Mort

faint sizzle, like frying grasshoppers.
    People don’t alter history any more than birds alter the sky, they just make brief patterns in it. Inch by inch, implacable as a glacier and far colder, the real reality was grinding back towards Sto Lat.

Mort was the first person to notice.
    It had been a long afternoon. The mountaineer had held on to his icy handhold until the last moment and the executee had called Mort a lackey of the monarchist state. Only the old lady of 103, who had gone to her reward surrounded by her sorrowing relatives, had smiled at him and said he was looking a little pale.
    The Disc sun was close to the horizon by the time Binky cantered wearily through the skies over Sto Lat, and Mort looked down and saw the borderland of reality. It curved away below him, a crescent of faint silver mist. He didn’t know what it was, but he had a nasty foreboding that it had something to do with him.
    He reined in the horse and allowed him to trot gently towards the ground, touching down a few yards behind the wall of iridescent air. It was moving at something less than walking pace, hissing gently as it drifted ghost-like across the stark damp cabbage fields and frozen drainage ditches.
    It was a cold night, the type of night when frost and fog fight for domination and every sound is muffled. Binky’s breath made fountains of cloud in the still air. He whinnied gently, almost apologetically, and pawed at the ground.
    Mort slid out of the saddle and crept up to the interface. It crackled softly. Weird shapes coruscated across it, flowing and shifting and disappearing.
    After some searching he found a stick and poked it cautiously into the wall. It made strange ripples that wobbled slowly out of sight.
    Mort looked up as a shape drifted overhead. It was a black owl, patrolling the ditches for anything small and squeaky.
    It hit the wall with a splash of sparkling mist, leaving an owl-shaped ripple that grew and spread until it joined the boiling kaleidoscope.
    Then it vanished. Mort could see through the transparent interface, and certainly no owl reappeared on the other side. Just as he was puzzling over this there was another soundless splash a few feet away and the bird burst into view again, totally unconcerned, and skimmed away across the fields.
    Mort pulled himself together, and stepped through the barrier which was no barrier at all. It tingled.
    A moment later Binky burst through after him, eyes rolling in desperation and tendrils of interface catching on his hooves. He reared up, shaking his mane like a dog to remove clinging fibers of mist, and looked at Mort beseechingly.
    Mort caught his bridle, patted him on the nose, and fumbled in his pocket for a rather grubby sugar lump. He was aware that he was in the presence of something important, but he wasn’t yet quite sure what it was.
    There was a road running between an avenue of damp and gloomy willow trees. Mort remounted and steered Binky across the field into the dripping darkness under the branches.
    In the distance he could see the lights of Sto Helit, which really wasn’t much more than a small town, and a faint glow on the edge of sight must be Sto Lat. He looked at it longingly.
    The barrier worried him. He could see it creeping across the field behind the trees.
    Mort was on the point of urging Binky back into the air when he saw the light immediately ahead of him, warm and beckoning. It was spilling from the windows of a large building set back from the road. It was probably a cheerful sort of light in any case, but in these surroundings and compared with Mort’s mood it was positively ecstatic.
    As he rode nearer he saw shadows moving against it, and made out a few snatches of song. It was an inn, and inside there were people having a good time, or what passed for a good time if you were a peasant who spent most of your time closely concerned with cabbages. Compared to brassicas, practically anything is fun.
    There were human beings in there, doing uncomplicated human things like getting drunk and forgetting the words of songs.
    Mort had never really felt homesick, possibly because his mind had been too occupied with other things. But he felt it now for the first time—a sort of longing, not for a place, but for a state of mind, for being just an ordinary human being with straightforward things to worry about, like money and sickness and other people….
    “I shall have a drink,” he thought, “and perhaps I shall feel