Hieroglyphs_of_Blood_and_Bone

by Michael Griffin

  Maybe that's how Karl missed it.

  I'm standing on an edge, feeling I might fall in. It's not really a house, more a cabin, smaller, rougher and less finished than the picture I carry in my mind. Halved trees lashed together, all rustic gaps and seams. How does she keep out the rain? It never rains here. Summer never ends.

  One moment I'm standing here contemplating the landscape and the house itself, and the next moment, she's outside, looking at me. Her face seems unnaturally white, framed by straight black hair that falls past her shoulders and ends in blunt bangs above arched eyebrows. I've seen her before, yet each element surprises me, as if I don't expect to find her looking quite as she does. Real, not a picture. Out in the middle of nowhere, wearing dark pants and a jacket with a high collar, almost like a uniform.

  Only then do I realize I'm standing in plain sight, having stepped too far past the corner barrier to remain hidden. It's that gravity, pulling me in, though I intended to stand back. There's no more time to plan what I might want to say. She sees me. An instant's glance reveals everything, irrevocably. She wants me to approach. I know this as if she's beckoning, but without any movement at all. For an instant I question whether this is right. What I'm seeing doesn't quite compute. She's not surprised to see me, doesn't seem alarmed. She looks like someone getting ready to commute to work.

  Before I've consciously made the decision to approach, I find myself already walking. I stop just past the spot where I stopped before. She's standing in exactly the place I expect. It's as if I have a chance to replay our prior meeting.

  "You again." Her voice washes over me like relief. No judgment, no surprise at my coming.

  I reach for the right words, but nothing comes. I grasp for any observation, a reason to extend the moment. At least learn her name. I think of Karl, feel him watching me, judging yet also encouraging. I have to break through. When I'm fearful, I'm nothing. It cripples me.

  The set of her mouth shifts. Her eyes soften. I believe she reads my thoughts, knows my intentions and approves of them, yet recognizes that I'm stuck. She doesn't want anyone timid.

  I can get past this. These doubts are my own, self-imposed. I don't want them anymore.

  "You're surprised about something here," she suggests. "Something about me."

  Not only is the field different from the landscape I pictured, but the cabin smaller and rougher. The woman seems wilder, almost primally uncivilized judging by the look in her eyes, though she speaks directly and with confidence, as if she understands far more about me than I know of her. What is it that seems such a contradiction? Before, everything about her seemed so precisely arranged, like a soft watercolor sketch of a woman obscured by mist. Now I see her clearly, in sharp focus, and realize much of what I guessed I knew about her was my own invention. Even now, all the preconceptions with which I arrived still overlay the reality of the tangible woman before me. The truth is, I know nothing about her.

  I don't have to be intimidated. She doesn't know me, either.

  "Last time, I did think it was strange," I admit. "Finding you out here." Immediately I second guess what I've said, but decide I need to be less self-conscious. I won't elaborate, or correct myself.

  She seems pleased, or at least curious.

  "I mean discovering you out here, looking like you do," I can't help elaborating. "It is unusual." I haven't said much, but I'm pleased to find myself able to speak at all.

  "Looking like I do?" She turns, reveals herself from another angle, glances down at her own body. It's as if my mention of her appearance, making her aware of my scrutiny, has for the first time made her realize that she possesses a physicality of her own. "Looking like what?"

  "Well, not like someone camping out alone in a field." This misses the point I was trying to make. "Clean, attractive and... composed. As if you don't need anything more than you already have."

  One arched eyebrow lifts. "I try to exist simply. I try to need only what I already have."

  I want to offer more, but know I shouldn't focus so much on her appearance. Still I keep looking at her. I want to know everything. I want to ask why she's out here.

  "Here I can escape distraction," she says, seeming to choose words carefully. "My work is difficult to do around other people."

  "Work? Working on what?"

  "See what I make." She gestures at her home, and turns. "Come inside." Her hand finds a doorknob, swings open a narrow wooden door to reveal a darkness inside. In my memories of this place, all the images replayed in imagination after our first meeting, her little home was a simple triangular facade lacking windows or doors. Of course that's absurd, I realize.

  I follow where she leads. The door shuts behind.

  Even after my eyes adjust, it's hard to see anything clearly. Side walls slope inward to become ceiling, meeting at a point not far overhead. A single room, lacking bathroom, sink, kitchen. I see no food, no clothing other than what she's wearing. In the center of the floor several rough-textured, unevenly shaped blankets are spread in a pile, one on top of another, various shades of brown and dark green. I imagine this is where she sleeps, between or on top of layers, depending on the temperature at night. On the floor beside the blankets is an unlit pumpkin-colored candle in a hammered silver bowl. The only pieces of furniture are a broad, low table and a small bookshelf beneath the lone window, both rough unvarnished wood. The window is obscured by dust and grime so, like frosted glass, it allows light to pass, but no visible detail.

  "Aren't you ever afraid," I ask, "out here alone?"

  Her eyes widen in surprise. "Why would I be afraid? Are you afraid now?"

  I'm considering how to respond when she turns away, leans over the low table, its surface covered with loose, disordered papers.

  "My making." She selects a brown portfolio wrapped many times with homespun twine made of green and black fibers. "Would you like to see?"

  She unwinds the cord and the bundle bursts open from the pressure of its contents, dozens of coarsely textured sheets of hand-made paper full of pulp and fiber, seedpods and leaves, and even bits of flower. These varied tints and textures underlie writings in a hand somewhere between cursive and calligraphy. Pen strokes of uneven thickness, from inky wetness to dry scratch. Each page she displays briefly, not long enough for me to read, or even be certain what I'm seeing, before she flips to the next. Indecipherable scrawled lists, paragraphs of reference-like text, all heavily illustrated. Flower blossoms, fish tails, dandelion gone to seed. Wild thistle, darkly outlined and cross-hatched. The words may be English, but my eyes never make any sense of them. The light here is dim, the pages always moving, each turning out of sight before the next is revealed too briefly. Past encyclopedic entries, blocks of text with footnotes and marginalia in different colors. Diagrams, scientific graphs. All so strange, bewildering and yet, whether or not they contain some meaning I'm unable to discern, all undeniably beautiful. Varieties of plant life, sketches of the bones of creatures. A kind of map, topology of land and a tributary structure of streams and rivers, superimposed over a red ink sketch of the ringed cross-section of an ancient tree.

  The woman stops turning pages, and though she doesn't close her book, I look away from it, look up at her face instead. I feel I should say something, offer judgment of her art project, or whatever this is. At least I can tell her that it's lovely and amazing, and I'd like to see more, even if I'm not sure I quite understand.

  "Now I've let you see my poems." She closes the folio, wraps the twine around.

  Poems? I feel like if I want to remain, I ought to comment on what she showed me. Otherwise I have to go. Why can't I think of something to offer? I shoot a glance at the other papers left on the table, loose sheets not bound in folios. These are similar, thickly textured paper covered in letterforms, handwriting that must be hers. Words, drawings, diagrams, recipes. This must be some taxonomy of the living and inert world I'm unable to grasp. One thing I do know, I see her differently now. I want to tell her I had
no idea about this, that I only came here because what I thought I knew made me curious.

  Then I see on the shelf a number of books, not loose folios like the first but proper bound hardcovers, brown or dark brown leather. I wonder if these books are different in kind, or finished versions of the kind of work-in-progress just shown me.

  She returns the folio to the table. "Now you've seen all of me."

  I'm certain I've been affected by her revelation, but can't explain how or why. Images echo without comprehension. I want to delve deeper, open myself to knowing more. "I'm not sure I understand."

  "Making isn't for understanding." She doesn't seem disappointed in my comment. "Making makes for living."

  She steps between me and the table, as if to cut off this line of pursuit, perhaps realizing I'm feeling tempted to intrude further without invitation. I look into her eyes. I should go now, I think, should just say maybe we could see each other sometime in the city, some ordinary place with food and drinks. Excuse myself, but say something first. She's right in front of me, looking at me, as if she reads in my eyes all I'm thinking and understands that I'm torn between departing and asking to see more of her. I don't think she blames me for being stuck. She reaches out a hand as if about to grasp, push or pull me in some direction. She doesn't have to actually touch. Her eyes are all dark, no white. Soothing. I think I might say it, might ask if there's any time we might see each other. Not that I don't like this place, but some neutral place, so she won't feel threatened. Some place with food and drinks, other people. Just say it.

  Her hand presses my arm. "Why did you come back?" She reads my eyes, waiting. "Because you remembered me?"

  My vision blurs. Come closer.

  Her eyes are shifting, pale blue, lavender gray. She moves, slips out of focus, back in again, so sharp. Her skin pale, the inside of her mouth living pink, her upper lip full. A hint of scent noticed for the first time brings to mind Parfum de Nuit, the shop where I bought incense and candles. I close my eyes. Breathe.

  "You came here, why?" she asks. "To find me?"

  I don't answer yet, trying to read in her face what I should say. She seems to anticipate my answer. The truth.

  Open my eyes.

  "Yes. Just to find you."

  The door remains shut, the window lightless. The dim gray pervading the room is the same color she wears. It's all I can see, it covers everything. She unfastens the front of her jacket, reaches back and shrugs it off. A series of simple movements and all the other clothing, which before seemed fitted, falls away as if immaterial, no longer needed. Just skin now.

  She pulls me down.

  It's impossible this is happening, unbelievable that such a raw fantasy, too improbable to admit, is shifting into reality. Her light body, a private wish, a demented fever dream. Now we're moving together. She's revealed to me. I know her, recognize her through all the things she hasn't said. Unexpected things, her fragrance. The smell of skin, soft and private, covered until minutes ago. Not flowery or sweet, but delicate and rich.

  Her body and mine, swimming weightless, almost blind. No gravity, no time. Everything in the sensation of touch.

  I whisper, "Tell me your name."

  She gives no answer.

  I see things that don't belong in this room, images I must have brought with me. Flashing eyes watch from outside, above and all around. I focus on her, ignore the rest. There's nobody watching, just us. The only thing real is what's transpiring here. Not before. I wonder what's become of me, where I've gone, then dismiss it all.

  "Go light," she says, quiet as breath. "Almost tickle."

  The mind has power, to transport and transcend. Even a mind broken as mine can be revived by need.

  Closer, deeper, in and out of blissful dreams. Or not dreams exactly, because they remain intact after I'm awake again. I'm confused. How can this be real? I slip loose, try to focus, fail. Am I really here, sharing this place of hers?

  Quiet and rest, solitary in sleep, dreaming another river. Then back here again, together, bodies moving. The sizzle of desire, pleasure building to intensity, the urgency of release as if nothing matters but this time, this moment. Activity passes between action, lull and delirium. Always the sharpness again, the taste of salt. So thirsty.

  "Now fast," she says.

  For too long I've been stuck in wakefulness, dying for sleep. Now I sleep without effort and only barely, briefly pass into clarity before it slips away again. Feel such relief, such perfect relaxation. Nothing external matters, nobody can harm me. Not my boss, not Karl's judgments. Certainly not Michelle. All problems solved, questions answered, worry and self-defeat so easily, finally discarded.

  "Force," she says. "Strength."

  This woman beside me, I don't exactly know her. This first thing I understand is she's not Michelle. Somehow, I've escaped. I want to know more.

  Eyes close, open again. How much later? I don't care about the passage of time. And she's still here, not vanished. The physical persists. This is real. She sprawls naked beside me, not hiding herself. Now watching me. My eyes are hungry in this darkness, starving for any detail. I smell skin, feel the texture of skin, but can barely see. The entire world is nothing but her smooth landscape hidden in darkness, shimmering in and out of existence.

  "I still can't grasp this," I hear myself say.

  She's sitting up, awake. "That's because it's new."

  "How long has it been?"

  She gives no answer, tilts her head sideways. Hair perfect black, skin pure white. Eyes invisible.

  "How long have I been here?"

  For a while she seems to have forgotten my question, or chosen to disregard it. "Not really very long."

  We've rushed past preliminaries, from first glance, to acquaintance, then upon third sight to a sudden intimacy. So many steps missed along the way. I want to reset things, render circumstances normal between us. Is that even possible? This morning — or whatever morning that might have been — I left home, hoping for nothing more than to speak to her again. Just to express my interest or attraction would have been enough. Maybe I'm foolish to worry. This might be easier, so many awkward stages skipped. Still I want to backtrack, at least try to relate normally. Pretend to be real people.

  Her expression shifts as if responding to my thoughts. It's strange, the way her eyes and mouth are sometimes visible, and express her emotions without words, yet at other moments they're only blank spaces in the dark.

  "We crashed together," she says slowly. "That's unusual. Isn't it?"

  "It is," I say, still uncertain. "Tell me your name, at least that. We can begin again. Let's start with names." I'm afraid she's going to evade. I've asked before, I'm not even sure how many times, and still don't know.

  She appears perfectly untroubled, even amused by my question. "My name is Lily." Her face seems luminous in contrast to her straight black bangs and darkly adorned eyebrows and lips.

  "My name is Guy." I extend my hand.

  She leans on her left elbow, frees up her right hand for a brief, formal handshake.

  What next? We're both exhausted, dreamy, blissful. Also comfortable being naked together, apparently.

  "Lily." That's something, a start, but I want more. "Tell me about yourself."

  She glances around the confined space, gestures toward her papers and books. "You saw."

  "No, the rest of your life."

  A pause. "You already know."

  "I mean, whatever you do when you're not working here. Where you come from. Your family, job. All that stuff."

  She exhales in a way that seems exasperated. "So many questions."

  This takes me by surprise, the first hint I've seen of anything but a desire for closeness and perfect acceptance of my every natural impulse.

  "I'm not trying to..." I began. "Not trying to demand, just hoping to normalize things between us."

  "Normal." She appears puzzled. "What would you say if I told I saw lights in the sky at night?"


  "What do you mean? Are you saying that you did, or—"

  "What if I said I know a place where time doesn't move?"

  I still don't understand. "Do you mean—"

  "Would you believe these things because I told them to you? Or do you only believe what you experience yourself? How do you know things? How do you decide which are the things you know, and which you were wrong about?"

  I can only guess she's making a point about the meaninglessness of my desire to know more about her. Do we know by seeing, touching, or learn from being told? Is it possible to come into possession of knowledge in other ways? But what does that have to do with us?

  "Lily, I don't understand why you're asking me these things."

  Her fingertips trace my skin, shoulder to clavicle. She smiles at me. Lily is her name.

  My mind slips, relinquishes whatever concerns it might have been trying to contain. I lapse into physical arousal, a sudden onset that washes over everything. We press together, muscles clenching, urgent. Together again, not the first time, not the tenth. This is all surreal, confusing. Where am I? The urgency of my desire, of hers, as if this coming-together might never recur, must be grasped in desperate fear that all the future might vanish.

  I know this isn't the last time, not unless I've lost my mind. I know this place, know her.

  There's a flash, a brief glimmer of unreality. I wonder if this is really happening after all — am I lying somewhere else imagining this? — but shove this uncertainty aside. We're still together. I know what I feel, can read the feedback she gives. Her hands on me, the sweat and rhythm of her body sprawled, entangling me. Her cries, like an animal lost—