by Ike Hamill
His next question comes from only a couple of paces away. “What do you call yourself?”
I hold my breath.
His voice is lower, more intimate. “You think I don’t see you as you tremble there, but I do. What did your mother call you?”
He sounds like he’s within arm’s reach, but I don’t see a thing.
“You never knew your mother, did you?” he asks. I feel his hot breath on my cheek. “Do you still dream of her at night? Wonder what she looks like?”
He’s so close. I know that I’ll feel his boney fingers around my neck at any instant. I turn and bolt, hoping to find my way back towards the misty creek.
I only make it one step before I trip. I never make it to the ground. I hear the leaves around me shift all at once as a net lifts me into the air and bends my body into a ball.
Below, I hear the old man cackle with joy.
I thrash against the ropes and try to reach the knife strapped to my side. My arm is pinned beneath my weight and reaching for the knife threatens to dislocate my shoulder.
The old man’s cackle abruptly ends.
“Let him down, you old cannibal, or I’ll open your throat and feed the rest of you to the rats.”
“I can’t do anything with your blade at my throat,” the old man says.
“Then I’ll cut off your head and set him free on my own,” Bud says.
“Gahhh!” the old man cries. “Fine. Fine. Take me to this tree, here.”
I hear feet shuffling through the leaves below.
“Now leave me my arms,” he says.
With creaking branches above, I feel the net descend in tiny hitches. It’s swinging by the time it hits the ground. I fight my way out of the net. The first thing I do when I’ve gotten to my feet is pull my headlamp from my bag. I turn it on and sweep it around until it lands on the feet of Bud and the old man. I raise it and see Bud gripping the man around his waist and holding his knife to the man’s neck. The man’s wrinkled face is framed by wisps of white hair. His mouth gapes, showing jagged pillars of a few lonely teeth. Where his eyes should be, he has only red sockets.
“I will let you go now,” Bud says, into the man’s ear. “But if you attack us again, I’ll snap your neck and bury my knife in your heart.”
“Either would do the job,” the old man says, as Bud releases him. “No need to expend all that effort.”
60 ORIGINAL
BUD IS WARY OF every step as we find our way to the old man’s shack. We stop at the fire pit, several paces from the hovel, and Bud orders the old man to sit on the ground while I stack a fire.
“You’ll have no chance to spring any more traps if you’re still,” Bud explains.
“I have no traps,” the old man says. “I only have that net to hunt. I can’t help it if your clumsy friend tripped over it. What brings you here? Did you seek me out merely to put a knife to my throat?”
“You know why I’m here,” Bud says.
“I see much for a blind man, but I can’t predict every move of every mortal man. What is your name?”
I drop a load of sticks. There’s a stack of firewood next to the lean-to, so I grab a few logs from there to complete my preparations. When I lift the last log, my headlamp lights up a nest of snakes. They slither off in different directions and I nearly sprint back to the fire pit.
“I’ve had countless names,” Bud says.
“Yes, but what’s the name your mother called you?” the old man asks. He seems to have his favorite questions.
“I have no idea. I don’t think she was aware that I was born,” Bud says.
“So you’ve learned much since you left our sylvan home,” the old man says. “So little information leaves the bamboo. Where did you come upon this knowledge?”
“Why don’t you just tell me my fortune?” Bud asks.
The old man tilts his head back towards the tree canopy and cackles.
After a minute or two, I have a decent fire going and the sharp shadows from my headlamp are softened by the flickering light. The warmth takes some of the menace out of the surrounding woods.
“I’ll tell you your fortune, if that’s what you would have. A wiser man would understand what a silly request that is,” the old man said.
“Why?” Bud asks.
“Because there are so many more important things to discuss.”
“Then tell me those,” Bud says.
“First asked, first said,” the old man says. “You’ve asked for your fortune, so that’s what I will tell.”
“Then get on with it.”
The firelight seems to turn red as the old man’s voice drops.
“You’ve found your fortune with your feet,” the old man says. “And you’ve been drawn out by the mystery that started it all. Now you face your biggest challenge. A friend will become an enemy, and an enemy will become your father. The sky will collapse to burn your soul, and you will give your heart to see God. When you return to the element of your destiny, you will finally understand the secret to which you were conceived.”
“Gibberish,” I say.
The old man laughs again. The fire flares with green light and then dwindles to nothing, until I fear it’s extinguished. Now, a second later, it burns normally. The old man is through laughing, but I can still hear his laugh echoing through the trees.
“Now, what are the more important things to discuss?” Bud asks.
“I want to finish fortunes first,” the old man says. He pulls a dirty rag from inside his shirt and dabs the corners of his eye sockets.
“Then finish,” Bud says, raising his voice.
“Such a demand for my talents. I usually inspire more gratitude. The future of Malcolm is so much harder to read, because the two paths diverge so far based on his decision. I will start with the easier one—with one decision, you will die six deaths. You squander your first two lives, enjoy the third, betray the fourth, misplace the fifth, and relinquish the sixth to your mother. That’s the easier one. But should you take the other path, you will forget your discipline and burrow to the other side of the fence. You will partner with grace, and devote yourself to her cause. You will be struck down by what you’ve hunted and rise again after the triumvirate has freed the world from immortal tyranny.”
I barely hear the prediction because I’m too disturbed by what he called me. “How did you know my name?” I ask.
He laughs. “That’s not your name,” he says. “It’s merely what you call yourself. Your real name is something I would like to know. It’s not Leonard either, but I think that’s a little closer. You definitely have the mark of the lion, like your friend here.”
“Are we finished with fortunes? I would have you speak of those ‘more important things’ now. Perhaps they will make more sense,” Bud says.
“Yes, sense is very important to you, isn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“It’s another way of expressing your talent—making sense of things. You fancy yourself able to analyze and fabricate, yes? But I propose that your real talent can be expressed more as the ability to make things flow. You began making skins flow into each other with your little suits. Then you made commerce flow across the sea. You rose again when you made water flow into people’s houses. Finally, after you flowed yourself across the globe, you discovered how to make tiny charges flow through invisible paths. Am I correct?”
“Your information is as complete as my memory,” Bud says.
The old man laughs again. He’s amused by everything, it seems.
“And what of your words?” the old man asks.
“My words?”
“They flow from your mouth like water, in any tongue.”
“I don’t understand,” Bud says.
“Yes, you are not the smartest,” the old man says. “Sometimes the really obvious things pass right by you, yes? I am clever with fortunes, but I am no linguist. You could speak circles around me with all the languages you possess.”
&
nbsp; “What is your point?” Bud asks.
“I only speak one language—the language my mother taught me. How many can you speak fluently? Ten? Twenty? Have you ever lived in a place where the natives could detect your accent as foreign?”
“I don’t know,” Bud says. “When I arrived at Denpa’s village, I could only growl.”
“I am sure there were many things you had forgotten after your time with the monk,” the old man says. “So I have one tongue, and you have at least a dozen. How many does your friend have?”
“Pardon?” Bud asks. I figure it out just before the old man says it.
“How is he taking part in this conversation?” the old man asks. He gestures with his filthy rag towards me.
If he hadn’t pointed it out, I wouldn’t have thought twice. I guess I just assumed we were speaking in English, but now that he makes me aware, I can hear the guttural choking sounds we’re using to communicate. Some of it is close to Russian, but not quite the same. I’m hardly an expert in Russian, but I understand this language perfectly. Is this the same language I thought I didn’t understand earlier?
Bud looks at me. His eyes narrow slightly.
“Where did he learn our language?”
Great. I was just starting to get back into Bud’s circle of trust and this old man casts doubt on me once again.
“You’re the soothsayer,” I say. “Why don’t you tell us?”
“Shall I?” the old man asks. “Never fear, Connie—this man is your friend. I can tell you have had your doubts about him recently. If I were you, I would trust him to the end.” The old man chuckles and dabs at his eyes.
“How do you know that language?” Bud asks me the question in English.
“I don’t know,” I respond in English. “Truly, I don’t. Honestly, I didn’t even think about it until he said something. It didn’t even seem different to me.”
“It’s that block in your memory. I would have it gone, so I could solve these mysteries,” Bud says. He’s looking at me like I’m a faulty piece of machinery.
“The language you speak is ugly,” the old man says. “Even if I did understand it, I would not want it to taint my mouth. It sounds like you are chewing on crickets.”
Bud switches back to the old man’s language. “What other wisdom would you speak?”
“Such demands you have. At least you finally respect my words as wisdom,” the old man says. “Tell me, what do you know of the war that has broken out?”
“Nothing,” Bud says.
“You say nothing. What of your friend?”
“I know what he knows,” I say.
“I do not think that’s strictly true,” the old man says. “You know more than you are revealing.”
“He’s just trying to drive a wedge between us,” I say to Bud. “He knows that if he gets us to mistrust each other, he can gain the upper hand.”
“I am a simple man, living on the edge of the forest. People seek my advice from time to time. I don’t need to find any advantage. You have nothing I want or need,” the old man says.
“What else would you say?” Bud asks.
“This war, of which you may or may not have knowledge, is amongst the Providentials. You have the logical and the creative sides. One set can create things to amaze and wonder. The other can investigate and solve. You, Constantine, are at the nexus. You create through organization. You make things flow from chaos to order and in the process, you create great art. Both sides seek your power to complete their victory.”
“So it’s not about returning the spirit to the village for its prosperity,” Bud says.
“Of course it is,” the old man says. “But to which side will you return your spirit? When you left here, they were integrated. Because you held the balance, when you failed to return, you upset the order and everyone fell into factions. The logical blamed the Constable, who denied your heritage. The creative blamed Alexander, who tried to convince everyone that his son was the Providential so he could free his wife from her cursed existence. The two sides have argued ever since the day you were banished without ceremony. And when the day of your expected return came and went with no sign of you, the argument became a war.”
“If his spirit divided them,” I say, “then its return should unite.”
“I will not give up my spirit,” Bud says.
The old man smiles.
“And more blood is spilled, and more bags are filled,” the old man sang. “And I shall have meat forever.”
“Which side did we just escape?” I ask Bud.
“The strategists,” he says. “The logical ones. You could have never negotiated with the creative types. They would distrust negotiation. I have one more question, old man.”
“You want to know where you come from,” the old man says.
“Exactly,” Bud says.
“Do you know what a Midwife’s baby is?”
♣ ♢ ♡ ♠
The old man talks through the night and at some point we fall asleep around the fire. Bud wakes me up by nudging my shoulder with his foot. Dawn’s light is filtering into the forest and the old man is gone.
“He left us some food, but don’t eat the meat,” Bud says.
I pick through the nuts and berries. They’re bitter, but I’m so hungry it doesn’t matter. My stomach knots around them.
“I want to find the enemy camp as soon as possible,” he says.
“Why?”
“To get them moving. These people have been fighting for decades. Why aren’t they all dead yet? If my talent is to make things flow, then I will make their soldiers flow into each other until they’ve killed each other. Perhaps then I can live in peace.”
I nod.
“Do you have a plan?”
“No,” he says. “That’s your department.”
“I don’t have experience with battles,” I say.
“You’re good at reading people and getting them to do what you want,” he says. “You’ll figure something out.”
I exhale slowly, puffing out my cheeks. I’m not sure exactly what Bud expects, but I guess I trust his instincts.
“Come on,” he says.
“Where are we headed?”
“To the grounds where the Harvest Festival used to be held. That’s where we’ll find the creative army.”
“Why there?”
“It has the best light.”
Bud sets off at a fast pace.
These woods are really quite amazing. They seem to go on forever, but the character of the forest changes with different varieties of trees. Sometimes it feels very close, almost claustrophobic, with branches slapping you in the face and tight trunks you have to weave around. Other times, it’s like walking down a city street. The trees vault high into the air and the canopy is powdery blue with haze, as if the leaves are hiding behind the sky.
Bud catches me looking up, and smiles.
“I used to climb tall trees just to get a look at something bright and blue,” he says. “Some children never saw the sky at all until the tenth Moon Dance.”
“That’s when they would raise the tower?”
“Yes. There’s a tower on the town hall and the carpenters would build it higher every tenth year. But the forest would always outgrow the tower before long. With the war, there must be children who have never had a Moon Dance at town hall.”
“Why not just chop down all the trees in an area to make a clearing? Then you could see the sky.”
“It doesn’t work,” Bud says. “If you chop down a tree, the surrounding trees immediately expand to soak up the sun.”
“But if you cut down enough, they couldn’t possibly expand that much.”
“They do,” he says. “You could take down all the trees in a half-mile radius, and every tree around that circle would unfurl branches that meet in the center.”
“Impossible,” I say.
Bud only shrugs.
“If that sounds outlandish, then you will never believe w
hat happens next.”
“What’s that?”
“You can clear a patch of woods, but if you come back the next day, you will find new trees have sprung up in place of the old.”
“I’ve heard stranger claims that that, Bud, and they are always untrue.”
Once again, he shrugs.
“You would think in all these years, they would have developed roads and cars, perhaps even public transportation.” I wipe the sweat from my eyes.
“They’ve been embroiled in war. That tends to stifle progress in some areas and inspire it in others.”
We hike over little hills and pass through every type of forest imaginable. I just assume Bud knows where he’s going. He certainly moves with confidence. He walks halfway across a little grove and takes a sharp left to climb to the top of a hill. Then, he turns right and walks that ridge line for twenty minutes while the forest twists into a messy marsh.
We camp next to an outcrop of rock. I want to ask if he trusts me again, but I’m afraid that the question itself might influence the answer. At least he’s allowing me to travel with him. I’m sure he could easily outpace me in the forest and leave me lost in the trees.
The old man told Bud that his friend would become his enemy. As far as I know, I’m Bud’s only friend here. Assuming that Bud takes stock in the old man’s fortune telling, he must assume that the friend-to-become-enemy is me. Although, he wasn’t exactly friendly to me before we heard the fortune. This whole experience is ridiculous. I wish I were at home with my feet up on my desk so I could sit back and try to make sense of it.
Bud starts a fire just as a light drizzle begins to filter down through the trees. He’s lucky to catch the twigs before they’re too wet to burn. I move the rest of the wood we’ve collected under the protection of the rock. We sit near the fire and warm our faces.
“Honestly, I was surprised to find him alive,” Bud says.
“The old man,” I say.
“Yes. Even though I went there to find him, I thought he would be dead. Even a Providential will die eventually, I assume.”