Death - realm

In a landscape that owed nothing to time and space, which appeared on no map, which existed only in those far reaches of the multiplexed cosmos known to the few astrophysicists who have taken really bad acid, Mort spent the afternoon helping Albert plant out broccoli. It was black, tinted with purple.

“He tries, see,” said Albert, flourishing the dibber. “It’s just that when it comes to color, he hasn’t got much imagination.”

“I’m not sure I understand all this,” said Mort. “Did you say he made all this?”

Beyond the garden wall the ground dropped towards a deep valley and then rose into dark moorland that marched all the way to distant mountains, jagged as cats’ teeth.

“Yeah,” said Albert. “Mind what you’re doing with that watering can.”

“What was here before?”

“I dunno,” said Albert, starting a fresh row. “Firmament, I suppose. That’s the fancy name for raw nothing. It’s not a very good job of work, to tell the truth. I mean, the garden’s okay, but the mountains are downright shoddy. They’re all fuzzy when you get up close. I went and had a look once.”

Mort squinted hard at the trees nearest him. They seemed commendably solid.

“What’d he do it all for?” he said.

Albert grunted. “Do you know what happens to lads who ask too many questions?”

Mort thought for a moment.

“No,” he said eventually, “what?”

There was silence.

Then Albert straightened up and said, “Damned if I know. Probably they get answers, and serve ’em right.”

***

Mort p29-30