But mine is not the mind to impose rhythms upon the cosmic storm. This flesh does not yield itself to a surrendering, to what waits beyond it. I only play with the words of others, my throat tickled by some imagined instinct, spitting up the dregs of the countless poets I have devoured.

This plain is silent, mostly. These statues, once painted, now lean weathered and weary. The gods squat and pray for a prayer, yearn for a whisper of worship, and, failing all that, would be content enough with a pigeon settling to rest atop the head – but even that modest blessing is denied them here, in this corner of the mind, this vault of the Sidleways.

Through the wrack, he could make out something ahead. A structure of what looked like stone rose from the general ruination, enclosed by a low wall. The silts surrounding all of this seemed preternaturally level. Skillen could see what looked like a gatehouse to the right, an ornate arch of elegant, panelled stone. But he was approaching from one side, following the tracks that led to the stone wall directly before him.

Spreading his leathery wings, Skillen beat at the air for a moment, raising clouds. The Azathanai slipped forward, lifting higher with sharp, hard flaps, and then swiftly gliding closer. He saw the tracks resume in the yard of the house, wending round in a haphazard pattern to eventually intercept the stone-lined path from the gatehouse – and there, huddled upon the raised steps of the building’s entrance, was a lone figure that appeared to be brushing itself off, puffs of dust surrounding it.

Skillen glided over the wall and settled lightly on the pathway. At his arrival, the seated figure looked up, but its face remained hidden beneath a heavy hood of coarse wool.

‘Skillen Droe, I did not think you would come.’

Not yet choosing to reply, Skillen turned to face the gatehouse. A Sidleways current was pouring through it, although the torrent of energy stirred not a grain of dust or silt. After a moment feeling its power burnishing the scales of his brow, cheeks and needle-fanged snout, Skillen faced the house once more. The stream swept round him and flowed into and through the huge wooden door behind the figure seated on the steps.

The hooded man might have nodded then, as the hood shifted slightly. ‘I know. It is an answer, of sorts.’ One pale hand gestured back to the house behind him. ‘Drains. Repositories. Bottomless, it seems. Possibilities, forever rushing in. Vanishing? Who can say? Some thoughts,’ he continued, in a musing tone, ‘escape the peculiar. Evade the particular. They tear free and so cease their private ways. And the river swells, and swells yet more. Skillen, old friend, what have you been up to?’

‘It is risky,’ Skillen ventured, in a wave of scents and flavours.