I try to see what's out there, but find nothing. Silently as I can manage, I slide the door open an inch.
"Lily?" I whisper, hoping to be heard and not to be heard.
Nothing.
I open the door fully, greeted by cold wind. At least the rain has stopped. I step onto the deck. "Is anybody there?"
Still no response. I wait, listen, but I'm alone. The wind sounds hollow.
I turn, start back inside. As I reach the door, I hear the rustling again, behind me, near the hollow tree. Just like before, someone on the opposite side, always out of view, forever hiding.
Now it's too dark to see. I consider escape, but it's also too dark to run without falling, whether I head into the trees, or straight down the driveway. I'm tired of being afraid, always running, evading. Instead, I prepare myself for trouble. The possibility of violence.
I turn to face the hollow tree, step closer. Though I see almost nothing, I keep my eyes open wide, ready for whatever may come. The commotion, shuffling from the opposite side, diminishes, goes silent. I stand still, waiting. Still nothing. If I wanted to, I could convince myself I only ever imagined the sound. Nobody's here.
"Mr. Cayson?" I whisper. "I came with someone who knows you. Karl brought me here." It's a feeble excuse, but better than nothing.
No response. Of course this isn't Cayson. Must be someone else. Who?
It might be Lily.
This possibility compels a wrenching eagerness within me. "Is it you?" I blurt, voice high and desperate.
Leaves shuffle. The wind breathes.
"Why couldn't you stay sleeping?" The voice is a man's, older and rough-edged. His tone uneven, tremulous, as if he's drunk or unhinged.
I can't imagine any good reply. "You're not Cayson?"
I'm not sure, but I think I see a shape step from behind the tree, half-revealed.
"Cayson?" He takes rapid breaths in succession, like brief hyperventilation, then murmurs several nonsensical syllables before speaking clearly again. "That man's gone, a long ways, a long time. But I do think I know you."
"No, you don't." I should leave it at that. I should go. "It's dark here. We can't see each other."
"That's just it." The man seems settled, convinced. "I recognize you, good and sharp. Memory's clear as daylight."
"No." I feel a sense of threat, expect any moment to be struck out of blind darkness. "No. That's crazy. Delusional."
"Confused, maybe. We all are." Something in his voice sounds familiar. He stretches out words, enunciates slowly, almost a drawl. "But not delusional."
"Who are you?" I ask. Not Cayson, but somebody, some name I should know. Then it hits me, it's Karl, out of his mind, detached from home and job. I can't imagine why he would come here. "Is it — Is that you?" I don't dare speak the name. Of course this isn't him, isn't Karl. This man's too old. I have a problem keeping identities straight.
"I'm going," I tell the man. "You can keep this place."
"No. You stay."
This voice could belong to anybody, in such pure dark.
"Listen to what I say. I need to tell." His slow enunciations pick up speed, become a rant, as his words go unclear.
I don't understand. "Stop it," I tell him.
Then I start to understand. The man spews a litany of betrayals. Acts of violence, transgressions against love and friendship. So many sins, so much pain inflicted. I remember that night, when Karl asked the worst thing I've done. Then Karl told me about his cousin. That was my story, just like this.
"I don't want to hear," I insist, backing away. "I'm just going to leave."
"No, you stay," he says again, not listening. "And one opened herself, and I bent her round my fist."
"Stop!" I step backward, trip over the edge of the lower deck, sprawl on my back and hit my head.
"And one wanted a knife up in her, and I gave her what she needed."
I sit up, shaking my head, trying to see past all the stars.
When finally I stagger to my feet, I see his shape before me, hunched in the dark. I move right, he jumps into my path. I hesitate, then decide. I lunge, shove both hands into the man's chest. He flails back, falls, lets out a moan, more disappointment than injury. He stands, comes again. I swing, my elbow makes contact with his jaw. Teeth clack together. He thumps to the ground again, moaning. This time he doesn't get up. I can't see his face, but kneel over his chest.
"I told you stop." I strike where I think his face must be. Keep hitting, alternating fists.
"You still are," he says, spitting blood. "Still looking."
I stop. "What did you say?"
Moonlight spills from behind clouds, revealing. I see an old man, a stranger's face bruised purple, nose and mouth running blood. Blood in his hair, streaming into his eyes, the side of his neck. Exhalation comes with a wheeze, and fresh blood sputters from his lips. He reaches with a trembling, misshapen hand, trying to wipe his face, manages only to smear the blood. His lips a black-red streak, face a dying mask. He looks at some point above himself, up in the branches of the tree. His mouth quivers. "You'll remember."
I follow his gaze, see the marked tree above us. Somehow we've turned around, ended up beneath it. All these lines have meaning, made long ago. Lily tried to tell me these shapes.
"It's hard doing both at once," the old man says. "Finding and hiding."
I crawl away, kneel beyond arm's reach.
"I'm not." I stand, turn. I'm going to leave this house, the old hollow tree, all the signs and the river. I need to get home.
"Wait, my bones broke," he rasps, struggling to breathe. "You stay."
I run toward what I think is the driveway. I come upon three more gnarled trees, not the same one I just left behind, but similar. This trio seems arranged. I don't pause to look, but can't avoid seeing the cuts in the bark. Slashes in red, adorned with white dots.
Some things are clear even in darkness.
I swerve, cross the yard to the driveway, and run without looking back. An accident of moonlight reveals a shape in the trees, a great stone statue, Pan or some other horned god of dark violence, arms aloft, head tossed sideways in revelry or mockery, his front thick with green moss slick with today's rain. I feel his notice as I run past.
For the first time, I find the gate open. My car, half blocking the way, is blanketed green with pine branches, needles, and leaves, all the fallen detritus of the storm finally passing.
Chapter 21
All is past
I drive back to the only place I can call home, Karl's houseboat on the Columbia.
Still no sign of Karl. The home stands vacant, other than my few possessions. Looking at it this way, it's possible to imagine nobody has ever lived here but me. I'm meant to be this way. Everybody in my life disappears, vanished into time. Every moment flits out of tangibility with the passing of the instant. I'm not sure what exactly we call existence, if nothing solid lingers.
This can't be Karl's place without Karl's presence. I remain, so this becomes mine. If I leave, what then?
I haven't forgotten rules, laws, contracts, obligations. These things exist because everyone believes in them. I keep waiting for somebody to come along, let me know it's time to go. Each time I hear someone creaking along the dock, I wonder if it's the marina manager coming to put all this to an end. Maybe she'll ask for some fee or assessment. At least ask after Karl.
If someone does come looking, what answer can I give? My only guess is that whatever enigma Karl chased led him away, toward his own fields, his own river. Both Karl and I keep secret our own mysteries, but mine led me back here. Otherwise, despite Sadie and Lily wearing bodies of contrasting shape and color, and speaking in different voices, the two are the same.
Time passes. Nobody ever comes to ask about Karl, or anything else. Every charge must have been paid ahead, well in advance. After what seems like weeks, I start leaving the front door open, despite wind and damp, hoping some passerby will be curious enough to look inside. I'm
ready for someone to appear, but people rarely come this far. My house is docked at the end of the row, the marina's outermost edge, nearest the Washington side. The few who come out this far never look inside. They continue to the dead end, maybe stop a moment, then turn around and go back. It's as if nobody ever sees me.
My eyes remain open. This world may be considered a tangible realm, but the only experiences worth keeping happen elsewhere, in another line of existence. People are never the way I imagine them to be. All the give and take of pain, it's nothing but phantom sensation. I'm left with nothing but memories of pleasure, memories of suffering, not the things themselves. Exchanges on a physical level leave no trace. Even words are transient. Intimacy seems profound in the moment, as if it might endure forever, but blink and it evaporates.
In the mirror, everything is invisible. The mirror always looks behind.
Karl vanishes, so I barely remember him. I'm left with no more of Karl than of Michelle or Lily, or my books and music, my job, anything else.
The only thing kept is memory. Transience isn't something to be wished against or overcome. It's the only possibility, an absolute limit. To live through experience, what does that mean? Life passes so quickly, it's impossible to react in time. The now can never be preserved, always vanishes before a snapshot can be stolen. Is this life, that fleeting now, or is real living actually the process of sorting through the pieces later? I focus on assembling and shaping all I've been through. Finally I have time. Sensations left behind, words spoken, a book loaded with all the designs of life. It might be the most meaningful thing I ever possessed, yet while I held it, I was never able to focus without distraction. Always looking away, thinking elsewhere.
Lily made it for me. I possessed the book even if I never possessed the woman herself. She's gone. Now that I have time, I want to make sense of this. If I can sort the ideas, every page still exists in mind. Every image is a painting in memory.
I assemble paper, pens, begin scribbling notes, sketches. I'm disappointed to find the designs are only vivid so long as they remain held in imagination. Reproduced on paper, ideas fall flat. The problem isn't my lack of skill with a pen. It's more the general problem of translation. Concepts held in mind remain fluid, malleable and complex. When an idea is forcibly conformed to hard-edged concreteness, the change in language discards most of what I remember.
My plan is no longer to render on paper. Instead, I plan to create a full concept of the book, to be held in mind. It should be possible to see every page, to refine my sense of all that appears within, before moving to the next. But I'm afraid before I reach the end I may lose some details from the beginning, forget that I've forgotten. It may not be possible for imagination and memory to correlate all aspects of everything I've seen.
Soon I may need to leave the houseboat. Increasingly things are moved or rearranged in frustrating ways. Changes occur, not effected by me. Sometimes I wonder if Karl has come home, disrupted things. I'm aware of the fact that he's gone, but sometimes I wonder if this truth is as indefinite as the rest. Once in a while, this becomes a different place. A home has moods and emotions, like a person. Time changes me, and so my surroundings are also changed.
In the bathroom, I find everything disturbed. The light switch by the door is gone, and instead of a single overhead bulb, many tiny pinpoints of light aim straight at me, through the mirror from behind. These operate by knobs and switches in a flexible cluster behind the sink. When I reach for the switches, water spurts or sprays, threatening to engage my hands in some disaster of running water and electrical high-voltage. Even when I determine the system, the correspondence between switch and light, I find most of them don't turn on after all, or they flicker off again without my interference.
Finding the bathroom changed like this, without warning, I vibrate with anger. I want to complain to someone, maybe the marina manager. But Karl owns this house. The marina's just responsible for docks, utilities and parking. Nobody can fix this but me. Karl's no longer any help. I'm angry enough now that if Karl returned, I'd tell him it's crazy what he's allowed to happen. Lights impossible to control, electric switches sprayed with water. But he's not here, and anyway I have this horrible feeling that if he did show up, suddenly everything, the bathroom, the problems with the lights, the noises I keep hearing from his room, all these details would immediately revert to the way they were before. It's predictable.
I discover a note Karl left behind, which purports to explain his absence. The letter seems fake, like something I might compose myself. Nothing about it is convincing. Phony apologies, stilted formality, no resemblance to Karl's real style. Even my memory of that I've begun to question.
After the food is gone, I take this letter out to the end of the dock and let it drift away. Floating on the surface it slowly absorbs the river's substance. The paper vanishes downstream before it sinks.
I'm learning to understand what's actually real and what only seems. I try not to consider what this fakery reveals of me, especially when my subconscious manifests material changes into the world, out of my own compulsions or perverse hypothetical visions. It's hard for a person not to wish, to pretend nothing's wrong when circumstances might be shifted to make existence more bearable. Desire is painful. Urges for companionship, sex and food are profound. Is any of this my fault? Somehow I feel ridiculous, all this illusion rising out of me, like a lie told to myself, but I can't stop it. I have no power over my desires, have never possessed the capacity to restrain myself. Why should I? Nothing like that matters. Even the greatest intimacy leaves no evidence of the connection that was. Whatever passes between two people is immaterial. Everything given and received vanishes.
All that Lily bestowed is gone, but if I close my eyes, I possess everything. I hold the book in mind, turn pages, linger over uncountable images, boundless ideas. Piece together crucial connections, previously missed.
Secret names for rivers.
The history of Cayson's house.
Locations of hidden pathways.
Art forms and languages for wilderness.
Gathering places downriver.
Charts of blood runes and sigils.
I build upon these beginnings, work toward increasing understanding, the way a crossword puzzle becomes easier with every new word filled in. Hints build upon hints, toward full comprehension. Language is a code.
Now it becomes possible to imagine myself going to this place, learning the way, discovering locales invisible and unattainable to others. Unexplored fields on the shores of foreign rivers obscured from the world's view. One day I will discover Lily, though she must be a transformed person now. Dressed differently, hair changed, a different angle to her smile. Some new texture of skin. Gathering strange specimens, bits of leaf or sunbleached bone, components for new books.
With her, a small child, the only thing she ever needed of me. A little boy, not a baby, but surprisingly older. I believe this is what she took, though the math doesn't work for the child to be mine. Not enough time has elapsed for one conceived between Lily and me, in our small window of time together, to be born and to grow to this size. But now I know enough to trust that impossibility is not proof that something does not exist.
Though I haven't seen any of it yet, all this must be true.
Different as Karl and I have always been, and though I dismissed his presumptuous advice, I find myself wishing he might return. I envision him strutting through the front door, smirking, loose in the shoulders, full of innuendo and quick to offer blithe, careless opinions. His suggestions weren't compelling for their insight, yet his easy confidence was spellbinding. Even now, Karl might give me direction I could use. Whether I do as he suggests or the opposite, I would be relieved to find him returned.
After spending so much time alone, I consider the possibility of visiting Constant. Of course he wouldn't rehire me to do the work I did before. I wonder if he might offer me some other job, hard labor or graveyard work. This is foolish, a rec
urrence of my old weakness. I have this tendency to drift back toward the familiar. The truth is, if I made a list of any job I might possibly do, working CAD and 3D for Constant Marine would rank near the bottom. I could do so many other things, now that everyone has left me behind. First Michelle, then Lily, Karl and Sadie.
One other person has drifted away. The old Guy. For so long I wanted to be rid of him. I remember how bad things were, when I was him. I won't forget.
Memory is important, but it's not everything. Nothing replaces the flesh for immediate sensations. Real-time experiences, face to face, that's the nearest approach to ecstasy. That passion requires body, but I don't believe the physical aspect matters as much. Physicality doesn't last. All senses mislead.
Colors, words, shapes and smells. All transform, enlighten, feed the mind. I wish I still possessed my book. Now all that remains is memory of the thing, and whatever else memory has allowed me to create. I go beyond remembering what I saw, felt and smelled. I imagine further. The fewer material objects I possess, the more memory suffices. I catch myself dreaming of escape, disappearing into trees. In mind, I travel back, grasping for the past. Each time I revisit the book, I improve it. Journey through, pages growing more distinct, images clearer, ideas sharper.
When I study the section on charms, reflect on what it tells, I begin to understand how Lily reached out, changed me from a distance, even as I was unable to change myself. She lent me strength. I gained more than I lost.
I question my idealization of Michelle, and my sexual dreams of Sadie. Maybe these were a kind of test, delusions arisen on the cusp of my meeting Lily at my lowest, most vulnerable point. The women I actually knew, and in some sense possessed, what of them? Interludes with Lily, decades with Michelle. If anything remains, it's not tangible. Nothing I can see or hold.
The thing is this: More and more, even memory is my own creation.
Hieroglyphs_of_Blood_and_Bone Page 15