Everything will remain.
iii.
to the children i loved
We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. (While we felt it in the soil and danced on dead leaves and rutted and drank at the stream that ran behind the row of apartments and watched the sun, that radiant star, and kept the island in our hearts.) The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. (Knew that we would return there, if we lived that long.) The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. (If we could just outlast, outcast.) The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising
children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. (Did I see you through the bramble? Once or twice. Did I sneak up to the edge of the forest to surveil the factory?) We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur. (Did I watch the dark bird at its work but do nothing? And was I a ghost? Was I so far away I could do nothing anyway? For what was to be done? Nothing.) We lived in joy, the joy of living without interference, without persecution, without unnatural threat. The joy of running. The joy of digging. The joy of hunting earthworms through the dirt. The joy of the wind against fur. The joy of muddy paws. The joy of sleeping next to mate and kits. The joy of climbing trees. The joy of swimming in streams. The joy of mating and raising children. The joy of digging burrows. The joy of playing in meadows. The joy of snapping at fireflies at dusk. The joy of napping on smooth stones, on moss, on beds of ferns. The joy of the warmth on fur.
But, in the end, joy cannot fend off evil. Joy can only remind you why you fight.
It was not always you, here, in this room, with me half dead hanging from the wall. Once, it was them, and far away. The ones who took me. Where did they take me from? The usual places. The ones you don’t understand because you don’t really see them. You live there, but you could live anywhere.
My life wasn’t much. Before. Not to you. To you it would be strange and over-silent and made of blank spaces and space too long. The wrong gait and the wrong gate. A fence where I see none. Or none not defeated by a leap.
I was the tree fox, the water fox, never meant for the desert. When happiest I lived on an island within swimming distance of the mainland. A copse. A sullen stream, weary of summer people tossing garbage in it. A stream clogged with rocks, the kind where you pry up the moss and find delicious crayfish. I liked to jump onto a river rock. Sit there as the sun washed through the trees and through the water. The sudden regard of it. How it spread out to cover us and I could sense the growth and decay of all around me.
The sun was a star. I knew that, even then. I knew we live on a planet. I can sense magnetic fields. I can feel the weight of the Earth turning. I can listen to the networks between trees and view their own map of constellations. So I knew better than you. Better than books.
I had a mate and we had children and we raised them well and then they left to strike out on their own and would raise more. We would live in caves and dens and abandoned buildings overgrown with vines. Always near a river. Always near the basking stones.
There was no moment like any other moment and yet each moment was the same.
We slept in trees, on branches thick with moss and ferns. That was our bed. We would sleep in the heat, and rise to play and sit in the sun and hunt rabbits and mice. We would explore the heart of abandoned towns fallen again to weeds and bramble. We would paw past the ashes of cold campgrounds. We were bold and loud often and did not care, especially at night.
The thing we didn’t know, child. But felt. The reason we began to look forward to a time we could be truly careless: It was the end, not the middle, the end not the beginning. The time of your kind was ending. We knew it in the busy places that became still, watchful. We knew it in how fewer lights shone at night and how more shadows we sniffed were stray dogs. (Oh, stray dogs were a bumbling marvel, even the best and keenest of them! For we had changed.)
Still, you took things from us. Even then. Became more ferocious as you disappeared, as if you knew it in your hearts.
You burnt part of the forest on the island. We moved to the mainland. We lived in gardens. You cut down the verge. We lived in the shadow of lawns. You filled in the lawns with gravel. We lived on rooftops. You could not take sky; we kept that for ourselves and the tunnels below, too. So that humans were garlanded by us and yet never saw us.
But we saw you.
Maybe, once, from afar, once there was a bridge and a poisoned river. Maybe once in our travels we passed by that which once had been beset by fire. Maybe we knew. Maybe I knew what it might come to mean.
We became careless and yet were not killed. By snare. By bullet. By poison. Because there had been a person always to kill us. Now the people truly became a murmur across the land. A puzzled, bewildered muttering.
I was wary-wise and soft-new, naïve back then. I would have growled and yipped at you, or you would have known nothing of me, even if I stood close, in the shadows, and I would have been better for it. Perhaps.
Then one day I was taken and I became the blue fox.
There was an insect up above. A drone that hovered, made of flesh and metal. I remember I stood on my hind legs to see it better. How it shone in the sun!
The men came much later. A shadow. A metallic smell appearing as if magician-summoned. A sound from an old abandoned building that had always been safe before. The pale men that always come before the end, that signal the invasion. And the locals they enlisted. The banal drawling drowning speech of men who don’t care about what they’re doing. Until forced to. Who all unawares destroy their own warrens, who poison their own food, convinced of righteousness.
I should have been wary. There is nothing you cannot hear if the world is quiet enough. And if the world will not be silent, you will have to make yourself silent. So silent. That all the sound everywhere means nothing. But still I did not hear, not on that day. Fell into the trap. Fell into the floor in the bottom of the world, tumbling into the dark, out on the other side in someone else’s warren.
There came the piercing thread of agony in the shoulder. There came the dizziness, the stagger, the fall into leaves and moss, amid the snails and earthworms. Down close where the earth smells like heaven.
My mate watched from the bushes. She knew she couldn’t save me, and I didn’t want her to try. Still I saw her. As I faded. As I faded into becoming something else, not new or old. As they took me away. Still looking into her eyes.
The sentimental tale. The tale you always need to care. Which shows you don’t care. Why we don’t care if you care.
Once, I went to the farthest extreme, to the very edge of the realities, pushed up against the impossible. I was sick with my power, besotted with it. I thought no place had a fence I could not dig under or jump over. Or that no place defended by a fence might be dangerous. My mind was a feral place and strange creatures darted through it in the night. And I welcomed them.
Beyond where the Company had ever wanted me to go. More than they had wanted me to see. Perhaps it was the past, not the future. Perhaps all the answers lay in the past, or maybe time did not move as we thought it did. That our movement was a kind of reality or world all by itself. Ever the numbers that bound it and made it so: the three, the countdown from ten, the seven, with their dozens of fragments.
Limitless, I came to a world where the moon lay so huge and ivory and cratered that it blotted out the sun above a mirror-twin to Earth. Except, there in that strange land everything was alive and nothi
ng was dead, even the dead, and I could find no familiar scent to guide me through. Where the rocks spoke to me and so did the water and so did the sand and so did the plants.
There, ultimately, I found my purpose. There, I was transformed once more and truly became the blue fox. Out where all the smells run together and you cannot trust your senses.
What lived there had lost its name long ago. What lived there changed shape and form and spoke in different voices. Had been created as one thing, brought up as another. What lived there was serious and playful and lonely but not alone. It had known me before. It knew me now, read my mind, my intent, encouraged it.
“It will take time. You will not survive to see the end of it. And one day, Time will bring you back here, in some form. To this place.”
“How do you know this?”
But there was just laughter in reply.
In the end, if you change the enemy enough, if you wear them down, perhaps losing is good enough.
This much I know, among all the other things I know.
Once upon a time, I spoke to three dead astronauts. Past, present, future? All so proud, so determined. All so doomed. They told me their plans. They were so pure. They did not ask me about my past, where I had come from. Not in the right way. They did not imagine I might be similar to them. But I was the one sent where no one else wanted to go. I understood them better than they knew.
I could talk like Grayson now. Or Chen. Or maybe even Moss. I could claim to conjure with leviathans or through great bears and salamanders. I could bark at you. I could be silent and hurt you in the dark by smell alone. By the sounds you careless left behind you.
Dead Astronauts Page 19