by kubasik
I paused, confused and frustrated. If only she had heard me, everything would be so much easier. An anger built up in me. How I wanted to hurt her! How I wanted to do something to cause pain. Things are never as easy as they should be! And I wanted someone to pay for that!
But, unable to take action, I was stuck with my own thoughts again. In the midst of inaction, there seemed little choice but to calm down. I do not know how long my rage lasted, but by the time it was spent, I thought this:
"Well, she didn't hear me, so there's no more to be done about it."
It seems obvious, perhaps, to you sitting listening to this tale. Of course, I should have simply driven on. But I think sometimes in the middle of our adventure, our life, we become confused and think things should be a certain way. Which is the way we want them. Which, of course, they are not. Things are the way of the Universe. And we know that the Universe created all of us and the Passions so that things would be difficult and interesting. So there it is.
She might be deaf, I thought. Or the tower might have magical protection that, among other things, prevented sound from entering it. But there was someone there. Rather than viewing her not hearing me as a problem, I realized that her presence was a good thing, and I decided to focus on that.
I wriggled on.
It was not until evening of the next day that I reached the tower door. The sky above glared red as thick clouds passed over the sea and caught the lava's glow. The clouds were thick and bilious and churned slowly. It seemed for a moment that I had drifted below the surface of the sea, so that molten rock floated above me as well as below.
At the base of the door I shouted again, several times. From the dark doorway came only silence. With a long breath, I braced myself and began to writhe into the tower.
The room, an entrance hall, was round, and I imagined that the other floors above would be so as well. A broad stone staircase wound its way up the tower wall, vanishing into the second story. Brass handrails, shiny even in the tower's darkness, flowed up along either side of the stairs. It took me a moment to notice that both rails floated in the air without support.
At the entrance hall's center rested a large fountain, much like the fountain of my kaer. Its round wall was two feet high. At the fountain's center stood the statue of a man, who bore, it seemed to me, a striking and disturbing resemblance to Mordom. However, unlike the magician's robes Mordom wore, the man wore armor and an elaborate cloak—
the cloak of a Theran official. From the statue's surface flowed water, pouring down as if his very being were the source of life. His face was uplifted, as if taking in the rays of the sun, in typical overblown Theran fashion.
The room held no other ornamentation. There were no lights, nor empty sconces on the walls. The hazy red light of the lava sea crept in through the doorway and three windows, but beyond floated only a deep darkness.
I called again for help, but no reply came. The silence that followed my shouts seemed especially harsh, and I waited a long time, trying to discern any sound. I heard only the sound of my heart beating and my deep, moist breathing.
I shouted some more, and listened some more. But nothing came of either the noise or the quiet. Eventually, having reached my goal, exhaustion claimed my attention fully.
Although I wanted to know where the woman had gone, there was nothing to be done to find out. At least not as weary as I was. I slipped into a deep sleep, a sleep more relaxing and enjoyable than any I'd had on the island, and did not open my eyes again until I heard the sound of footsteps.
4
They came hesitantly, softly and not without fear. In my dreams it was the sound of a monster approaching, something snakelike, with small claws that lined the body, working its way toward me as I lay staked to the hot sands of the shore of Death's Sea. I woke with a start as I realized that the sounds existed outside of my dreams. At once I tried to move, only to discover that I was still paralyzed.
Memories of what had befallen me flooded my thoughts. I remembered being in the tower. I remembered the woman I'd seen earlier. But everything looked different now.
Bright sunlight blazed through the windows, striking the well's red stones, creating the sensation of being in a furnace. I tried to shield my eyes from the afternoon light, but it was impossible to move my left hand far enough.
When I looked toward the sound of the approaching footsteps, I expected an enemy.
Someone with a sly, but undisciplined walk, probably carrying a dagger, or a magical amulet capable of melting my flesh or possibly some other terrible, arcane effect.
Instead I saw the woman, and in that moment my heart reached out with unselfish pity.
She was as old as I. But where I had kept my health despite my misery, the woman on the stairs had been ravished by her six decades. Her limbs were thin, and her skin showed countless bruises and scabs. Her gray hair—possibly beautiful, for it was thick and long— was so matted and dirty that I immediately imagined vermin living in it. She clutched the inner railing that floated inches from the wall, her hand pressed tight around it as if she feared floating away. Her footsteps were taken with inordinate care. Desperate care. Not just the care of the blind, but of the terrified, as if trying to prevent any more dangerous missteps.
It took me a few moments of study to realize that she was indeed blind. I had seen the movement of blind people before, including those moving about in a place familiar to them. Usually they moved with a certain, careful, grace. They knew their homes very well, and maneuvered as you or I might when waking in the dark from our beds. But the woman did not move with this ease. Her footsteps were harsh, dangerous. Not risky, but powerfully deliberate. She would slide her foot out along the edge of each step until it slipped over the edge and she nearly plunged forward. Then, with a firm and hard step, she would place her foot on the step below as if try to smash the stone of it underfoot.
"Help," I whispered. My voice was nearly gone, and I felt needles prickling the inside of my throat.
She continued on her way, picking her way down the steps without a glance toward me, nor any apparent awareness that I was only four yards from her.
Behind her, along the wall, I noticed that an inscription of sorts had been carved into the stone. Beginning at the base of the stairs, the inscription wound its way up the wall, following the rail. The words seemed to be in the language of the Therans, though from my distance I could not be certain. Strangely, they had not been created with the same precision and beauty as the rest of tower. Even from the floor I could see that they had been forged roughly, with chips and awkward cracks splitting open the red stone's smooth polish.
Finishing her progress down the stairs, the woman was moving along the floor toward the fountain. Her steps were more confident than on the stairs, but still careful. She kept herself bent low, hands held out before her to keep from bumping into the fountain. As she walked, she counted out her steps. Silently. Just moving her lips.
She was blind, deaf, and perhaps mute as well. The scrapes and scabs on her flesh suggested that she might also be deficient in the sense of touch, for her flesh seemed often to misjudge pressure and pain. If there was any way to make contact with her, it would be by forcing myself into her closed world in whatever limited way I could! I had to be next to her, to grab her.
Immediately I started for the fountain, hoping to arrive before she finished whatever it was she was going to do there and was on her way back up the stairs. A1though I was weak, frenzied energy drove me on at a quick pace. Using my slightly mobile left arm and my somewhat flexible waist, I wriggled closer and closer, twisting my body from one side to the other as I moved forward. Luckily I'd had days of practice, and against the smooth stone floor my motion carried me successfully forward.
I glanced at her and saw that she had lifted a silver cup from a small shelf built inside the fountain. She dipped the cup into the pool of the fountain, raised the cup high, and then drank the liquid down.
Not so f
ast, I thought. Not so fast!
She placed the cup on the shelf, and turned back toward the stairs.
"No!" I shouted. I was only a few steps away from her—so, so close. "Please wait!" I pleaded. But, of course, she heard nothing. Extending her right foot, she started toward the stairs. Desperate, I rocked back and forth from side to side. The rocking grew fiercer and fiercer until I had enough energy to roll over onto my stomach.
My left arm was now several feet closer, and I stretched it out toward her departing left ankle. The strain was tremendous, as if metal hooks had been placed into my shoulder to limit my motion. Her ankle lifted up, just an inch or two off the ground, and I was certain I had missed my opportunity. But she moved slowly, and the end of my finger managed to snag her ankle. My grip wasn't solid enough, and my finger slid off. Still, in that moment she knew something or someone was in the room with her.
She gave out a scream. An awkward sound, high-pitched and terrified. But more. The noise sounded slack as if her jaw and tongue weren't used to working in coordination. I knew that people who are deaf lose, over time, the ability to speak properly. They can no longer hear themselves, and so can no longer test how they speak against how they sound.
Her hands waved in front of her as she tumbled to the floor in her panic. I winced at her impact, for she cried out again, this time with even more fear. For a flash I imagined being in her place; a soul trapped in a void. On occasion something would happen to her, and she would not know what or why it had occurred.
Uselessly I tried to explain who I was. She scrambled up onto her hands and knees, trying to look toward me, but staring off three feet to my right. She backed up quickly, then got onto her knees, raised her arms, and waved her hands as if to fend someone off. From her mouth came the distorted noise of twisted and elongated vowels. It took me a while to realize she was saying, "Who's there? Who's there?" I tried to answer her, but to no avail.
She stopped her questions, and her hands slowed their frenetic motion. I could see her trying to piece together what had happened. There, in that moment, in the small changes of expression on her face, I saw the intelligence the woman still possessed. As she tried to pull herself together she reverted to old habit, undoubtedly from a time before the loss of her senses and her life on the strange island. She seemed to have a kind of regal bearing.
There was something of the Theran arrogance, but with the addition of something else.
Most Therans, it had always seemed to met puff themselves up with their preening, but possess little substance. But this woman had a true strength to her. Noble. Not in the nature of bloodlines, but in character.
When no further attacks came, she began to relax. She shifted her shoulders, assuming a posture of composure. Calmly, or perhaps with an exaggeration of calmness, she began to stand, as if saying, "See, nothing is wrong after all."
I realized then that she thought she'd merely tripped. A panic rippled through me, and I began making my way as quickly as I could toward her.
She turned and began to walk, arms extended, searching for the stairs, the matter already settled in her mind. My heart sank, for though I assumed she would eventually return, I didn't know if I would still be alive.
But then her pace slowed, revealing a hesitancy. It wasn't a matter of her hearing me. It must have been second thoughts. The kind that plague us even after we've done everything to convince ourselves all is normal. And more than that, perhaps. Just the sense of awareness people have of each other; knowing that someone is staring at you from behind, knowing someone is in the room though the lights are dark.
She turned slowly, and on her face I saw the lines of fear and doubt. She had reviewed the scene once again in her head, and now knew her world had changed. Lowering herself to the ground, crouching, she extended her hands. Not, this time, to fend, but to discover. She lowered herself to her knees, and with one hand on the ground and the other stretched out before her, she began searching for what had snagged her.
From the start she headed off in the wrong direction. I tried to cut her off, but though she moved slowly, she was too fast for me. For far too long she searched for me, and I did my best to let her find me. Soon the pain in my back was so intense from exertion and tension that I simply gave up and sighed. With my eyes closed I tried to come up with a new plan. I decided to head for the stairs. She would have to leave at some point, and thus find me there.
Just as I made the decision, I felt her fingers brush against my face.
5
She cried out, as did I. Paralyzed, I felt horribly vulnerable at her touch. I realized I was ultimately within her power. Why had I assumed she would help me? What made me think there was safety within the tower?
She spoke again, though I could not understand her. My Theran was limited, and the distortion of her speech made the task more difficult. Once again she was on her knees, fending off my nonexistent assaults.
When she realized that no attack was forthcoming, she lowered her arms and asked slowly, "Who are you?" Then she raised her hands to her face, pressed them hard against her cheeks in frustration. "I can't ... I can't ..." She seemed to be searching for a word, and finally said, "Listen."
I wanted to move toward her, to touch her and get her to understand that I could do no harm. She was my only hope. I laughed loudly at this thought, for it seemed ridiculous that my salvation should rest with the actions of a woman completely cut off from the world. What could she possibly do for me? How could someone so damaged bring the clown monster of Barsaive any comfort?
She was close now, and had a sense of where I was. She moved toward me, the fingers of her right hand extended. Trembling. I waited, silent, expectant. There was nothing for me to do. Nothing I could do. The situation was so strange, for all of my life I had tried to keep moving fast enough to at least create the impression I was in control. Now I was so obviously out of control. Powerless. And yet, in that moment, I wondered how much I'd ever been in control before. I had stolen countless treasures. I prided myself on my skill at eluding capture. Through the amassing of wealthy always at the expense of others, I had believed myself clever. Yet, as the trembling hand approached, it came to me that all I had ever wanted was a touch of comfort. And certainly nothing I'd done with my life had encouraged that.
Closer and closer came the fingers, until she pressed them into my right cheek. The touch was not the comforting caress I'd just been thinking about. Awkward and heavy, the fingers dug deep into me before the woman was sure she'd found me. She then pulled back, suddenly startled by the discovery. She did not retreat this time. Instead she put her hand forward, her fingers now spread wide. They bumped into my forehead, then she pressed harder and ran them over my face.
I felt horribly young. Thoughts of my mother came to me, thoughts of that day, of her fingertips on my chest, performing the ritual to place the creature inside me. I wasn't paralyzed then, but just as helpless. The helplessness of a child under the power of a trusted adult.
The woman brought her other hand forward, using them both to explore the shape of my face. The care she took with the examination made me think she had perhaps never seen anyone before. Babies, when they first see another baby are immediately intrigued.
Perhaps I was the first person this woman had ever encountered. If so, she would need time to confirm that yes, she had finally met someone like herself. Then my gaze fell upon the statue at the center of the room. It occurred to me that she might be trying to determine if I was someone she knew.
When she found my mouth she awkwardly jammed her fingers into it, cutting one of them against my teeth. I knew this, for I tasted a drop of blood on my tongue. But the woman did not respond. She continued on without a cry of pain, without even inspecting the damage. I knew now she lacked the sense of touch. That would explain the cuts and bruises I'd seen earlier, for she would not be aware of when she hurt herself. It would also explain the clumsiness of all her actions. She could not feel when she touched my face
.
She could only interact with the world through resistance.
What had happened to this woman?
She drew back, worried. Then placed her hand on my neck, checking, I suppose, for a pulse. She found it. Touched my forehead. With elaborate efforts she said, "I can't hear you. But I need to know if you are all right." Her words, despite the care she took in enunciating each of them, sounded high pitched and clumsy. I could tell she knew her words were awkward. She turned her face up and away from me as if to hide the clumsiness of her mouth. But there was also the beauty of character I'd noticed earlier. "If you need help, nod your head."
I tried to nod, and believed I did succeed in nodding. But it was not enough motion for her to notice. "Please!" she said, and the sound came from her like a wail. I realized she did want to help me, but not only for my benefit. I began to suspect she hadn't retreated to the island for safety, but might well have been left I ret exiled and alone. How many years? She said, more frantically now, "Can you understand me? I'm 60r ... sorry ... It's been so long ... Do you understand Theran?"
Her hand was near my mouth and I said, "Yes."
She stopped. Smiled. She maneuvered around, placed her fingers on my lips. "Can you understand me? Open your mouth twice if you can." I did so. She laughed. An awkward, heartfelt, lovely laugh. A laugh full of memories. "Do you need help?" I opened my mouth again. "I don't know what you need. Do you understand? I can't see you. I can't hear you. I can't even touch ..." Her face became wracked with grief. She looked away, thinking I could still not see her clearly. She stifled her pain, then looked down in the general direction of my face. "Are you wounded?"