To taste it was as to shiver through sweat. As to lick a metal dust and feel it seep through the tongue to the blood, to the limbs, to the trunk. A rattling feeling. And years did not teach them to love it.
From the knobs of nearby bark insects flung themselves. Shot up on legs like springs, hurled their bodies with the abandon with which one might send stones across a lake to skip and sink.
Some shot up only to fall directly all the way to the ground. Others, if they so much as grazed a surface, sent a ridged tarsus out to catch hold and cling — whether that surface be vegetable tube, or mammalian hair, or stone, or fungal crust. Some, in their falling, dropped into the sheaths that hung from the sicklenut trees.
The humans felt them, and wriggled their bodies, and crushed them against the leaves.
So, through the night — while they, the humans, sought a different abandon.
Chapter XVIII
A moss grows on wet stones. Spreads slowly. A low plane of bristles, lush, collecting itself, collecting water droplets that, in passing, cling, and are absorbed.
But it does not rise.
This is not to its discredit. Sprawling, in the way that it does, it is what it should be — rich and fresh, nourished, soaking, creeping, collecting. Collecting itself.
But it does not rise.
It soaks for a lifetime.
Then, radically, vertically, in its second life it sends a brown shoot upward, through the middle of the lush green carpet. Fed by its waters. Held in its tufts. Slender as a hair, and delicate — but brazen, for it has ventured upward, into the uninhabited air. Rising through the plane of soaking green.
One might expect this mat of verdure, drenched and opulent, to give birth to something as lush as itself, to something round, to shining spheres like opals, to tender buds of white, or of red, or of deepest black. Sprout berries from its lushness. Round and plump, juices dripping.
Slighter, more modest, austere, even, the brown stalk birthed in their place. Brittle and plain. But it is this otherness that consummates the groundwork a lifetime laid.
Straight, piercing, it rises.
Chapter XIX
Lhiar could walk again, and did. Slow steps, slow like breaths — and who would choose to pant when one may sigh? For hours through the city-maze he walked, choosing turn after turn, bidding lane after lane engulf him. Wall after wall appear ahead, grow larger, larger, then inch by inch slip past him into the void behind his right and left eyes.
Oftentimes he did not know where he was, in relation to his home. But he was not lost, no, for only one who seeks may be lost. Lhiar sought nothing. It would happen that he would come to a street he recognized, one maybe not so far from the tenement blocks, and then — yes, fine, he would retire. An end to the day’s occupation.
And as he went, and came, and arrived, he was never out of range of, nor did he ever neglect, the song of the tomtoads.
No — he had not mastered it.
But after the first day of despair, after that feeling of crashing through the ice, such feelings had fallen from him like leaves. They had fallen down, all the way to himself — and his earth absorbed them. And their having been, and their having abated, nourished him.
No, he had not mastered the song. Could not anticipate it. Could not trace its shape to come, could not pronounce the next sound in the sequence. Could not penetrate its mind. But he sprawled and soaked in it. Listening, listening. And a greater change, he knew, would eventually come — a blossoming, a transformation — though he could not name what it would be.
In the meantime, he saw less and less of the things he had seen before. And he saw more and more of the things he had not seen.
Before, there had been everywhere, all around him, bodings, like eyes, in all things. Eyes in the stones. Eyes in the light. In the children’s hands, eyes. In their backs. Eyes of witness and intention.
They glared, like spiders’ eyes from shadows, with a patient, thoughtful, ancient malice.
These were the eyes that were not there — but that stared.
And then there were the true eyes, the eyes that were: round, lashed, in the skulls of his others. And these were worse, for they inhabited matter as well as spirit. Their gaze, like frogs’ tongues, shooting outward from their faces, capturing whatever passed and, in the same instant, returning inward. Devouring it.
Whenever one of the children turned his or her head in Lhiar’s direction, their gaze seemed to cut through the air like a saber. And Lhiar would dodge it, or cry out.
If their backs were turned to him it meant not that they had left him alone. No, they had only concealed themselves. For still, on the other side of that barrier, their eyes and hands, he knew, were working, calculating, crafting some macabre design.
When he was alone — but he was never alone, for always the eyes glared, the eyes of people and of things. So that from every object, from every direction, he needed avert his own eyes lest he wander into some confrontation.
And what were his thoughts, always, if not those of one who can find no respite? Pleas and accusations. Himself he bore as a contraband smuggled through existence.
So it was.
And now — and now. When he met their gaze it was not in defiance, for one in defiance would still be their slave. But the tomtoads’ song, like a cool blast, had sharpened his own vision, so that he saw past the glares. Glares that, like blurry halos, had encircled all things. He saw past them, through them, to what lived behind the blur. Eyes, still, they were, eyes still of witness, and intention, and design — but not of malice. And from their sight he did not shirk or scuttle. In return he bore his own self before them. Himself, too, a witness, who turned corners and met masks and faces, and was not less than their equal.
Carried through his living by the song. Carried as on a seaman’s craft through powers of wind and wake, which would, were he divested of that craft, swallow him mercilessly. But he was not swallowed. He was borne.
Chapter XX
Time is kind, and a freedom fighter. There are those who speak of Fate as a limiting force. Like a straitjacket all folk are born into.
Yet it is the agents of Fate that liberate humans from the shackles they hammer, time after time, for themselves.
A civilization exists to nurture its members to spiritual maturity. Yet into all civilizations are born countless souls whom the civilization does not — cannot — nurture.
There was the society of assassins. And the agile, the unhesitating, the ruthless, born into that world, inherited a great wealth. They found in the knowledge and the customs of their civilization a priceless tool, like a wrench or a screwdriver, that was for them; a tool in harmony with their own innate abilities. And with it they could tighten their every bolt.
Into the society of assassins, the weak and the hesitant, too, were born. And they found themselves unnecessary. For what, and how, should they learn?'
They passed through life dusting lint from the assassins’ sleeves, and clowning for them.
A select few, maybe, flowed over from the molds their world had cast for them, and found a shape of their own. The rest lamented their lot, or else did not think of it.
But that world of assassins did not last.
For a new world was given space to grow. And in that world the weak and the awkward were given words. And with words they flourished.
They had been given a mechanism, a system, a vocabulary, with which to probe and learn themselves. And to probe others, who had also mastered the words. Before, they had lived in darkness.
Born into that world was an ugly man with an ugly, clumsy voice that mangled the words in his mouth. He could not speak, and so gave up speaking.
The things it was thought people must do, he could not do.
Yet, in smelling, he possessed a remarkable capacity for discernment. He could smell each one of his ten fingers. Clouds, stones, lichens of innumerable shapes and colors he could catalogue through his nose. He perceived all the objects of
the world, and their movements and their mingling. And after inhaling the smells through his nose he would let out a sigh unique to each one: a sigh which was the effect each smell had on the feelings and phenomena that lived in him. A sigh which might have been like a word, like a name, if only there were other folk around who knew how to engage or interpret it.
Blindfolded by his others, he stood before crowds and pointed to this and that; identified objects with his nose and not his sight. The crowds applauded. In that civilization of words he lived as a parlor trick. A sideshow.
But, if there has not yet been the world, there is surely yet to be, in which it is through the nuances not of words, but of sighs and aromas, that humans craft their civilization.
And this ugly man, in that life, will inherit the mechanisms, the vocabulary, the wrench with which to probe and learn himself. With which to tighten his own bolts. And to show himself to his others.
So: the endless turning over. The opening.
Patience only. What creature has not yet had its time? Let that one step forward, and a world shall be made for it!
Beyan, in his meek and thoughtless way, wondered whether he had been born into the right world.
He thought of what had been demanded of him by the voice of the Maddened. And he thought about his own qualities, as he perceived them.
He was a weak boy, and he lived desiring acceptance from all of the many, contradictory characters in his life.
Was there not a world in which these qualities would be of use — or, more, vital? He felt that this world, his world, was not it. In this world he felt the demands made of him by his others; by forces, sharp and discriminating. He felt the possibility of his disappointing them. And if disappointment was possible, Beyan thought, then it was inevitable.
From across the room he looked at a wooden chair. He thought about the wood that had let itself be cut and beaten into that shape. It had had no inclination, whatsoever, of being a chair. Yet everyday it was, and did not rebel. Beyan could close his eyes, slip into sleep, and hours later awaken to find the wood in precisely the same shape and position. Endlessly loyal. Keeping the identity it had been given, until fire or the termites came to rechristen it.
Beyan pleaded his fate for such a role as the wood had. To serve, and serve well, through his utter submission to the forces around him. Limp and plastic in the hands of his makers; strong and steady in his lack of volition.
This he could do. Could be a chair. But do not — oh do not! — demand him to step forward! or make a choice! or stake himself on an idea, on a conviction arrived at by his own inner sense of propriety! No — do not — for this he could not do.
As he walked to school he felt a mounting desperation.
Chapter XXI
The sound as of a horse’s gallop, slowed to a tenth of its normal speed, as by a dream.
Yet Rhoneh was awake, he knew, for he felt his weight, and the coarse tingle of the air on his open eyes. He knew this sound. And, if he no longer feared it, still he knew, when it came, to be wary of it. To hold his breath until it passed.
For out there in the night, not far from the sixteen in their sicklenut sheaths, traversed a pack of howlhawks on the chase. The howlhawks were wolves — or were wolves once. But generations, and nature’s pranks, had braided their silken fur into long, tangled skeins that flailed from their fore and hind haunches as they ran. Like twisted, tattered sheets their hair streamed and caught the air, so that the howlhawks could glide — not fly, no, not yet, not, maybe, for generations still to come — but glide. One leap, two leaps, and fifteen meters they soared, veering in the air.
Snared in their tangles were leaves, mud, insects, bristles, so that each beast, in its flight, appeared as some primeval forest numen: ugly, elegant, toothed with grinning death.
Rhoneh held his breath, and waited for them to pass.
Silence followed. Silence, and a long exhale.
Rhoneh looked up, saw stars in the blackness. He thought of their distance. How he could never touch them, or sit with them, or dissolve into them. And yet as far as they seemed, he felt that there were things inside himself at least as distant. Thoughts. Connections. Manifestations. They lay at the head of the endless stream that ran through his mind, and he could wade in that stream all his life and not arrive at them.
Yet they were there, he knew, as the stars were there. And if he could not touch them, he knew them still. For there are some things in the world that can be known only from afar. To approach them — if ever he could — would be to change them, altogether, into something else.
The farthest star, the deepest thought. It was in their distance that he knew them.
From the silence a sound startled him. And more than the appearance of the sound in the stillness of night it was the source of the sound that startled Rhoneh, for this was a sound he had come never to expect to encounter in the world. It was the sound of a voice, a grown voice. The voice of one of his others. Singing softly.
“Fairy liver, fairy liver...from the day it first did enter, still it stays there at the center...what else was it meant for...”
Rhoneh was astonished. He could not recollect having ever heard a grown voice. Only little ones’, from his days in school. And the voice from the brick wall, which was neither old nor young, but like water.
The singing ceased, and there was silence for a moment more. But then the voice returned.
“Do you know — I do feel things...Panics, and dullness — and outrage...I wear and change them like clothes...But underneath them — underneath — I am not unhappy.”
Rhoneh was flooded with a sympathetic shame. For he would as soon have soiled himself in front of his companions as have spoken his mind. A grown one’s words and inner life were one’s own dark mass.
Yet Rhoneh felt no affront at his other’s confession. Gaping, he continued to listen.
“I think — just now — of the howlhawks...And the taste of blood....And the taste of air — and of agar. The sweet and the foul....I drink them....I crave....And still — now — I last...I feel humble...to last so...And I feel shame...And I feel dignity....”
A moment’s pause, only.
“But one thing — so strange — why we do not speak...must not...I cannot think why...There are reasons — surely — why it is so — or causes, at least....But none could satisfy — me....I want to speak....Will you…not…speak then?”
At this last Rhoneh shuddered, for he had feared this, this invitation. What at all could he say, to do justice to the things he felt? To do justice to this other soul who had laid bare itself, and implored? The longer he waited, the less adequate any words seemed. And then there was the question — if he struck some answer — could he even bring himself to deliver it? Did he not deem it a sin? Could his lips even move to form the words, from shame and disuse so unaccustomed to speech?
The space and the silence grew longer between the two figures in their adjacent sheathes.
Then, at last, a voice from in the night — “I understand.”
Chapter XXII
With sideways twists to left and right, sweeping, creeping around the little ones and — now — three empty stools. For some of their classmates, they all knew, must have come of age. And they would not be seen anymore.
Beyan’s body was still and tense. He prayed for some great cataclysm to shake the world. Something that would render himself insignificant and a victim. For as the schoolday went on he could not believe that he was going to do the thing it was demanded of him to do. And yet, in not doing it, he felt wretched.
The robe swept the floor, slow and smooth and steady — and stopped at the wall. A gloved hand raised, finger extended, to find the destined brick.
But, before it could — a commotion.
Parah had leapt from his seat and hurtled toward the front of the room. Draped high in its folds, the mask turned to face the clamor. With a diving motion Parah sprawled his hand across the grown one’s mask, to draw it from
the face. But his grip was clumsy, and when he first tore his hand away, in his urgency, it left the mask up in its folds, as it had been. Stunned by his failure Parah paused a moment, and stumbled half a step to the side. But he reached up again and snatched the sheer, white surface from the grown one’s face, sending to the floor with a cli-link the combs that had held it in place. The grown one stood, meanwhile, unresisting, his hand still raised in mid-search among the wall’s bricks.
Parah, clutching the mask, turned toward his others and pointed at the grown one’s face.
“Look at what you do to the ones who love you! Look at the scars — the whole body a scar! You eat your sweets without thinking twice. You gobble them down as if you were doing the world a favor. But where do they come from, your sweets, your delights? From out there, where the grown ones must endure rashes and stings to find them. Torn at by swarms of miniature mouths. And, returning, they scald their bodies to kill whatever larvae have seeped into the wrinkles of their callused flesh. And all the while, on what do they feed, our grown ones? Not on your sweets, found out there in adversity. No, not on your sweets, though it is they who gathered them with their own hands. While you feast on cakes of berries and honey, they eat what grows in abundance here, within our own city walls, only moments away, the agar of the Crude Stream—! And you could eat it too! Indeed, so long as you do not — so long as you eat anything else, foraged outside of these walls — how can you abide your conscience, knowing that you have done this?”
He pointed again at the face exposed among its black folds. The face stared back. Without wrath. Without humor. Without sympathy. Without judgment. Steady eyes from under heavy, swollen lids. Parah for the first time looked up at what he himself had revealed. At first he was taken aback. Then he was quickly turned to anger: for the face of this one whose cause he had risked much to champion showed no sign of affirmation.
A sheepishness mingled with Parah’s anger. He dropped the mask and ran from the room.
The grown one stooped to collect the mask, and returned it to its place amid the folds. A thin crack like a solitary hair ran across and down it.
The gloved hand moved again — moved from the brick it seemed to have chosen before, now to seek out a different one. Removed it. And the voice washed into the room.