CHAPTER 9.1
Lesley's Diary - Lost Boxes - July 21, 1909
The people in Falstead Refugee Camp are behaving very, very strangely. I think I know why, but let me get to that.
Mr. Holmes may have made cold-reading look mysterious, but seriously, there’s nothing fascinating about it. I’ve been thinking, and sure, it’s brilliant that he knows how many different kinds of ashes a cigar can produce, or that scratches on a watch tells you that that the owner is a habitual drunkard… but normal people don’t need all that nonsense.
I’ve figured out cold reading for amateurs, and it goes like this:
People fall into ‘boxes’. These ‘boxes’, and the words that they contain, define who people are. It’s how they and others see themselves.
For example, every job is its own box – people have very specific pictures in their head about ‘teachers’, ‘healers’, ‘soldier’, ‘instrument maker’, or ‘farmers’. The second anyone says these words, a picture (with its own set of words) lights up in people’s heads, and they expect the people in these pictures to act in particular ways according to their jobs. You know – teachers are ‘strict’, healers are ‘kind’, farmers are ‘hard working’, politicians are ‘cunning’, and soldiers are ‘brave’.
There are other kinds of boxes of course, such as the kind of situation you’re in. If you’re being bullied, then that’s a box with words such as ‘small’, ‘afraid’, ‘quiet’, ‘meek’, ‘weak’, and ‘invisible’ to put you in. If you’re in your twenties without a job, then that’s a box with words such as ‘lazy’, ‘lost’, ‘moody’, ‘insecure’, ‘poor’, and ‘lonely’.
The kind of friends you keep is a box. The hobbies you have is another box. Your relationship with your family is another box. Whether you’re Reflective or Observant is another box. The kind of feelings you most often express is also a box. Your favourite memories are a box. Your greatest successes, failures and shames are all boxes.
You could complain, that if people fall into identical boxes, why don’t people in the same boxes behave in the exactly same way? Well, just being in a box doesn’t mean that all of the words in that box must apply to you – some of them do, and some of them don’t. But once people know your boxes, they will begin to suspect and guess which words in your box most applies to you, and over time, they will get better at guessing about you.
For example: a soldier’s box could contain ‘fights like mad because he’s fearless’ or ‘fights like mad because he’s fearful’, or even ‘runs away like mad because he’s fearful’. Once you’re in a soldier’s box, any of these might apply to you (and any of them might not).
You probably have a second complaint – if people fall into so many different boxes, what’s the point of knowing about boxes? Here’s the thing – some boxes matter more than others. I think if you know about five to seven of a person’s most important boxes, and you sort them from the very most important to the least most important, you’ll have a good idea of who that person really, really is.
For example: Uncle Gordon’s boxes are, in order – scientist, the King’s overshadowed younger brother, hermit, unmarried, untidy, and romantic. If that is not a complete picture of Uncle Gordon, nothing will ever be.
Here is where things get interesting – people see themselves in boxes too! They may not see themselves as objectively or impartially as a stranger, but how people see themselves is the most important collection of boxes. When you think you know what your boxes are, you think you know who you are. This knowledge drives your actions; it gives you peace of mind; it lets you know where you stand in the world.
Which is why losing one’s boxes is the worst thing that can happen to a person.
The people of Falstead forest are behaving very, very strangely because they’ve lost their boxes.
They were farmers, and now they’ve lost their farms. They were mothers, and fathers, and siblings, and children, and now they’ve lost their families. They were landlords, and now they must share a camp. They ware mages; their instruments have been taken from them. They were free, now there is a wooden stockade circling them. They had names, now the Spooks call them by their numbers.
All those boxes – gone. They’re untethered, unanchored, unmoored. Drifting.
They’re trying to make up for it. Everyone is behaving as if their job was the most important job in the world, and as if without them, the whole camp would grind to a halt. I suppose I could grant that if Linus wasn’t on linen duty, we’d all be in trouble, but when Taco acts so pompous because he gets to hand out the ration-slips… well, it’s harder to be generous.
They’re trying to be cheerful about it. They celebrate birthdays, play charades and the Spooks let them get away with midnight rounds of Euchre. Everyone’s making new friends. But sometimes, when I walk between the tents when things are quiet, I can hear people crying quietly in a hidden corner. It’s happened thrice now.
Why am I not as afraid as the other refugees? Because I haven’t had time to collect too many boxes of my own. ‘Brilliant’, ‘stubborn’, ‘arrogant’, ‘hates people’ (mother’s words, not mine; I quite like people – they give me a lot to crib about), ‘Princess’, ‘judgmental’ and ‘confrontational’ – I’m practically all there.
I should take out ‘Princess’, and put in ‘Demon-Queen’ though.