The music had found a fresh intoxication. Cal was intrigued to find out what instruments it was being played upon. Violins certainly, and whistles and drums. But there were sounds amongst these that he couldn't place. 'Any excuse for a party.' said Novello. 'Must be the biggest breakfast in history.' 'I daresay. Want to go see?' 'Yes.'

The monkey ran along the branch, and scurried down the trunk to where Smith was sitting. Cal, chewing the seeds of his second Giddy, reached up and claimed a further handful of fruit from amongst the foliage, pocketing half a dozen against future hunger, and skinning another to be consumed on the spot.

The sound of monkey-chatter drew his gaze down to Novello and Smith. The beast was perched on the man's chest, and they were talking to each other, a babble of words and grunts. Cal looked from man to beast and back to man again. He could not tell who was saying what to whom.

The debate ended abruptly, and Smith stood up, the monkey now sitting on his shoulder. Without inviting Cal to follow, they threaded their way between the trees. Cal pursued, peeling and eating as he went.

Some of the visitors here were doing as he'd done, standing beneath the trees, consuming Jude Pears. One or two had even climbed up and were draped amongst the branches, bathing in the perfumed air. Others, either indifferent to the fruit or sated upon it, lay sprawled in the grass and talked together in low voices. The atmosphere was all tranquillity.

Heaven is an orchard, Cal thought as he walked; and God is plenty.

That's the fruit talking.' said Novello. Cal wasn't even aware that he'd spoken aloud. He looked round at the monkey, feeling slightly disoriented.

'You should watch yourself.' the animal said, 'an excess of Judes isn't good for you.'

'I've got a strong stomach.' Cal replied.

'Who said anything about your stomach?' the monkey replied. 'They're not called Giddy Fruit for nothing.'

Cal ignored him. The animal's condescending tone irritated him. He picked up his pace, overtaking man and beast.

'Have it your way.' said the monkey.

Somebody darted between the trees a little way ahead of Cal, trailing laughter. To Cal's eyes the sound was momentarily visible; he saw the rise and fall of notes as splashes of light, which flew apart like dandelion heads in a high wind. Enchantment upon enchantment. Plucking and peeling yet another of Lo's remarkable fruits as he went, he hurried on towards the music.

And ahead of him, the scene came clear. A blue and ochre rug had been laid on the ground between the trees, with wicks in oil flickering along its borders; and at its edge the musicians he'd heard. There were five of them: three women and two men, dressed formally in suits and dresses, in the dark threads of which brilliant designs were somehow concealed, so that the subtlest motion of the folds in the flame-light revealed a glamour that brought to Gal's mind the iridescence of tropical butterflies. More startling, however, was the fact that this quintet had not a single instrument between them. They were singing these violins, pipes and drums, and offering in addition sounds no instrument could hope to produce. Here was a music which did not imitate natural sound - it was not bird or whale song, nor tree nor stream - but instead expressed experiences which lay between words: the off-beat of the heart, where intellect could not go.

Hearing it, shudders of pleasure ran down Gal's spine.

The show had drawn an audience of perhaps thirty Seerkind, and Cal joined them. His presence was noted by a few, who threw mildly curious glances in his direction.

Surveying the crowd, he attempted to allot these people to one or other of the four Families, but it was near enough impossible. The choral orchestra were presumably Aia; hadn't Apolline said that it was Aia blood that had given her a good singing voice? But amongst the rest, who was who? Which of these people were of Jerichau's Family, for instance: the Babu? Which of the Ye-me, or the Lo? There were negro and Caucasian faces, and one or two with an oriental cast; there were some who boasted traits not quite human - one with Nimrod's golden eyes (and tail too, presumably); another pair whose features carried symmetrical marking that crept down from the scalp; yet others who bore - either at the dictates of fashion or theology - elaborate tattoos and hair-styles. There was the same startling variety in the clothes they wore, the formal designs of their late nineteenth-century garb refashioned to suit the wearer. And in the fabrics of skirts, suits and waistcoats, the same barely concealed iridescence: threads of carnival brilliance in wait behind the monochrome.

Gal's admiring gaze went from one face to another, and he felt he wanted each of these people as a friend, wanted to know them and walk with them and share his pittance of secrets with them. He was vaguely aware that this was probably the fruit talking. But if so, then it was wise fruit.

Though his hunger was assuaged, he took another of the pears from his pocket and was about to peel it when the music came to an end. There was applause and whistling. The quintet took their bows. As they did so a bearded man with a face as lined as a walnut, who had been sitting on a stool close to the edge of the rug, stood up. He looked directly at Cal and said: 'My friends ... my friends ... we have a stranger amongst us.. .'

The applause was dying down. Faces turned in Cal's direction; he could feel himself blush.

'Come out, Mr Mooney! Mr Calhoun Mooneyl'

Ganza told the truth: the air did gossip.

The man was beckoning. Cal made a murmur of protest.

'Come on. Entertain us a while!' came the reply.

At this Cal's heart started to thump furiously. 'I can't,' he said.

'Of course you can,' the man grinned. 'Of course you can!'

There was more applause. The shining faces smiled around him. Somebody touched his shoulder. He glanced round. It was Novello.

'That's Mr Lo,' said the monkey. 'You mustn't refuse him.'

'But I can't do anything -'

'Everybody can do something,' said the monkey. 'If it's only fart.'

'Come on, come on.' Lemuel Lo was saying. 'Don't be shy.'

Much against his will, Cal edged through the crowd towards the rectangle of wicks.

'Really ...' he said to Lo. 'I don't think ...'

'You've eaten freely of my fruit,' said Lo, without rancour. 'The least you can do is entertain us.'

Cal looked about him for some support, but all he saw were expectant faces.

'I can't sing, and I've two left feet,' he pointed out, still hoping self-depreciation might earn him an escape-route.

'Your great-grandfather was a poet, wasn't he?' said Lemuel, his tone almost rebuking Cal for not making mention of the fact.

'He was,' said Cal.

'And can you not quote your own great-grandfather?' said Lemuel.

Cal thought about this for a moment. It was clear he was not going to be released from this circle without at least making some stab at recompense for his greed, and Lemuel's suggestion was not a bad one. Many years ago Brendan had taught Cal one or two fragments of Mad Mooney's verse. They'd meant little enough to Cal at the time - he'd been about six years old - but their rhymes had been intriguing.

The rug is yours,' said Lemuel, and stood aside to let Cal have access to the performing area. Before he'd had an opportunity to run any of the lines through his head - it was two decades since he'd learnt them; how much would he remember? - he was standing on the rug, staring across the flickering footlights at his audience.

'What Mr Lo says is true .. .' he said, all hesitation,'... my great-grandfather.. .'

'Speak up,' somebody said.

'... my great-grandfather was a poet. I'll try and recite one of his verses. I don't know if I can remember them, but I'll do my best.'

There was scattered applause at this, which made Cal more uneasy than ever.

'What's it called, this poem?' said Lemuel.

Cal wracked his brain. The title had meant even less than the lines when he'd first been taught it, but he'd learned it anyway, parrot-fashion.

'It's called Six Commonplaces.' he said, his tongue quicker to shape the words than his brain was to dust them off.

'Tell it, my friend,' said the orchard-keeper.

The audience stood with bated breath; the only movement now was that of the flames around the rug.