It was disorienting to see physiognomies that carried the subtle signature of his fellow Seerkind primped and painted a la mode; Seerkind dressed in jeans and leather jackets, in print dresses and high heels. To judge by their condition many of them had survived well enough in the Kingdom; perhaps even prospered. Yet they were here. A whisper of liberation had found them in their hiding places amongst the Cuckoos, and they'd come, bringing their children and their prayers. Kind who could only know of the Fugue from rumour and hearsay, drawn by the hope of seeing a place their hearts had never forgotten.

Despite his initial cynicism, he could not help but be moved by this silent and expectant multitude.

'I told you,' Nimrod whispered, as he led Jerichau through the throng. 'We'll get as close as we can, eh?'

At the end of the vast hall a rostrum had been set up, littered with flowers. Lights hovered in the air, Babu raptures, throwing a flickering luminescence on the stage beneath.

'He'll come soon,' said Nimrod.

Jerichau didn't doubt it. Even now there was some movement at the far end of the hall; several figures, dressed in the same dark blue, were ordering the crowd a few yards back from the vicinity of the rostrum. The devotees obeyed the instruction without question.

'Who are they?' said Jerichau, nodding towards the uniformed figures.

'The Prophet's Elite,' Nimrod returned. They're with him night and day. To keep him from harm.'

Jerichau had no time to ask any further questions. A door was opening in the bare brick wall at the back of the platform, a tremor of excitement passing through the hall. The congre- gation started to surge towards the platform. The swell of emotion was contagious; try as he might to keep his critical faculties sharp Jerichau found his heart pounding with excitement.

One of the Elite had appeared through the open door, carrying a plain wooden chair. This he set at the front of the platform. The crowd was pressing at Jerichau's back; he was hemmed in to right and left. Every face but his was turned towards the stage. Some had tears on their cheeks: the tension of waiting had been too much. Others were speaking silent prayers.

And now, two more Elite stepped through the door, parting to reveal a figure in pale yellow, the sight of whom brought a tide of sound from the crowd. It was not the jubilant shout of welcome Jerichau had been anticipating, but an intensification of the murmur that had begun a while earlier; a soft, yearning sound which stirred the gut.

Above the platform, the floating flames became brighter. The murmur grew in depth and resonance. Jerichau had to make a fierce effort not to join in.

The lights had reached a white heat, but the Prophet did not step forward and bathe in this blaze of glory. He hung back at the edge of the pool, teasing the crowd, which begged him with their moans to show himself. Still he resisted; still they summoned him, their wordless prayers growing feverish.

Only after three or four minutes of this holding back did he consent to answer their appeal, and step into the light. He was a sizeable man - a fellow Babu, Jerichau guessed - but some infirmity slowed his footsteps. His features were benign, even slightly effeminate; his hair, fine as a baby's, was a white mane.

Reaching the chair, he sat down - apparently with some pain - and surveyed the gathering. Little by little the murmuring grew softer. He did not speak, however, until it had ceased entirely. And when he did speak it was not with the voice Jerichau had expected from a Prophet: strident, possessed. It was a small, musical voice; its tone gentle, even hesitant.

'My friends ...' he said. 'We're assembled here in the name of Capra

'Capra ...' The name was whispered from wall to wall.

'I've heard Capra's words. They say the time is very, very close.' He spoke, Jerichau thought, almost reluctantly, as though he were the vessel of this knowledge, but far from comfortable with it.

'If there are many doubters amongst you -' the Prophet said,'- prepare to shed your doubts.'

Nimrod cast Jerichau a glance as if to say: he means you.

'We are greater by the day.. .' the Prophet said. 'Capra's word is everywhere finding its way to the forgotten and the forgetful. It stirs the sleeping into wakefulness. It makes the dying dance.' He spoke very quietly, letting the rhetoric substitute for volume. His congregation attended like children. 'Very soon we'll be home,' he said. 'We'll be back amongst our loved ones, walking where our mothers and fathers walked. We won't have to hide any longer. This Capra tells us. We will rise, my friends. Rise and be bright.'

There were barely stifled sobs from around the hall. He heard them, and hushed them with an indulgent smile.

'No need to weep,' he said. 'I see an end to weeping. An end to waiting.'

'Yes,' said the crowd, as one. 'Yes. Yes.'

Jerichau felt the swell of affirmation picking him up. He had no desire to resist. He was a part of these people wasn't he? Their tragedy was his tragedy; and their longing his too.

'Yes ...' he found himself saying, 'yes .. . yes.'

At his side Nimrod said: 'Now do you believe?' then joined the chant himself.

The Prophet raised his gloved hands to subdue the voices. It took longer for the crowd to be hushed this time, but when the Prophet spoke again his voice was stronger, as though nourished by this display of fellow-feeling.

'My friends. Capra loves peace as we all love it, but let us not deceive ourselves. We have enemies. Enemies amongst Humankind, and yes, amongst our own Kind too. There are many who have cheated us. Conspired with the Cuckoos to keep our lands in sleep. This Capra has seen, with his own eyes. Treachery and lies, my friends; everywhere.' He bowed his head a moment, as if the effort of those words was close to defeating him. 'What shall we do?' he said, his voice despairing.

'Lead us!' somebody shouted.

The Prophet raised his head at this, his face troubled.

'I can only show you the way,' he protested.

But the cry had been taken up by others around the hall, and was growing.

'Lead us!' they called to him. 'Lead us!'

Slowly, the Prophet got to his feet. Again, he raised his hands to silence the congregation, but this time they would not be subdued so readily.

'Please -' he said, obliged for the first time to raise his voice. 'Please. Listen to me!'

'We'll follow you!' Nimrod was shouting. 'We'll follow!'

Was it Jerichau's imagination, or had the lights above the platform begun to burn with fresh brilliance, the Prophet's hair a halo above his benevolent features? To judge by his expression the call to arms that rose from the floor distressed him; the vox populi wanted more than his vague promises.

'Listen to me,' he appealed. 'If you want me to lead you -'

'Yes!' roared five hundred throats.

'If that's what you want I have to warn you, it will not be easy. We would have to put away tenderness. We would have to be hard as stone. Blood will flow.'

His warning didn't chasten the crowd a jot. If anything it spurred their enthusiasm to new heights.

'We must be cunning -' said the Prophet,'- as those who've conspired against us have been cunning.'

The crowd was raising the roof now, Jerichau along with them.

'The Fugue calls us home!'

'Home! Home!'

'And its voice will not be denied. We must march!'

The door at the back of the platform had been opened a little, presumably so that the Prophet's entourage could hear the speech. Now a movement there caught Jerichau's eye. There was somebody in the doorway, whose shadowy face he seemed to know

'We will go into the Fugue together,' the Prophet was saying, his voice finally losing its frailty, its reluctance.

Jerichau looked past the speaker, trying to divide the watcher at the door from the darkness that concealed him.

'We will take the Fugue back from our enemies in the name of Capra.'