XIV
The two children sat side by side on a wobbly log, poking the crackling fire with long pointed sticks, and nary saying a word to one another. At both of their feet lay the dying woman, her body quite still now, and her eyes, barely showing a flicker of life.
“Is she dead?” asked The Young Cripple.
The awkward silence had been broken. It had felt like an eternity had passed since she sat down beside The Young Boy; between wanting to speak and actually being able to. It was lucky then that this woman was lying here, as sick as she was. It was nice having something stranger than the way she felt to talk about.
The Young Boy wiped the corners of the woman’s mouth with a cloth that was doused in rubbing alcohol. He did the same to the corner of her eyes, the edges of her ear canals, and into the recess of her bellybutton.
“I don’t think so,” said The Young Boy. “She can’t be dead if she’s breathing.”
“What do you suppose she’s thinking about?”
Her body was quiet - as if she were dead or sleeping - but her eyes were wide open and fixed on a constant trail of smoke that wafted above her head, and then disappeared somewhere into the darkness, just an inch from her sight. The Young Boy studied the sick woman, and took the time, before he responded, to brush a small tuft of the woman’s fringe away from her eyes, and tuck it with the rest, behind her left ear.
“The stuff she always did,” said The Young Boy. “The stuff that she can’t do anymore. And she’s probably sad too, knowing that she won’t ever do them again.”
“I guess,” said The Young Cripple.
“That’s all my mom went on about before she bit off her tongue.”
The Young Cripple cringed.
The Young Boy, though, he didn’t seem queasy at all seeing a person this way. He patted the side of the woman’s cheeks as The Young Cripple would, one of her aging dogs. It didn’t even bother him how soft and loose her skin was, and how it slid back and forth over the bumps on her face like an oversized bed sheet. There was barely a degree of fat and muscle on her whatsoever. She was, literally, nothing more than a tin film of festering boils and ulcers, upon an oddly shaped skeleton.
“Why did she bite off her tongue?” asked The Young Cripple, half dreading the response.
“It got in the way I suppose,” replied The Young Boy.
The Young Cripple nodded, as she did whenever she was told something that in a way, made sense. “Did she have what this lady has? Your mom I mean?”
The Young Boy nodded, still caressing the bumps on the woman’s exposed skeleton. “This town is cursed,” said The Young Boy. “Everyone has what this lady has, even you.”
The Young Cripple panicked, brushing her skin as if she’d just walked through a cobweb. “Relax,” said The Young Boy laughing, “You’re not sick now, neither am I. But you will be, one day, if you don’t leave. You’ll get sick like the rest of them. Like my teacher, the bus driver, the old man from the arcade, and all the kids in my class. And like my mom and my sister too. Everyone gets sick like this,” he said, continuing to lightly caress the woman’s skeleton, as if it were toned, curved, and muscled like most living things. He did so, staring into the woman’s vacant stare, assuring that she didn’t feel, in how he touched her, as sickly gaunt, erasing, and as close to death as she most certainly was.
“But I think she’s dreaming of the things she did every day, stuff that would be boring to you or me, but to her, not being able to do them, it’s what’d probably make her feel like she’s nothing like she used to be, and that something bad is coming, you know? I think that’d be the worst part about dying; not being able to do the things you always did, the things you didn’t even have to think about, and then missing them before they’re even gone. I saw heaps of movies you know, where people talked a lot about what they would do before they died, like going on these big ginormous adventures and stuff; doing things they always wanted to do but never did, because they were busy all the time, or just being themselves every day. But I don’t think any of that stuff would matter really. You know, like climbing some stupid mountain, or some stupid tower, and taking a whole bunch of stupid photos. I don’t think it’d matter. I think, anyway, if it were me, I’d just want to do what I did every day, except, do it knowing that it was the last time I would be doing it, even if I was having to make my bed, or dig out weeds or something. Or like, walking home from school, the way you walked every day, and doing it for the last time, and seeing the things you never noticed before.”
“I had a grandma once,” said The Young Cripple. “We called her that anyway. She was really old. She was always really old. Come to think of it, I don’t think she was ever young, but anyway, she didn’t like anybody doing anything for her. She was really bossy, and even though she wasn’t in charge, the last decision was always hers. Master was real scared of her temper. She could blow the roof off a house, just by sneezing. She was fine when she lost her legs from those bug bites. Master built her a special chair and she was able to get around, and her arms even got really strong. She didn’t let it make her need anybody for anything. It was when she lost her eyes, though, when she couldn’t sew anymore, that’s when she just kind of gave up. She lay on her side all day long, and she stopped eating and showering. She just lay there on her bed, facing where her machine was, even though she couldn’t see it. It was sad really, seeing someone so tough, acting as she was. She died pretty soon after that.”
“I think doing one thing for the last time is much better than doing a whole bunch of things for the first time.”
“What would be the last thing you’d do then?” asked The Young Cripple.
“I’d escape something,” said The Young Boy. “I like escaping things, I’m good at it. But I’d probably escape from my room, the way I did the first time, even as simple as it was. What about you?”
The Young Cripple scrunched her face and tried to think about all the things that she did; the things that she would miss if she were going to die in three days. She couldn’t think of one, though, that brought her any joy, or that even the shadow of death could cast in a better light.
“I don’t like the things I have to do all that much,” she said.
“Nobody ever really does,” replied the boy, “at least nobody I ever met. But maybe it’s not the thing you have to do. Maybe it’s doing that thing, and then wishing you were doing something else, maybe that’s the thing you’d miss; thinking about the thing you love the most.”
The Young Cripple nodded again, in her ‘that-makes-sense’ kind of way.
“So what would that be?” he asked.
He sure was pushy.
The Young Cripple, so caught up in trying to figure out what that thing was, had forgotten entirely about her strange feelings, the fact that she was terrible at introductions, that she’d never had a friend, and that nobody liked her; not even cats, and they’ll rub themselves against anyone with sharp nails or a fish head.
“I like stories,” she said. “I like to make them up, and I like to tell them.”
“What kind of stories?” asked The Young Boy.
“Anything really; can be something scary, exciting or something really sad too. Or it can just be talking about what happened yesterday. It’s all stories you know. I like making them up. I like stories, I’m good at it.”
“Then why do you look so glum?”
He was right. She was talking about the one thing she loved and there she was, looking as if someone had just popped her favourite balloon.
“I’m not allowed. It’s my father,” she said, poking the fire. “Well, he’s not really my father, it’s just… it’s complicated. But he’s The Master, and he doesn’t allow stories. He says their evil, and that I’ll go to hell if I write them.”
“What’s hell?” asked The Young Boy.
“The worst place anyone can imagine.”
“Is it the same place for everyone?”
“I think so,” said The Young Cripple. “Th
e Master imagined it, or at least, he had it imagined for him, and to him, by The Sun of God, by Light. The Master is the only person to have ever seen Light and to have spoken to it. He thought it up – Heaven and Hell - and he made me write it down, and to tell everyone, so that they could imagine it too. And Hell…it’s really scary and horrible, and there’s the very worst kind of monsters and demons that live there.”
“I’ve seen a demon,” said The Young Boy excited. “It lives here. It has for almost forever, at least since I was born, maybe even before. Nobody else really knows about it or believes me when I tell them. But I’ve seen it. And it’s real. And it’s what made everyone sick. It’s what killed my mom and my sister. Do you wanna see it?”
The Young Cripple shuddered.
“No,” she said. “I’m scared of things like that. I’m scared of everything, except good things; like rainbows and butterflies.”
“It’s ok. It looks scary and all that, but it doesn’t hurt you, not unless….”
“Unless what?”
The Young Cripple hated when people spoke all suspense-like, not finishing their scary-sounding sentences. It made her imagine the very worst things possible, like flesh-eating insects, for example, and giant molluscs whose icky slime carried microscopic vermin that festered in your nose, or other orifices too. And because you didn’t have proper ointments, it would get infected and you die.
“Unless what?” she shouted, turning to look at the boy for the first time, but unsure as to whether she wanted to throttle him or hug him out of sheer fright.
“It’s that tree,” he said. “It’s where The Demon lives. It comes and goes all the time. Yesterday I saw it. I saw inside the tree too. It wasn’t like the inside of most trees. It was like the sky, except, it was filled with space – but black and empty space, as if all the stars had been gobbled up. And The Demon, it was talking to someone, one of your lot, and it looked like it knew her real well. Didn’t sound like it liked her much, though, even though they fooled around. I heard it. I was spying on them.”
“Who?”
“Some woman with a creepy tattoo.”
“Gaia?” asked The Young Cripple, genuinely puzzled. “Maybe she was killing it, or making it go away.”
“It gave her something, a bunch of papers. They were letters. That lady, she read a few of them out. Then she made The Demon take the letters with it, into its tree, wherever it goes. There were lots of them, about as many as there are, graves in people’s backyards. She told it to bury them, somewhere only it knew about. To bury them so nobody could find them. What do you suppose they are? And why do you suppose nobody should find them?” he asked.
The Young Cripple dreaded to think.
“I don’t know,” she said.
The truth was, like most scary things, she didn’t want to know.
“One of them was from my mom,” said the boy.
“To who?” asked the girl.
“Don’t know. Didn’t sound so much like a letter as much as her just talking, and someone writing it down.”
The two stayed silent for a moment, staring into the crackling fire. The Young Cripple didn’t really know what to say. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe the boy, it’s just she had never seen a demon before, so she didn’t know the proper thing to say.
“What’s wrong with your legs?” asked The Young Boy.
The Young Cripple stared down at the truss-like contraptions that imprisoned her two legs. She could wiggle her toes, but little else. The contraption, though straight on its sides, twisted and turned where her legs were, looking like scores of spaghetti rollers, one after the other. And her legs themselves, they looked like origami.
“I have to wear this,” she said. “Or else I’ll get in trouble. I can’t walk without it.”
“What happened to your legs? Were you in an accident?”
“They were fine before when I was really young. Then Master made me wear this thing.”
“But why, if you’re legs had no problems?”
“That’s just why,” she said, sounding deflated. “Everyone is normal in our family. Everyone was born normal, except me.”
The Young Boy stared at The Young Cripple’s twisted legs. He ran his fingers over the rusted steel that encaged them, with the same gentility as he had, over the deformed and bowing skeleton that caved inwards upon The Grieving Mother’s impoverished soul. He touched the cold steel as if it was not uncommon. As if it was not at all normal – a serious condition - but as if the girl was not a freak for having it.
“Your dad is the guy with the hat?”
“Yeah,” said The Young Cripple.
“He seems nice I suppose.”
“Yeah, pretty much everyone ends up liking him. He helps a lot of people. I suppose that’s part of it. I guess he is kinda neat in that way. I don’t know…”
“At least your dad lets you out,” said The Young Boy, stoking the fire. “And lets you do things. My dad’s a pain.”
“Doesn’t he like you?”
“It’s not like that, not really anyway. All the people here who died, they all loved someone or were loved by someone. And that’s why they all got sick. It was love that killed them. That, and The Demon.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“That’s what all the other kids used to say before they all died.”
“Died?”
“Yep, died.”
“All of them? Really? Are there no other kids at all?”
“Not one. Just me,” said The Young Boy, smiling.
“Why didn’t you get sick, like all the others?”
“Nobody loves me,” said The Young Boy. “I’m lucky I suppose.”
“Nobody?”
“Not one,” he said, smiling.
“Not even your dad?”
“Especially not him,” said the boy, rubbing some of the bruises on his chest and arms.
“Doesn’t sound like a nice person to me.”
“It’s not his fault really. He’s just trying to keep me safe. I just wish there was a better way to do it; other than always locking me up, and having to be so mean.”
“How does that keep you safe?”
“As long as he hates me and resents me, I won’t get sick. The second he drops his guard, though, the same thing will happen that happened to mom and to Elize too. I’ll get sick like this lady got sick, and in three days, I’ll die. So to stop that, he keeps me locked up, and he shouts at me all the time. He punches my door until his hand bleeds, and then he blames me for the cuts on his knuckles. He blames me for everything. Hating me is the only way he can keep me safe.”
“If he locks you up all the time, then how are you here?”
“I told you,” said The Young Boy smiling again. “I can escape places. It’s what I do, and I’m really good at it. Your dad said he’d let me join your troupe.”
“Really? Wow,” exclaimed the Young Cripple, blurting out her response and remembering at the last second that she mustn’t sound like a buffoon. “I mean….ok… but… but what about your dad? Won’t he miss you?”
“It’s not fair that he should have to feel like he does all the time, just for me. Nobody should have to feel that bad, just because they love someone. If I’m gone, he can rest, you know? He can hate me for real if he wants, and he can even miss me like he misses mom. If I’m gone, The Demon can’t get me.”
“It’s strange.”
“What is?”
“Having to hate someone so much, just because you’re scared to love them.”
“Like I said, I wish there was a better way to keep me safe, for the both of us. I think leaving, and escaping is it.”
They sat there silent for some time, staring into the crackling fire and taking turns poking and stirring the embers. The woman at their feet had returned to her spasmodic state, twisting and writhing in the sand. Neither child noticed, though or was bothered by her writhing and moaning, or by the fact that she was chewing on her ring fing
er, now gnawing heartily at the bone.
“I nearly forgot,” said The Young Cripple, reaching for the metal paddles from her rucksack. “I’m supposed to heal you,” she said, smiling.
“What’s that?” asked The Young Boy warily, staring at the electric contraption.
“It doesn’t hurt too much,” said The Young Cripple. “It’s how we heal you.”
“What does it do?”
“It doesn’t hurt, really. We do it all the time, every Sunday. It’s a small current. It’s meant to vibrate your string.”
“What string?”
“Inside of you. Way, way, way down, deep inside of you. There’s an itsy bitsy string. And it kind of dances one way, and over time, when we collect bad energy, and when bad things happen, it stops dancing. Part of the healing is to help your string to dance again. It doesn’t hurt, though, not much anyway. You’ll feel a lot better after. Everyone does.”
“And what do I have to do?”
“Just hold onto these things,” she said, passing her new friend the cold paddles. “I’ll ask you some questions and then I’ll write down your answers. That’s all. And after, I’ll tell you a story. And when you’re done, you’ll feel really different, really good.”
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me,” replied the girl.
The Young Boy nodded and took hold of the cold paddles while The Young Cripple rummaged through her rucksack for the question sheet and a pen that didn’t blotch. Finally, after some nervous mumbling and cursing, she pulled her head out of the bag with a white booklet in her hands. The Young Cripple had never led a healing before, only joined in at the end to tell the story of Light. She was nervous, and she was excited too. It was the same intense feeling that was one minute unbearable, and the next, incredible.
As the boy waited, The Young Cripple looked over the main page. There was a set of instructions that she skimmed over, ignoring the warnings that were marked in red, and instead going straight for the numbered guide.
1. Do not stop the experiment.
2. Do not miss a question.
3. Maintain a permanent, unbroken gaze with the participant.
4. Answer all questions honestly.
5. Kiss once at the beginning of the experiment, and at each occurring interval.
6. Do not lie or exaggerate the truth.
7. Maintain a silent gaze for seven minutes.
“All of that?” asked The Young Boy.
The Young Cripple looked unsure, but she did her best to hide it.
She couldn’t remember all that kissing and the constant gazing.
“I think… well… It seems like…”
She was on the verge of scattering, of running for dear life; such was her fright. The Young Boy smiled, though, as if he had done this before, or as if he didn’t care if it all went wrong; if his heart stopped beating, or if his skin caught on fire.
“I’m ready,” he said.
The Young Cripple’s stomach churned; she had never been this nervous before. “What the hell?” she thought, and she dived forwards and kissed The Young Boy on the cheek.
“What was that for?” said The Young Boy, wiping his face.
“It was in the instructions,” said The Young Cripple. “You gotta look into my eyes, ok? You can’t look away. It’s important, I think,” she said, staring quickly at the instructions again.
The Young Boy turned his glare to The Young Cripple and it never wavered, not for an inch, not for the entirety of the healing. The Young Cripple asked the first question and the boy responded honestly, taking his time to tell every story, being careful not to exclude even the most innocuous of details. And while he spoke, The Young Cripple wrote down every word, scribbling away notes with her hands, blindly, as she maintained a permanent stare with the boy. It wasn’t easy, but she did it very well.
“Question Three,” she said. “Before talking to another person, do you ever rehearse what you will say?”
The Young Boy responded, talking about the things that made him feel silly, the things that made him mad, and the things that made him so happy that he probably ended up looking silly and quite mad. He wasn’t shy at all. He answered every question and didn’t exaggerate a single truth, although his stories were so vivid and wild, at times it was hard to believe. And when The Young Cripple kissed his cheek again at the first interval, he didn’t shy away, and he didn’t wipe his face either. He just kept looking into her eyes and kept talking about the things had done and seen, and the things he wished he could have done, if things had been different.
“How many questions are there?” asked The Young Boy, in unbroken gaze.
“Thirty-four,” replied The Young Cripple. “How do you feel?”
He wanted to say that he liked her, that he felt like he had known her his whole life, even though he had known her for only an hour or two, and even though it was only he who had spoken, and only about his life. He wanted to say how he felt, but at this point, barely halfway through, he was still not strong enough to carry the truth in his two hands.
“Good,” he said though his eyes said a thousand words more.
“Question fifteen,” said The Young Cripple.