Lunatics, Lovers and Poets

by Daniel Hahn

  Menenius was trying to discern what was going on outside. He focused intensely, managed to put it into words and then throated them out, though only because he was sure the man with the knife in his mouth wouldn’t understand:

  ‘Hear that? Sounds like the waving of arms.’

  ‌

  ‌Glass

  Nell Leyshon

  The day I was born it was hot and airless. It felt as though the sky had been lowered and there was a new glass roof above the world, trapping in the heat.

  My mother and father were working in the field when the pains began. They couldn’t go back to the house because it was a thirty-minute walk away. And the house was another thirty-minute walk away from the village.

  And so they went into the byre where the walls were three-feet thick and it was cool. My father broke open a clean bale of straw; my mother lay down and he knelt by her side. He had seen this unfold many times before, had urged many young out from the black and white flanks of his cows.

  When I slipped out onto the straw, he wiped off the vernix, noticed the gash between my legs, handed me to my mother.

  She named me Eve.

  People make such a fuss about babies. They coddle them. Swaddle them. They hold them with great care, as though their bones are made of eggshell.

  Mine are not.

  When I was born my skull, like all our skulls, was pliable; it was made up of plates of bone connected by membranes. As I edged out through the birth canal, the plates shifted closer together to allow my passage. Then as I emerged into the air, they spread apart like the continents on the globe, settling into place.

  On the front of my head the soft gap between the bones, the fontanelle, pulsated. The rhythm echoed my heartbeat.

  It took eighteen months for the fontanelle to close, and for the skull to fuse.

  I was a quiet child.

  My mother later told me she never heard me cry. Not a peep.

  I was an obedient child.

  My mother sent me to school and as I walked through the door I didn’t look back.

  I was a curious child.

  Curious: odd, a one-off, a quirk.

  Curious: I needed to know everything.

  My brain never stopped working. Thrum thrum. It worked so hard from morning till night that it felt hot within my skull. Only at night did it cool off.

  Childhood is a curious place for a curious child. I was always an odd fit. Too small, too freckled, too pale and too clever. No one likes a clever person. No one likes a clever girl.

  At first my father and mother tried to get me to work in the same field where I was born, but I was small and I was never strong. A farmer, my father liked to say, needs to be strong in the arm, thick in the head. I was the inverse: weak arms, strong mind.

  I spent most days reading.

  Until the age of eleven my world was unpredictable. The stairs led to other planets where I walked upon the sky, and the earth with her blue seas and green continents curved above me; under the table lived giant cats who curled into balls I could rest my head upon; my bed sailed oceans.

  I thought this was how my world would always be, but no. In September, after a long summer, I was told it was time for the big school.

  The freedom of the field was over and I was about to be channelled into the cattle crusher, the trap where I would be dehorned, deloused, branded.

  I was about to find out that at a certain age if you still claim you can see fairies at the end of the vegetable patch, or that you can hear creatures howling and eating their young in the night, you are threatened with the head doctor who gives you medicine and wraps you in very tight bandages so your arms can’t move.

  The first day of school I walk into the village and catch the school bus. I climb up the three metal steps and sit on one of the seats at the front.

  My feet don’t touch the floor. My legs stick out.

  I look like a doll. Freckled face, too-big clothes. Ankle socks with a lace ruff.

  The other girls sit in pairs. They chatter like painted birds.

  – Oh you look so lovely in that.

  – I love that blue.

  – Your hair. Look at your hair.

  In the school I am told to sit and look towards the front of the class where various adults talk at me. I am supposed to listen, regurgitate, listen, regurgitate.

  It isn’t long before I realise that they don’t know any more than me.

  I let them know what I think.

  I am not a popular student.

  Days and months pass and one morning I climb onto the bus, book in hand, and take my normal seat. But my legs, instead of sticking out stiffly, touch the floor.

  The week after that when I walk into the kitchen my mother looks at me as though she has never seen me before.

  People start to remark upon the state of my body:

  – What have you been eating?

  – Have you been sleeping in the greenhouse?

  My legs start to hurt. The bones inside ache. Growing pains, the nurse says.

  And then one morning I take off my night clothes to put on my day clothes. And I see more changes.

  Where there was once arid land there is growth.

  I grow a copse under each arm. A copse between the legs.

  Deposits of fat begin to appear. I soften. I grow two small hills on my chest.

  I am becoming a landscape.

  The river water is blood.

  I don’t understand why they called me Eve. She was the first woman and had not come from another woman. She came from a rib.

  I have pointed out the various inconsistencies in the story. I have asked why the first Eve is always portrayed as having a belly button. Where was the umbilical cord attached?

  One day at school I am sitting on a wooden chair in the corner of an empty room. Chalk dust covers the floor. I have a book in my hand and I am devouring it, page by page.

  The door opens but I don’t look up.

  Footsteps come towards me but I don’t look up.

  A voice speaks:

  – What are you reading?

  My eyes never leave the lines, never look up.

  – I said, what are you reading?

  It is only then I realise I am being addressed. It is an odd feeling: someone has asked a question that expects an answer. It is not a taunt.

  I look up.

  His hair is the dark of a night after a waned moon. It falls over his face, allows him not to look another in the eye. He is from the farm in the valley and looks as though he has never seen the light. His skin is as pale as mine. He smells of cow dung, not unpleasant. It reminds me of home.

  – The book, he says. – What is it?

  I am obedient and turn the book over so he can see the spine. He reads the words.

  – It’s good, he says.

  I feel a jolt through me. It is as though the words bear a current, an ability to stir me out of a deep sleep. There is only one way he would know if it was good or bad. He reads, too.

  I look at him.

  – I want to say something to you, he says.

  I wait.

  He takes a deep breath. His voice trembles. – I think you are pretty.

  It is another jolt.

  Pretty. Pretty. Me? White skin (so pale it’s almost translucent), covered in specks of brown, like mud flicked up after a plough.

  I stand up.

  He asks me where I’m going.

  I don’t answer.

  I need to go home. Now.

  I slam the book shut and the chalk dust in the room lifts in clouds.

  That night at home my mother and father are in bed and the crack of light under their door has expired. I am in my bed.

  It is a warm night. A summer night.

  My legs ache. They ache with growing and they ache deep down inside. It is bone ache. I push the covers back from my body and pull up my nightwear. I look at my legs.

  At first I think it must be the lamp: it is a harsh shadeless
bulb, and tends to distort.

  I take a closer look.

  And then I see.

  My legs are made of glass.

  I know they are because I can see through the skin, the surface. I can see the veins and the arteries. Busy, busy, red and blue blood. I see the outline of muscles.

  I am one of the illustrations we have on the walls of the biology room.

  I cover myself up. What to do? What to do?

  Perhaps it was a trick of the mind. I uncover myself. No. No. My legs are made of glass.

  The next morning I don’t get out of bed. I daren’t.

  If I do, I know what will happen. They will shatter. For this is not bulletproof shatterproof reinforced glass. This is molten sand, translucent substance, as old as the first window.

  I am made of an ancient material.

  I am fragile.

  My mother comes upstairs and sees that I am still in bed.

  – Are you ill? she asks.

  I shake my head. For I am not ill; I am just shocked.

  – Eve, she says, – speak to me.

  But I say nothing for how do I explain?

  She calls my father and he runs quickly up the stairs, in response to the note of alarm in her voice. They stand in the doorway. They stare at me. My mother moves first. She walks towards the bed. – Let me help you.

  I shake my head gently. If I shake it too hard I know I will break my neck. She comes closer. I have to say something. – Don’t touch me.

  My voice is fragile, has the tone of a finger flicking glass.

  I lift my arm. Translucent. Beneath the glass I see veins and bone and muscle. I am a walking model of a human being. I am a demonstration of how the body works. There are no secrets.

  – Look, I say.

  She looks at my arm. – I don’t know what I should be looking at.

  – This. It’s made of glass. I am made of glass.

  My mother turns to my father. – What can she mean?

  My father is silent.

  My mother sinks to her knees by my bedside. – You aren’t made of glass, she says. – What is wrong with you to think this of yourself?

  She reaches out to hold my hand. I gasp. – If you touch me, I say, – I will break.

  My father approaches. They stand together and look down upon me.

  – Nothing has changed, my father says.

  – Oh, you are so wrong, I say. – Everything has changed.

  They leave me on my own so that I can spend a day in bed and realise that there is nothing wrong with me.

  When they close the door I am relieved.

  I place both arms under the covers as I do not want to see what is inside my body.

  I lie, still.

  A long time passes then I hear footsteps, and the door opens. A plate of food is placed by my bed and a glass of water. I do not touch them: they revolt me.

  I do not read. This is the first day I have not consumed any words.

  I try to imagine going to school. The corridors would be busy and full of people carrying bags. They would collide into me. Pieces of me would break off.

  I look at the glass of water. Turn my face to the wall.

  My mother returns in the afternoon. She sees the full glass, sees the wasted food.

  She cries. – You have to eat.

  She puts down a plate with a peeled and sliced apple.

  I am not tempted.

  I am left alone again. The sun has drifted westwards and each corner of the room is gathering dark.

  It is a warm night. A summer night.

  The books are closed. The books are too heavy to lift.

  The lids of my eyes are heavy. They must be for they are made of glass. They are brittle. I must close them for they are heavy and I do not think I can keep them open.

  When I wake I look at the window. The leaves have slipped from the trees. The windowsill outside my room is white. It is thick with snow. My breath emerges from my mouth in clouds.

  I have lost time.

  I lift a hand: glass glass glass.

  I did not dream it.

  I hear something in the room. Slight click of knees, air exhaled as a body adjusts itself, the creak of a chair. Then silence.

  I don’t look.

  I won’t.

  I look at the white landscape of the wall, look up at the ceiling, the land of crack and cobweb.

  My mind is active: thrum thrum. My skull is warm with thoughts.

  There is a movement from the chair. I turn my head towards the centre of the room.

  And I see him.

  His hair has been cut. I can see his two eyes. They are so pale, so large and pale, that the pupils are specks of dirt.

  – What are you doing here? I ask.

  My voice is fragile, has the tone of a finger flicking glass, has the tone of a wet finger run round the top of a glass. Has the tone of a glass girl.

  – You’ve been asleep for a long time, he says.

  – I know.

  I pull the covers up to my chin in case he can see my glass skin.

  – I don’t want you here, I say.

  He shrugs, the only movement in the room. – What you want doesn’t interest me.

  He is sitting, has a stillness which is uncommon. His hands sit in his lap, obedient.

  – Do you know what has happened to me? I ask.

  He nods. – You have turned into a girl made of glass.

  I stare at him.

  – It is true, isn’t it?

  – It’s what you say. Therefore it’s true.

  We stay like that for a while: I am under the covers; he sits.

  He speaks:

  – Your mother says you aren’t eating.

  I feel myself under the covers. Sharp edges, cool smooth surfaces. I am empty.

  – Your mother says you won’t drink.

  He brings out a stone flask, a flagon. He pulls out a wide cork, pours the contents into a glass. – I brought you this.

  I look at it.

  It is liquid tinged green with small floating particles.

  – It’s from the river, he says.

  He stands, lifts the water and holds it to my lips. I hear the glass hit my glass lip, hear it clink. I shrink backwards into the pillow.

  – You’ll break me, I say.

  – I won’t. Drink.

  He tips the glass and the first drops go onto my lips, into my mouth. I can taste the bed of the river, the gravel and the weed. I can taste the skin of a trout.

  He waits until I have drunk as much as I can and then takes the glass away. He places it on the table.

  Fresh snow has begun to fall against the window. It lands in silent slumps. My breath is clouded.

  Dark comes.

  I ask if he is going home but he says nothing. His eyes are closed. He sleeps.

  I pull down the covers and pull up my nightclothes. I see my glass legs.

  I pull my clothes up further, see my glass pelvis, the hip bones. I see through my belly into the cavity, see the cave womb and the unfurled bracken stalks which hold my eggs.

  The night comes but sleep doesn’t.

  The moon has risen and its light has entered the room.

  I whisper. – Are you awake?

  – Yes.

  – You were staring at me, I say.

  – I know.

  – I am not an exhibit.

  He smiles. – There aren’t many girls made of glass.

  The moon-silvered room makes me bold. Words come easily, like water.

  – There is nothing to see, I say.

  He thinks for a moment. – Because you are transparent?

  – Yes.

  – But I can see you, he says.

  – O.

  – You are not transparent to me. And you are not transparent to everyone who has wanted to come and see you.

  – They want to see me?

  – Yes. Your father has had to turn them away.

  – O.

  – By b
eing made of glass you are attracting attention.

  – O, I say. – I see. But I don’t want attention.

  He shrugs. – You have to expect it.

  I lie and think. My skull is warm with thoughts; each tightly knitted-together tectonic plate thrums with thoughts.

  – Do I appear of coloured glass? I ask. – Is that why I am not transparent to you?

  – Coloured glass? he says. – No.

  – Then, I say, – if I am not clear glass and not coloured glass, are you saying I’m not made of glass?

  – I am just saying how you appear to me. Nothing more than that.

  – O.

  The room is cold and yet he sits there. The snow piles up against the window flake upon flake. It is as though it wants to come in, to escape the cold. The moon reflects off the snow and illuminates the room. It is a cold clear blue.

  The river water in the glass by the bed has iced over.

  His arms are wrapped around his own self. He blows his hands, rubs them together.

  – You are cold, I say.

  – Yes. I am cold.

  – You need to get warm, I say.

  – Yes.

  He does need to get warm. If he remains like this, sitting here all night, his blood will freeze in his veins. But what to do? What to do?

  I lift the corner of the covers, look at my glass body. Moon and snow and light glint off me.

  I am too cold. I will chill him to the bone. I put the covers down.

  He is looking at me. I can see the pale blue of his eyes; they are the colour of the snow at the window with the moon through it.

  He stands up from his chair. Takes the three steps towards me. My hands are under the covers. My hands are together as if in prayer.

  He touches my face with his cold fingers. I am scared I will make him colder, but he takes the covers in his other hand and lifts them up. He gets into the bed beside me. He lies next to me.

  We do not touch.

  We both look up at the ceiling. We are lit cold blue.

  After a few minutes he moves towards me. I feel his warm skin.

  I imagine how I must feel to him: smooth, cool, unyielding.

  – Do I feel cold? I ask.

  – No.

  – O.

  – You feel warm.

  We lie under the covers and the wind outside starts to blow. Snow drifts onto the window.