“Why would he need me? I don’t have any special skills. I’m a perfectly ordinary guy.”
“We’re trying to figure that one out for ourselves,” Junior admitted, flipping the lighter around in his hands. “We got some ideas. Nothing definite. Anyway, he’s been studying all about you. He’s been preparing something for a long time now.”
“Oh yeah? So you’re waiting for him to put the last piece in place, and then you’ll have me and the research.”
“On the money,” said Junior. “We got some strange weather blowing up. The Factory has sniffed something in the wind and made a move. So we gotta make moves, too.”
“What about the System?”
“No, they’re slow on the take. But give ’em time. They know the Professor real well.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Professor used to work for the System.”
“The System?”
“Right, the Professor is an ex-colleague of yours. Of course, he wasn’t doing your kind of work. He was in Central Research.”
“Central Research?” This was getting too complicated to follow. I was standing in the middle of it all, only I couldn’t see a thing.
“This System of yours is big, too big. The right hand never knows what the left hand is doing. Too much information, more than you can keep track of. And the Semiotecs are just as bad. That’s why the Professor quit the organization and went out on his own. He’s a brain man. He’s into psychology and all kinds of other stuff about the head. He’s what you call a Renaissance Man. What does he need the System for?”
And I had explained laundering and shuffling to this man? He’d invented the tech! What a joke I was.
“Most of the Calcutec compu-systems around are his design. That’s no exaggeration. You’re like a worker bee stuffed full of the old man’s honey,” pronounced the little man. “Not a very nice metaphor, maybe.”
“Don’t mind me,” I said.
“The minute the Professor quit, who should come knocking on his door but scouts from the Factory. But the Professor said no go. He said he had his own windows to wash, which lost him a lotta admirers. He knew too much for the Calcutecs, and the Semiotecs had him pegged for a round hole. Anyone who’s not for you is against you, right? So when he built his laboratory underground next to the INKlings, it was the Professor against everybody. You been there, I believe?”
I nodded.
“Real nuts but brilliant. Nobody can get near that laboratory. The whole place is crawling with INKlings. The Professor comes and goes. He puts out sound waves to scare the INKlings. Perfect defense. That girl of his and you are the only people who’s ever been inside. Goes to show how important you are. So we figure, the Professor’s about to throw you in the box and tie things up.”
I grunted. This was getting weird. Even if I believed him, I wouldn’t believe it.
“Are you telling me that all the experiment data I processed for the Professor was just so he could lure me in?”
“No-o, not at all,” said the little man. He cast another quick glance at his watch. “The data was a program. A time bomb. Time comes and—booom! Of course, this is just our guess. Only your Professor knows for sure. Well, I see time’s running out, so I think we cut short our little chit-chat. We got ourselves a little appointment after this.”
“Wait a second, what’s happened to the Professor’s granddaughter?”
“Something happened to the kid?” Junior asked innocently. “We don’t know nothing about it. Can’t watch out for everybody, you know. Had something for the little sweetheart, did you?”
“No,” I said. Well, probably not.
Junior stood up from his chair without taking his eyes off me, swept up his lighter and cigarettes from the table and slipped them into his pocket. “I believe it was nice getting to know you. But let me back up and tell you a secret. Right now, we’re one step ahead of the Semiotecs. Still, we’re small, so if they decide to get their tails in gear, we get crushed. We need to keep them occupied. Capisce?”
“I suppose,” I said.
“Now if you were in our position, what do you think’d keep them nice and occupied?”
“The System?” was my guess.
“See?” Junior again remarked to Big Boy. “Sharp and to the point. Didn’t I tell you?” Then he looked back at me. “But for that, we need bait. No bait, no bite.”
“I don’t really feel up to that sort of thing,” I said quickly.
“We’re not asking you how you feel,” he said. “We’re in a bit of a hurry. So now it’s our turn for one little question. In this apartment, what things do you value the most?”
“There’s nothing here,” I said. “Nothing of any value. It’s all cheap stuff.”
“We know that. But there’s gotta be something, some trinket you don’t wanna see destroyed. Cheap or not, it’s your life here, eh?”
“Destroyed?” I said. “What do you mean, destroyed?”
“Destroyed, you know … destroyed. Like with the door,” said the little man, pointing to the thing lying blown off its twisted hinges. “Destruction.”
“What for?”
“Destruction for the sake of destruction. You want an explanation? Why don’t you just tell us what you don’t want to see destroyed. We want to show them the proper respect.”
“Well, the videodeck,” I said, giving in. “And the TV. They’re kind of expensive and I just bought them. Then there’s my collection of whiskeys.”
“Anything else?”
“My new suit and my leather jacket. It’s a U.S. Air Force bomber jacket with a fur collar.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all,” I said.
The little man nodded. The big man nodded.
Immediately, Big Boy went around opening all the cupboards and closets. He found the Bullworker I sometimes use for exercising, and swung it around behind him to do a full back-press. Very impressive.
He then gripped the shaft like a baseball bat. I leaned forward to see what he was up to. He went over to the TV, raised the Bullworker, and took a full swing at the picture tube. Krrblam! Glass shattered everywhere, accompanied by a hundred short sputtering flashes.
“Hey! …” I shouted, clambering to my feet before Junior slapped his palm flat on the table to silence me.
Next Big Boy lifted the videodeck and pounded it over and over again on a corner of the former TV. Switches went flying, the cord shorted, and a cloud of white smoke rose up into the air like a saved soul. Once the videodeck was good and destroyed, Big Boy tossed the carcass to the floor and pulled a switchblade from his pocket. The blade sprang open. Now he was going through my wardrobe and retailoring close to two-hundred-thousand-yen worth of bomber jacket and Brooks Brothers suit.
“But you said you were going to leave my valuables alone,” I cried.
“I never said that. I said we were gonna show them the proper respect. We always start with the best. Our little policy.”
Big Boy was bringing new meaning to the word destruction in my cozy, tasteful apartment. I pulled another can of beer out of the refrigerator and sat back to watch the fireworks.
14
Woods
IN due time, autumn too vanishes. One morning I awake, and from a glance at the sky I know winter is near. Gone are the high, sprightly autumn clouds; in their place a heavy cloud bank glowers over the Northern Ridge, like a messenger bearing ill tidings. Autumn had been welcomed as a cheerful and comely visitor; its stay was too brief, its departure too abrupt.
The passing of autumn leaves a temporary blank, an empty hole in the year that is not of a season at all. The beasts begin to lose the sheen from their coats, lose their golden hue, bleaching slowly white. It is an announcement that winter draws near. All living things in the Town hang their heads, their bodies braced for the freezing season. Signs of winter shroud the Town like an invisible skin. The sound of the wind, the swaying of the grasses, the clack of heels on the cobble
stones in the still of night, all grow remote under an ominous weight. Even the waters of the River, once so pleasant as they lapped at the sandbars, no longer soothe me. There is an instinctive withdrawal for the sake of preservation, a closure that assumes the order of completion. Winter is a season unto itself. The short cries of the birds grow thin and shrill; at times only the flapping of their wings disturbs the void.
“This winter promises to be especially harsh,” observes the Colonel. “You can tell from the look of the clouds. Here, see for yourself how dark they are.”
The old officer leads me to the window and points toward the thick clouds astride the hills.
“Each year at this time, the first wave of winter clouds stations itself along the Northern Ridge. They are the emissaries of the onslaught to come. Light, flat clouds mean mild temperatures. Thicker clouds, colder weather. Most fearsome of all are the clouds that spread their wings, like birds of prey. When they appear, a bitter winter is on its way. For example, that cloud there.”
Squinting, I scan the sky above the Northern Ridge. Faint though it is, I do recognize the cloud the old officer has described. Massive as a mountain, it stretches the entire length of the ridge, an evil roc ready to swoop down from the heights.
“Once every fifty or sixty years, there comes a killing winter,” says the Colonel. “You have no coat, do you?”
“No, I do not,” I say. I have only the light cotton jacket I was given when I first came to Town.
The old officer opens his wardrobe and brings out a dark blue military coat. He hands it to me. The coat is heavy as stone, its wool rough to the touch.
“A little large, but it will serve you well. I procured it for you a short while ago. How is the size?”
I slip into the coat. The shoulders are too wide and the form somehow not right, but it will do. As the old officer has said, it will serve me well.
“Are you still drawing your map?” the Colonel asks.
“I am,” I say. “There are some areas I do not know, but I am determined to finish it.”
“I will not discourage you from your maps. That is your own concern, and it bothers no one. No, I will not say it is wrong, although after winter is here, you must stop all excursion into the Woods. Venturing far from inhabited areas is not wise, especially this winter. The Town, as you know, is not extensive, but you can lose your way. It would be better to leave your mapmaking for spring.”
“I understand,” I say. “When does winter begin?”
“With the snow. The first flakes of snow signal the beginning of winter. When the snow melts from the sandbars in the River, winter is at its end.”
We gaze at the clouds on the Northern Ridge, drinking our morning coffee.
“One more important thing,” the Colonel resumes. “Keep your distance from the Wall and from the Woods. In winter, they take on an awesome power.”
“What is this about the Woods? What is it that they have?”
“Nothing at all,” says the old military man after a moment of reflection. “Nothing at all. At least, it is nothing we need. For us, the Woods are an unnecessary terrain.”
“Does no one live in the woods?”
The old officer lifts the trap on the stove and sweeps out the ash. He then lays in a few twigs of kindling and some coal. “We may need to light the stoves beginning tonight,” he says. “Our firewood and coal are from the Woods. Yes, and mushrooms and tea and other provisions as well. So in that sense, the Woods are of use to us. But that is all. Other than that, nothing is there.”
“Then there are persons in the Woods who make their living by shovelling the coal and gathering firewood and mushrooms?”
“Yes, a few do live there. They bring their coal and firewood and mushrooms to Town, and in return we give them grain and clothing. There is a place where these exchanges take place weekly, but it is carried out only by specified individuals. No other contact with the Woodsfolk is to be had. They do not come near the Town; we do not go near the Woods. Their existence is wholly different from our own.”
“How so?”
“In every sense,” says the old officer, “they are different from us. But it is not wise to take an interest in them. They are dangerous. They can exert an influence over you. You are not yet formed as a person here. And until such time as various aspects of you are determined, I advise you to protect yourself from such danger. The Woods are but woods. You need merely write ‘Woods’ on your map. Is that understood?”
“Understood.”
“Then, there is the Wall. The winter Wall is the height of danger. In winter, particularly, the Wall shuts the Town in. It is impenetrable and it encloses us irrevocably. The Wall sees everything that transpires within. Be careful to do nothing that takes you near the Wall. I must repeat: you are as yet unformed. You have doubts, you have contradictions, you have regrets, you are weak. Winter is the most dangerous season for you.”
All the same, before winter sets in, I must venture forth into the Woods. It will soon be time to deliver the map, as promised, to my shadow. He has expressly asked that I investigate the Woods. After I have done that, the map will be ready.
The cloud on the Northern Ridge poses, lifting its wings, leaning forward as if to sail out over the Town. The sun is setting. The sky is overcast, a pallid cover through which the light filters and settles. To my eyes that are less than eyes, this is a season of relief. Gone, the days of brazen clear skies. There will be no headstrong breezes to sweep away the clouds.
I enter the Woods from the riverside road, intending to walk straight into the interior, keeping parallel to the Wall so I do not lose my way. Thus will I also sketch the outline of the Wall around the Woods.
This does not prove easy. Mid-route there are deep hollows where the ground drops away. I step carefully, yet find myself plunged into thick blackberry brambles. Marshy ground thwarts passage; elsewhere spiders hang their webs to net my face and hands. An awning of enormous branches tinges the Woods in sea-bottom gloom. Roots crawl through the forest floor like a virulent skin disease.
At times I imagine I hear movement in the dense undergrowth.
Yet once I turn from the Wall and set foot in the forest interior, there unfolds a mysteriously peaceful world. Infused with the life breath one senses in the wild, the Woods give me release. How can this be the minefield of dangers the old Colonel has warned me against? Here the trees and plants and tiny living things partake of a seamless living fabric; in every stone, in every clod of earth, one senses an immutable order.
The farther I venture from the Wall and proceed into the forest interior, the stronger these impressions become. All shades of misfortune soon dissipate, while the very shapes of the trees and colors of the foliage grow somehow more restive, the bird songs longer and more leisurely. In the tiny glades, in the breezes that wend through the inner woodlands, there is none of the darkness and tension I have felt nearer the Wall. Why should these surroundings make so marked a difference? Is it the power of the Wall that disturbs the air? Is it the land itself?
No matter how pleasant this walk deeper into the Woods may be, I dare not relinquish sight of the Wall. For should I stray deep into the Woods, I will have lost all direction. There are no paths, no landmarks to guide me. I moderate my steps.
I do not meet any forest dwellers. I see not a footprint, not an artifact shaped by human hands. I walk, afraid, expectant. Perhaps I have not traveled far enough into the interior. Perhaps they are skillfully avoiding me.
On the third or fourth day of these explorations, coming to a point where the eastern Wall takes a sharp turn to the south, I discover a small glade. It is open space, which fans briefly outward from a tuck in the bend of the Wall. Inexplicably, it is untouched by the surrounding growth of dense forest. This one clearing is permeated with a repose that seems uncharacteristic so close to the Wall, a tranquillity such as I have known only in the inner Woods. A lush carpet of grass spreads over the ground, while overhead a puzzle-piece of
sky cuts through the treetops.
At one extreme of the glade stands a raised masonry foundation that once supported a building. The foundation suggests that the walls of this edifice had been laid out with meticulous precision. Tracing the floorplan, I find three separate rooms in addition to what I imagine were a kitchen, bath, and hallway. I struggle to understand why a home had been built so deep in the Woods, why it has been so completely abandoned.
Behind the kitchen are the remains of a stone well. It is overgrown with grass. Would the occupants themselves have filled it in?
I sit down, leaning against the well and gazing up at the sky. A wind blowing in off the Northern Ridge rustles the branches of the trees around me. A cloud, heavy with moisture, edges across the sky. I turn up my collar and watch it move slowly past.
The Wall looms behind the ruins of the house. Never in the Woods have I been this close to the Wall. It is literally breathtaking. Here in this tiny clearing in the Eastern Woods, resting by this old well, listening to the sound of the wind, looking up at the Wall, I fully understand the words of the Gatekeeper: This Wall is perfect. A perfect creation. It rises as it has risen from the beginning. Like the clouds above, like the River etched into the earth.
The Wall is far too grand to capture on a map. It is not static. Its pulse is too intense, its curves too sublime. Its face changes dramatically with each new angle. An accurate rendering on paper cannot be possible. I feel a futility in my attempt to do so in my sketchbook.
I shut my eyes to doze. The wind swirls at an incessant pitch, but the trees and the Wall offer protection from the chill. I think about my shadow. I think of the map he has asked for. There is not much time left.
My map is lacking in precision and detail. The inner reaches of the Woods are a near blank. But winter is almost here. There will be less and less opportunity to explore further. In the sketchbook I have drawn a general outline of the Town, including the location of landmarks and buildings. I have made annotations of facts I have learned.