Death - create

They sat down on a stone seat between some neatly clipped box hedges. Death had made a pond in this corner of the garden, fed by an icy spring that appeared to be vomited into the pool by a stone lion. Fat white carp lurked in the depths, or nosed on the surface among the velvety black water lilies.

“We should have brought some breadcrumbs,” said Mort gallantly, opting for a totally noncontroversial subject.

“He never comes out here, you know,” said Ysabell, watching the fish. “He made it to keep me amused.”

“It didn’t work?”

“It’s not real,” she said. “Nothing’s real here. Not really real. He just likes to act like a human being. He’s trying really hard at the moment, have you noticed. I think you’re having an effect on him. Did you know he tried to learn the banjo once?”

“I see him as more the organ type.”

“He couldn’t get the hang of it,” said Ysabell, ignoring him. “He can’t create, you see.”

“You said he created this pool.”

“It’s a copy of one he saw somewhere. Everything’s a copy.”

Mort shifted uneasily. Some small insect had crawled up his leg.

“It’s rather sad,” he said, hoping that this was approximately the right tone to adopt.

“Yes.”

***

Mort p91