by Jerry
—soundless space where one drop of sap might startle the poised shade-butterfly into flurried flight—tiny figure swallowed by interleafed branchroof arch—
—and a child-explorer suddenly shrinks into small helplessness drowned in the breathing of the towering trees heart pounding tokl-tok!—
—ojisan!—chipmunk brazenbright boy’s voice, dashing the panic child memory—ojisan: if you go over there they’ll just chase you away—
—chase me away?
—the way they look at you—
—like a pregnant stray cat!
—maybe they don’t chase grownups—maybe they’ll let him join—join the club—?
—join? club? what club?—youngman asks.
—people waiting up there—boy’s chin jerks toward the hill—they re waiting a long time for that thing to come down—
—just waiting?—asks the smallest boy.
—well, they can’t fly up! so they have to wait for it to come down—they’re trying to communicate with that machine some new kind of radio thing—and there was a voice—
—you heard the voice?—that very small one asks.
—well, they were saying—
—it was different from our voice?
not like ours, like—like a praying mantis—
—ojisan: you going over there?
No: youngman shakes his head and starts to walk, leaving children behind, skirting sandpiles and pitfalls in the dark, and the dim memories crowding into emptiness: bare field: open clear spaces of a child’s mind: clean empty sponge sucking in from every side, every sign, mixed promise and perception:
—red clay and concrete pipe become desert and mountain—for these boys, all children now and in the past, and once himself: in dreams:
—diving in dew-drenched gravel piles where barren trucktiretrails lead into magic forest heartlands—youngman walks following such thoughts—
No! wallowing! in their fantasies because his own is nothing but a dry and leafless hill, vacant place stripped of wind-flowing grasses—where now in fact lead-legged faltering kokoro unstrung he stumbles on ridged real tiretracks chasing trace-memories of diaper-warmth and the creased twilight of the womb:
Understood: the only certainty is entropy.
Ojisan: funny to hear himself called ojisan: not the hilarity of the distorted image but instead the sudden secret shock of recognition—nothing to do with years-of-age, just this-is-I-am-this: true: skin and guts already drying out and hardened future clear to its farthest horizons—endless detail-realities of everyday laid out through years and years ahead glaringly visible across an empty space where no trees offer cover.
—that ojisan—
—pretty sour—
—aah—grownups get like that—
—never want to talk except telling you what you’re supposed to do!
—why do they get that way?
—shrug—no toys?—all tied up tight—
—like a fence gate with rusty wire—
Whispering voices follow and merge with gnat-buzzing fading behind: ahead the darkness thickens more and more: sight and sound dimmed, youngman walks: legs move but kokoro stands still stopped in the timeless place of children of all time—these, now, himself, short timeless time ago—burrowing sightless into thickets of dense undergrowth and tumbled pleasure where new worlds within expanding expose yet another burrow-grove entrance to yet another forestworld within—
Just so—just two years back, a student still, his own world turned upon the pivot of himself:
—drinking with a friend, sake on tonguetips tingling with vibrant words entangling and coalescing to give life and form to image and idea, whole cosmologies bursting from blind mysteries of youth’s sensuality and mounting energy flowering into multitudinous shades and shapes of meaning—
—while all about the absolute brights and darks of the external world crowd in and out.
But I am in-and-out! seed-and-earth, body-and-cell, proton-and-atom—
proton-self impelled by furious powers to explosion outward slowly slowed, ultimately contained by self-as-integral-atom:
—seedself unripe but fertile rooting in earth of the great-world-self: twisted and warped at present but with sureness of future time: interlinked, earth-seed-self-world in time together can mature.
Just so: so he believed: or had believed?
When?
Awareness faded in these few short days and months—perhaps from the first time he put on a suit and tied his tie to go to work—perhaps from that day life began to merge with the inexorable click of the timeclock, life counted out in number-counting till even the monotony is hardly felt—Busy-ness: time rushing by filled with the smell of office heaters and screech of traffic brushing against dry skin: body frozen so still finally even awareness of dryfreeze evaporates—
—you belong to the society?
—nnnhh?
Two men in the darkness: one young man his own age, large camera hanging from his shoulder, busy-brisk:
—you don’t belong to the group meeting here?
—no—youngman shakes his head.
Cameraman nods curtly, steps back in darkness with the other man—a sigh of irritation comes out from one of them—
—come on, let’s get out of here!
—give it another thirty minutes—I broke my back getting here!—let’s wait and see if anything—
—you mean nothing, I tell you, nothing’s going to happen!—all we have to do is turn in the picture of these nuts—
—obviously, from some newspaper or magazine: what for?
But their business seems less to the point than their behavior—two people running like mad inside a space the size of a slow snail s circuit—
—no! I have no right to smugness like this—
Youngman thinks:
—the world and all its people follow certain paths planned or unplanned—
—and I myself—can it be, he is the only one untouched by such vibrations?
Youngman wonders—alone inside this dried-and-packaged existence, does nothing else remain?
If a mushroom cloud went up in front of him, even that would turn out to be empty—
Youngman expects nothing at all as calmly-surely as a child long back expected-looked to uncover hazy blue skies inside dark thickets of undergrowth: just so.
Sliding down the slope of the past he has come back to the same vacant field to find no trace of green growth left: only trucktracks cruelly dug into dirt.
But not quite so: in some far corners a few clumps of higher grass still stand and in one clump a dim bulking shape:
—you there! watch out—a hole there!
Youngman leans forward watchfully allowing himself to be steered in around the hole by the dry trickling voice:
—here you are—grass here—
Youngman takes the indicated seat:
—nice cool evening—enjoying the air here?
—nani-ne—well, in a way—I gave my grandchild some fish-sausage and got told off for it, so—
—like the fish-talk of the children, this old man’s words make no more sense than the gnats buzzing: but youngman bends a polite ear: dry-and-gentle voice as if the years have somehow husked it clean of both absurdity and agony of human busy-ness:
—I fed the child a hit of fish-sausage, that’s all—nothing wrong with it—fish-sausage is tender and nourishing—but my daughter-in-law doesn’t like it: doesn’t want me to feed the boy at all—she doesn’t say anything of course, not a word out of her mouth: but it’s clear enough: I understand—getting old, ears don’t matter so much—learn to hear with other senses—
Youngman nods absently—
His own life would soon certainly be consumed with just such daily non-events—devoured by trivia—like microscopic worms eating the body from inside till he was left an impotent old man preoccupied with grandchild and fish-sausage—Youngman laughs politely:
—you live near here?
>
—live? no—the husky voice seems to have no age now—I come here sometimes—know these parts from very long ago—
—changed a lot, hasn’t it?
—changed?—yes, of course, anything changes—
—yet in the vacant lot there is no real change: built up with factory dormitories or something else in farther future still it would remain an empty place—
Lost in perspectives thus youngman continues to converse—
—back in my childhood time grass grew all over here—
—hill had plenty of trees too—
—talk about that, there were plenty of people on the hill tonight—?
—yuh—they’re still there: waiting for a saucer to come down.
—what did you say?
—saucer: what they call “sky-flying saucers”—from the tone he could be talking about fishcakes still—that’s what they call them—
Youngman peers into darkness at the old man’s fuzzed face: remembers fragments of the children’s murmurings—the journalists’ exchange—something about a society to study flying saucers: people who say they meet space-visitors and exchange messages with them—all so ridiculous one does not even really want to laugh—
—you don’t believe in space-men?
—well-ll—I don’t mind—youngman, depressed, mumbles potato-mouthed—suppose it’s possible—
—yes—the old man speaks very slowly, softly, seriously—it is possible.
No way to answer that—those people over there—what are they—you know them?
—no: no—they’re just waiting, that’s all—saucer supposed to land over there somewhere—nah, getting old one’s ears are bad but—
—these people—what makes them think—do they know when—?
of course not—no: it could be any tune:—the statement is quiet and assured.
—nothing to do with me—youngman thinks and turns his eyes up to the few stars scattered in the cloud-hazed dark night sky—
the stars used to have dignity and mystery—now soot and pollution dim their light and no one cares—people have no time for stargazing anyhow—
A single point of light shoots suddenly from mid-sky to cross the void: in spite of himself—
—aa-ahh!
—a meteor—says the old man at his side as if sharing his feelings.
Youngman laughs uneasily eyes still fixed on that corner of the sky: sitting so staring up in the same posture as those others on the hill, youngman’s kokoro opens: consciousness—stubborn believers—tense fanatics—seedy ordinary people—baker, teacher, unemployed perhaps—staring up to the sky with desperate hope—all this vibrates through the night into youngman’s kokoro overflowing:
—they mast have something to believe in—and I too—simply believing is necessary—
Laugh it away: laughing empties the chest: into the chasm flows thick night air: long time youngman believes something not definite but certain things must be:
—the sky, eternally and infinitely deep: the stars, their ancient mystery regained: flight of white-silver darts of fire heating the night sky changing to crimson: hot red rain, raining—
—the gleaming transparent shape touches down on earth noiselessly: strange beings must appear—like snakes? like sea-squirts? without shape?—and everything will change: cities, towns, worn-out peace, even war: all values and all meanings—
—everything must change: and he himself—skin, bones, spirit must renew themselves cell by cell step by step—
—hungry for the first sign of change, youngman gazes at the sky, waiting, head back, breath caught—
—anything the matter?
Dry cool old man’s voice: dry ice dissolving the brief fantasy—belief more foolish than child’s make-believe—
Bile burns in his throat: standing up woodenly youngman stammers:
—I’m—get on home—
oh you’re going?—old man asks quietly—looks like the kids are going too—
True—over where the concrete pipes gleam white by night small shadows are detaching themselves one by one—
—everybody’s going home, looks like—the old man is looking at the hill now: nothing but darkness in that direction: but the old man nods as if concluding a performance and says in dismissal—
—well, good night!
Youngman walks eyes fastened on the sky: thin scattered star-fragments disappear: fog already—or perhaps gathering clouds: dirt underfoot hard-dry and truck-dug tracks every now and then against his sole.
Alone in the empty place youngman quickens his steps following the children: still at some distance he feels echoes of the wash of fish-talk from them—
—I knew it—it didn’t happen after all—
—it couldn’t really—
—they just couldn’t make contact, that’s all.
—hey! how come we didn’t run?
—nothing to run from, you dope!
—running’ll wear you down—like dried mushrooms!
Youngman slows his pace:
—it just couldn’t happen: nothing can happen.
Child-shadows disappear—
Youngman’s shadow gone—
The cluster at the hill-foot is dissolved.
Behind a clump of weeds, an old man sitting still—
Old man?—not quite that old man now.
Sitting still?—no wind but he is wavering somehow.
Something seems to be changing in the dark.
[*] Translator s note: Certain Japanese words have been used here because they have no precise English equivalents: Kokoro means both “heart and “mind”: either word alone is insufficient. Ojisan is roughly a combination of mister, mac, sir, uncle, dad, hey you, mate, pops, and another “sir” for good measure. Sani-ne is just what is sounds like in English.
THE FACE OF THE ENEMY
Gail Kimberly
ANOTHER SPACESHIP HAD LANDED here on this planet they had named New Earth.
Chad Reynolds, with his father and two of the other men, stood under the blue gray trees on a hill and watched as the spaceship burned its way down to land on the ferrous-red ground, not five kilos from their own settlement. He wondered who would be in that ship, and, as they climbed into the aircar they had left in a clearing and flew it to the place where the ship had set down amid singed vegetation, he felt tight with fear.
His fears were justified. When they were close enough, they saw that the ship bore the insignia of the enemy. They got out of the aircar and waited.
Three men came out of the ship, squinting their eyes against the unaccustomed brightness of the white sun and holding their hands against the L-guns strapped to their belts. Chad’s father swore softly, and the two men with him went rigid. The others stopped just outside their ship. Then they all stared at each other in the hot, bright silence. Finally one of the newcomers held up two fingers in the ancient sign of peace, and the two with him gravely did the same. Chad let out the breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding.
“This land is ours.” His father’s voice boomed at the strangers. “Do you understand that?”
The man who had first given the sign of peace answered him in English. “This planet is habitable. We have traveled long and far. We will stay here.”
There was uneasy shifting and muttering among Chad’s group, and again it was his father who spoke. “How many people have come with you?”
“Twenty-six adults, ten children. And you?”
“Our colony consists of exactly forty-three Americans.”
The man standing next to Chad called out, “How are things on Earth?”
The newcomer shook his head heavily and frowned. “We left more than a year ago, but communications had stopped weeks before we escaped. We were the only survivors in our city. Earth must have been destroyed by now.” Chad shuddered. Their group had left Death Valley Central Spaceport right after the first bombs began devastating the eastern states. Other groups were leaving, too, but the
irs had been the only one to land on this planet, even though it had been charted by the interstellar explorers and was known to have an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. Chad’s father, who had been the captain of an interplanetary trader, had hurriedly gathered his family, his crew, and as many others as could be taken into his ship and had blasted off, knowing the holocaust would not end, once it had started. Now the enemy stood before them—the destroyers of Earth, who had sent the first missiles as a prelude to the ravage of the planet they had all shared.
“Why did you start the war?” one of Chad’s group asked.
The strangers looked astonished and spoke together in their own language. Then the spokesman answered, “We did not send the first missiles. You did!”
The three Americans laid quick hands on their L-guns. The three others did the same. The white sun burned down angrily on the tense scene as the door of the silver ship opened. People filed solemnly out, some leading or carrying small children, and arranged themselves around their spokesman.
Chad’s father turned and started back toward the aircar, drawing the others with him. “They might get ugly,” he said.
Immediately the stranger called after them. “We come in peace. Will you stay and talk with us?”
“Peace, he says!” one of the men muttered.
“Earth destroyed . . . Los Angeles burned to cinders . . . my folks dead . . . and he talks about peace!”
“They want us to help them,” Chad’s father said. “We’ve been here longer, and we have more people. Once we help them get settled here, they’ll be up to their old tricks again, starting trouble.”
The coaxing, accented words came again. “Will you not stay and talk with us?” They turned and saw the three armed men coming slowly toward them.
Chad’s father looked worried and conferred with the two other men. Chad looked at the group around the spaceship and noticed a boy and a girl, both about seventeen, his own age, who were taller than the others. Both wore short tunics and sandals. The girl’s hair was long and thick, and it glinted blue black in the sunlight. The boy looked angry and was glaring at him.