swastikas and eagles, and had been specially obtained in a raid on the Totalitarian Complex at his order. It was brittle with age, and had to be folded delicately, often with the aid of a straight edge.

His next attempt resulted in what could only be described as a bizarrely mutated bookmark. He held it up and sighed. If only, he reflected, he had been brought up in Japan.

At his right hand, Loquax coughed.

“Yes?” said Percival.

Loquax respectfully informed him that Her Majesty had instructed him to tell him not to lose heart, as he would succeed at the task eventually.

Percival regarded the translator with deep suspicion.

“How much longer?” he said.

Frowning as if being asked to deliver state secrets into the hands of the enemy, Loquax said that it would take another day.

Percival stared at the paper in frustration. Then, a sly expression creeping over his face, he said:

“How do you measure days, Loquax?”

Loquax replied that the people of the City measured days by observing when the circle of sky above grew dark and light, as did all other peoples. Percival nodded, and pointed upward.

“That sky up there has grown dark and light twelve times in what my watch tells me is the last twenty-four hours”, he said. “I reckon a day to be about two hours.” Seeing the look of confusion on the little creature’s face, he added: “Your people, I suspect, measure hours by dividing the hours of daylight into twelve. Mine don’t.” That, he remembered, had been the ancient Roman practice; he was gratified when Loquax appeared to understand.

He folded another paper. It came out as a waterbomb with a tail.

“Nearly right”, he said. “Look, can’t you just tell me the way I eventually get it right? And then we can spend the next two hours, erm...”

He attempted to think of a fun leisure activity Loquax’s people indulged in.

“...erm, forget it. Let’s just soldier on another two hours.”

Loquax sat in the same squat, not moving a muscle, as the sky overhead reddened, blued, and blackened. Eventually, with infinite care, Percival made the final fold to his latest sheet of A4, sat back on his haunches, and looked at it.

“I believe”, he said, “that that is finally it.”

Loquax peered at Percival’s creation, inspecting it professionally. He announced his belief that it was, indeed, it.

“I believe you are correct in your assertion of my correctness”, said Percival. “Let’s go find ourselves a few cc’s of something blue and vivid and try it out.”