The glow intensifies by gentle degrees. Beyond the far end of each coffin there is a rounded opening in the walls, lined from top to bottom with tiny haloed figures, made of some shiny material like colored glass. Each figure is distinct and seems to hover just in front of the wall. The light shines up behind them, and their haloes are angled to catch it and shine gold.

Now the light has reached the floor, and, glancing down, I start and cry out softly, without meaning to. The floor is paved with transparent, tea-yellow hexagonal panels; each panel seals a chamber, like a honeycomb, and in each of them naked corpse lies curled. Thrushchurl immediately drops to his knees and peers down at first one, then another. They are well preserved, only slightly withered, slightly leathery. They have their hair, their nails, noses and ears. The eyes are only slightly sunken, dark eyes like blueberries, visible through the lids. All ages and sexes, all curled naked in their honeycombs.

Makemin suddenly stamps up to Thrushchurl, points in the direction of the large tree, the low brass wall, the white tablets.

“Go, invoke them!”

Thrushchurl looks up at him—I can see his frantic eyes running all over Makemin’s face.

“Hurry!” Makemin orders, his voice sharp.

Thrushchurl goes over to the tree. We all follow, gather near him. I can see him looking at the tree, the white tablets. He has no idea what to do—none of us do. He puts out shaking hands.

“Oh spirits ...” he calls in a trembling voice, the air guttering out of his mouth. I can feel something congealing around Makemin and again the robe of fear that wonder had displaced cinches around me. All the same, I want to laugh. What are we doing here? What are we doing here? My eyes fly here and there looking for any hint or clue I could use, if this place is even the right place, if this is even the right or possible thing to do here, and I see the white panels in the brass wall around the base of the huge tree are covered in Lashlache written in Wiczu characters—immediately I see this I begin to intone them aloud. I have to shove my frail voice out of my mouth through a throat almost sealed with fear and I take Thrushchurl’s shoulders in my hands as I begin—he is half-stooped over—and push him to the side, feeling him go as if I were lightly pushing his floating body across the surface of a pond.

The inscription is a strangely-worded general memorial whose meaning I find difficult to pin down, although it is plainly an official statement of recognition and remembrance. Boilerplate. What do I care what it says? Makemin doesn’t know and Makemin must be made to believe. Made to believe—that we tried—but every moment he can be forestalled must be used—just to hold Makemin’s hand, to hold Makemin.