Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World

  “I can believe it,” I said. “But tell me, what’s the lowdown on this plateau?”

  “This mountain is where the INKlings first lived. They dug holes into the rock face and lived together inside. The area we’re standing on now is where religious ceremonies were held. It’s supposed to be the dwelling place of their gods, where they made living sacrifices to them.”

  “You mean those gruesome clawed fish?”

  “According to Grandfather, the fish are supposed to have led the INKlings’ ancestors here.” She trained her light at our feet and showed me a shallow trough carved into the ground. The trough led straight off into the darkness. “If you follow this trough, you get to the ancient altar. It’s the holiest spot in this sanctuary. No INKling would go near it. That’s probably where Grandfather is, safe and sound-removed.”

  We followed the trough. It soon got deeper, the path descending steadily, the walls to either side rising higher and higher. The walls seemed ready to close in and crush us flat any second, but nothing moved. Only the queer squishing rhythm of our rubber boots echoed between the walls. I looked up time and again as I walked.

  It was the urge to look up at the sky. But of course there was no sun nor moon nor stars overhead. Darkness hung heavy over me. Each breath I took, each wet footstep, everything wanted to slide like mud to the ground.

  I lifted my left hand and pressed on the light of my digital wristwatch. Two-twenty-one. It was midnight when we headed underground, so only a little over two hours had passed. We continued walking down, down the narrow trench, mouths clamped tight.

  I could no longer tell if my eyes were open or shut. The only thing impinging on my senses at this point was the echo of footsteps. The freakish terrain and air and darkness distorted what reached my ears. I tried to impose a verbal meaning on the sounds, but they would not conform to any words I knew. It was an unfamiliar language, a string of tones and inflections that could not be accommodated within the range of Japanese syllables. In French or German—or English perhaps—it might approximate this:

  Even—through—be—shopped—degreed—well

  Still, when I actually pronounced the words, they were far from the sounds of those footsteps. A more accurate transcription would have been:

  Efgvén—gthôuv—bge—shpèvg—égvele—wgevl

  Finnish? Yet another gap in my linguistic abilities. If pressed to give a meaning, I might have said something like, “A Farmer met the aged Devil on the road.” Just my impression, of course.

  I kept trying to puzzle together various words and phrases as I walked. I pictured her pink jogging shoes, right heel onto ground, center of gravity shifting to tiptoe, then just before lifting away, left heel onto ground. An endless repetition. Time was getting slower, the clock spring running down, the hands hardly advancing.

  Efgvén—gthôuv—bge—shpèvg—égvele—wgevl

  Efgvén—gthôuv—bge—shpèvg—égvele—wgevl

  Efgvén—gthôuv—bge—

  The aged Devil sat on a rock by the side of a Finnish country road. The Devil was ten thousand, maybe twenty thousand years old, and very tired. He was covered in dust. His whiskers were wilting. Whither be ye gang in sich ’aste? the Devil called out to a Farmer. Done broke me ploughshare and must to fixe it, the Farmer replied. Not to hurrie, said the Devil, the sunne still play es o’erhead on highe, wherefore be ye scurrying? Sit ye doun and ‘eare m’ tale. The Farmer knew no good could come of passing time with the Devil, but seeing him so utterly haggard, the Farmer—

  Something struck my cheek. Something flat, fleshy, not too hard. But what? I tried to think, and it struck my cheek again. I raised my hand to brush it away, to no avail. An unpleasant glare was swimming in my face. I opened my eyes, which until then I hadn’t even noticed were closed. It was her flashlight on me, her hand slapping me.

  “Stop it,” I shouted. “It’s too bright. It hurts.”

  “You can’t fall asleep here like this! Get up! Get up!” she screamed back.

  “Get up? What are you talking about?”

  I switched on my flashlight and shone it around me. I was on the ground, back against a wall, dripping wet. I had dozed off without knowing it.

  I slowly raised myself to my feet.

  “What happened? One minute I’m keeping pace, the next I’m asleep. I have no recollection of sitting down or going to sleep.”

  “That’s the trap,” she said. “They’ll do anything to make us fall asleep.”

  “They?”

  “Whoever or whatever it is that lives in this mountain. Gods, evil spirits, I don’t know—them. They set up interference.”

  I shook my head.

  “Everything got so hazy. Your shoes were making those sounds and …”

  “My shoes?”

  I told her about her Finnish footsteps. The old Devil. The Farmer—

  “That was all a trick,” she broke in. “Hypnosis. If I hadn’t looked back, you probably would have slept there for … for ages.”

  “Ages?”

  “Yes, that’s right. You’d have been a goner,” she intoned. Too far gone for what, she didn’t say. “You have rope in the knapsack, don’t you?”

  “Uh-huh, about five meters.”

  “Out with it.”

  I unstrapped the knapsack from my back, reached inside among the cans, whiskey, and canteen, and pulled it out. She tied one end of the rope to my belt, winding the other end around her waist.

  “There. That ought to do,” she said. “This way we won’t get separated.”

  “Unless we both fall asleep,” I said.

  “Don’t add to our problems. Let’s get going.”

  And so off we went, tied together. I tried hard not to hear her footsteps. I maintained flashlight contact with the back of her GI jacket. I bought that jacket in 1971, I was pretty sure. The Vietnam War was still going on, Nixon and his ugly mug were still in the White House. Everybody and his brother had long hair, wore dirty sandals and army-surplus jackets with peace signs on the back, tripped out to psychedelic music, thought they were Peter Fonda, screaming down the road on a Chopped Hog to a full-blast charge of Born to Be Wild, blurring into I Heard It through the Grapevine. Similar intros—different movie?

  “What are you thinking about?” asked the chubby girl.

  “Oh nothing,” I said.

  “Shall we sing something?”

  “Do we have to?”

  “Well, then, think of something else.”

  “Let’s have a conversation.”

  “About what?”

  “How about rain?”

  “Sure.”

  “What do you associate with rain?”

  “It rained the night my folks died.”

  “How about something more cheerful?”

  “That’s okay. I don’t mind talking about it,” she said. “Unless you don’t want to hear it.”

  “If you want to talk about it, you should talk about it,” I replied.

  “It wasn’t really raining. The sky was overcast, and I was in the hospital. There was a camphor tree by the window. I lay in bed and memorized every branch. A lot of birds came. Sparrows and shrikes and starlings, and other more beautiful birds. But when it was about to rain, the birds wouldn’t be there. Then they’d be back, chirping thanks for the clear weather. I don’t know why. Maybe because when rain stops, bugs come out of the ground.”

  “Were you in the hospital a long time?”

  “About one month. I had a heart operation. Funny, isn’t it? I was the only one sick, now I’m the only one alive. The day they died was a busy day for the birds. They had the heat turned up in the hospital, so the window was steamed up and I had to get up out of bed to wipe the window. I wasn’t supposed to get out of bed, but I had to see the tree and birds and rain. There were these couple of birds with black heads and red wings. That’s when I thought, how strange the world is. I mean, there must be millions of camphor trees in the world—of course, they didn’t all have t
o be camphor trees—but on that one day, when it rained and stopped and rained and stopped, how many birds must have been flying back and forth? It made me really sad.”

  “It made you sad?”

  “Because, like I said, there’s got to be millions of trees in the world and millions of birds and millions of rainfalls. But I couldn’t even figure one out, and I’d probably die that way. I just cried and cried, I felt so lonely. And that was the night my whole family got killed. Though they didn’t tell me until much later.”

  “That must have been horrible.”

  “Well, it was the end of the world for me. Everything got so dark and lonely and miserable. Do you know what that feels like?”

  “I can imagine,” I said.

  Her thoughts on rain occupied my thoughts. So much so I didn’t notice that she’d stopped and I bumped into her, again.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Shh!” She grabbed hold of my arm. “I hear something. Listen!”

  We stood absolutely still and strained our ears. At first, faint, almost imperceptible. A deep rumbling, like a tremor. The sound got louder. The air began to tremble. Everything told us something was about to happen.

  “An earthquake?” I asked.

  “No,” the girl shuddered. “It’s much worse than that.”

  22

  Gray Smoke

  AS the Colonel forewarned, one sees smoke almost every day. Gray smoke that rises from the vicinity of the Apple Grove and ascends into the clouds. If one watches long enough, the Apple Grove will seem itself to create these clouds. The first signs of smoke are visible at exactly three in the afternoon, and the burning goes on according to the number of dead. The day after a blizzard or a freezing night, a thick column of smoke will continue for hours.

  Why is there not a scheme to prevent the beasts from dying?

  “Could not a shelter be built for them?” I ask the Colonel while we play chess. “Should they not be protected from the snow and wind and cold? A simple roofed enclosure would save many of them.”

  “It would do no good,” is all he responds, never lifting his eyes from the chessboard. “They would never take to the shelter. They would continue to sleep on the ground as always. They would sleep out in the elements, even if it means they die.”

  The Colonel threatens, placing his High Priest directly before my King. To either side, two Horns are positioned in fire line. I wait for them to initiate the attack.

  “It almost seems the beasts wish to suffer and die,” I say.

  “In a way, yes. That is natural to them. Cold and discomfort. That might even be their salvation.”

  The Colonel falls silent, allowing me to entrench my Ape beside his Wall. Perhaps I can lure the Wall into moving. The Colonel reaches to take the bait, only to pull back one of his Knights and fortify his defenses.

  “Getting your wiles, are you now?” says the military man with a laugh.

  “Nowhere near you, of course.” I also laugh. “What do you mean by ‘their salvation’?”

  “Odd to say, dying might be what saves them. They die and are reborn in the spring. As new young, that is.”

  “But then those newborn young grow to suffer and die all the same. Why must they suffer so?”

  “Because it is ordained,” he pronounces. “Your turn. You cannot win unless you eliminate my High Priest.”

  After three days of snow appears a sudden sky of clarity. Rays of sun spill a blinding glare upon the frozen white Town. I hear snow falling from branches everywhere. I stay indoors and draw the curtains against the light, but I cannot escape. The ice-encrusted Town refracts like a huge, many-faceted jewel, sending knives of light to stab my eyes.

  I pass the afternoons face down on my bed. I strain to hear the songs of the birds that visit the windowsills for breadcrumbs the old men leave. I can hear the old men themselves sitting in front of the house, talking in the sun. I alone shun the warm bounty of sunshine.

  When the sun sets, I get out of bed and bathe my sore eyes in cold water. I put on my black glasses and descend the snowbanked slope to the Library. I cannot read as much as usual. After only one skull, the glowing of the old dreams pricks needles of pain into my eyeballs. The vague hollows behind my vision grow heavy, my fingertips lose their sensitivity.

  At these times, the Librarian brings me a cool towel compress for my eyes and some light broth or warm milk to drink. They are gritty on my tongue, wholly lacking in flavor. I grow accustomed to this, but I still do not find the taste agreeable.

  “You are gradually adjusting to the Town,” she says. “The food here is different than elsewhere. We use only a few basic ingredients. What resembles meat is not. What resembles eggs is not. What resembles coffee only resembles coffee. Everything is made in the image of something. The soup is good for you. It warms you.”

  “Yes, it does,” I say.

  My head is not so heavy, my body not as cold. I thank her and close my eyes to rest.

  “Is there something else you require?” she asks.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Surely there is something that would help to unclose your winter shell.”

  “What I want is the sun,” I say. Whereupon I remove my black glasses and wipe the lenses with a rag. “But it’s impossible. My eyes can’t tolerate light.”

  “Something more true than sunlight. Something perhaps from your former world that gave you comfort.”

  I chase up the pieces of memory left to me, but none completes the puzzle.

  “It’s no good. I cannot remember a thing. I’ve lost it all.”

  “Something small, anything, the first thing that comes to you. Let me help you.”

  My memory is solid rock. It does not budge. My head hurts. Losing my shadow, I have lost much. What is left is sealed over in the winter cold.

  She puts her hand on my temple.

  “We can think about this later. Perhaps you will remember.”

  “Let me read one last old dream,” I insist.

  “You are tired. Should you not wait until tomorrow? There is no need to strain yourself. The old dreams will keep.”

  “No, I would rather read dreams than do nothing. At least then, I don’t have to think about anything.”

  She stands, and disappears into the stacks. I sit there, eyes shut, plunging into darkness. How long will this winter last? A killing winter, the Colonel has said. And it has only begun. Will my shadow survive? No, the question is, will I survive, uncertain as I am?

  She places a skull on the table and wipes it with a dampened cloth, as usual, followed by a dry cloth. I sit there, head resting on my hand, and watch her fingers at work.

  “Is there nothing else I can do for you?” she says, looking up unexpectedly.

  “You do so much for me already,” I say.

  She stays her hand and sits facing me. “I mean something else. Perhaps you wish to sleep with me.”

  I shake my head.

  “I do not understand,” she implores. “You said you needed me.”

  “I do. But now it is not right.”

  She says nothing and at length returns to polishing the skull. I look at the ceiling, at the yellowed light hanging from it. No matter how hard my mind becomes, no matter how winter closes me, it is not for me to be sleeping with her. It is the Town that wants me to sleep with her. That is how they would claim my mind.

  She places the polished skull before me, but I do not pick it up. I am looking at her fingers on the table. I try to read meaning from her fingers, but they tell me nothing.

  “Tell me more about your mother,” I say.

  “My mother?”

  “Yes. Anything at all.”

  “Well,” she begins, her hands on the skull, “it seems I felt differently toward my mother than I did toward others. I cannot recall well, it was so long ago. Why that should be, I do not know.”

  “That’s the way it is with the mind. Nothing is ever equal. Like a river, as it flows, the course ch
anges with the terrain.”

  She smiles. “That seems wrong.”

  “That’s the way it is,” I say. “Do you not miss your mother?”

  “I do not know.”

  She moves the skull to stare at it from various angles.

  “Is the question too vague?”

  “Yes, probably.”

  “Shall we talk of something else?” I suggest. “What sort of things did your mother like? Can you remember?”

  “Yes, I remember very well. On warm days we took walks and watched the beasts. The Townfolk do not often take walks, unlike you.”

  “Yes, I enjoy walking,” I say. “What else can you recall?”

  “When she was alone in her room, I would hear her talking, although I do not know if it pleased her.”

  “What sort of things did she say?”

  “I do not remember. It was not talking as one usually does. I do not know how to explain, but it seemed to have importance to Mother.”

  “Importance?”

  “Yes, the talking had a … an accent to it. Mother would draw words out or she would make them short. Her voice would sound high and low, like the wind.”

  “That is singing,” I suddenly realize.

  “Can you talk like that?”

  “Singing is not talking. It is song.”

  “Can you do it too?” she says.

  I take a deep breath but find no music in my memory.

  “I’m sorry. I cannot remember a single song,” I say.

  “Is it impossible to bring the songs back?”

  “A musical instrument might help. If I could play a few notes, perhaps a song would come to me.”

  “What does a musical instrument look like?”

  “There are hundreds of musical instruments, all different shapes and sizes. Some are so large, four persons are needed to lift them; others will fit in the palm of the hand. The sounds are different as well.”

  Having said this, I begin to feel a string of memory slowly unravelling inside me.