فصل سی و هشتم

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The Dead Statue

The Grid Man stared fixedly across the street. A long bony hand waved itself in front of the eyes. He didn’t move. The hand spread itself across the gap in its chest and pressed itself against the dull bronze, as if feeling for a heartbeat or some hint of a vital spark. The hand gave up and curled into a contemptuous fist, rapping a curled forefinger against the metal brow.

The Raven sat on top of the Grid Man’s head. It squinnied a thin dribble of droppings down the unmov-ing face, leaving a whitish streak running vertically through the unresponding left eye.

“Exactly. No one here anymore, just a pile of metal,” said the Walker. “Unlike your good Self. A bird of a quite different feather, so to speak. Didn’t take you long to pull yourself together, did it?” There were several things the Raven found unsatisfactory about the Walker. Not ever standing still made him a less than perfect perch, for example. And making snide jokes about his ability to rebirth himself. People didn’t make jokes about phoenixes, thought the Raven. He filed it away for future brooding and resentment, and shook his feathers out. They didn’t feel new. They already felt older than dirt.

“Right,” said the Walker, having the bad manners to sound hurried and impatient while talking to a bird that daydreamed in eons. “We need something to find him. Something with a taste for children.” It was starting to rain heavily. He turned up the collar of his coat, unconsciously rubbed the stone on the choker around his neck, and pulled the torn scrap of T-shirt from his pocket and held it out to the Raven.

“It’s time for the Minotaur.”