Why?
We have come so far that all old stories whisper once more, he said, and then he did not speak again that day.
The children drifted back along the beach towards the village, their shapes like black integers on the sand. Like an equation that needs no proof. Like the letters of a word that had not yet been spoken. He watched them until they were out of sight and then he looked at the sea.
There were purple shadows on the brief waves, breaking yellowish-white on the sand. It was coming evening. He heard the sound of the muezzin, calling the faithful to prayer. From the antique tower of their toy-town mosque. He stood up and walked down to the water’s edge. He remembered the word that had not yet been spoken; and, under his breath, he spoke it. Then he turned and went back to his hut.
All that night, above the empty beach, the stars crackled and burned. Hissing their transitory fires into eternity. In the morning, the children came again.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Part of this book was written during a two month residency at the Michael King Centre in Devonport, Auckland in 2010; to which, and especially to Karren Beanland, many thanks. Also to Michele Leggott for her support during that residency. I’m grateful, as always, to my agent, Fran Moore. Mayu Kanamori and Rachel Garden read the manuscript and made useful comments. I should also acknowledge embedded quotations from the works of Alan Brunton, Robert Duncan, Arthur Rimbaud and (less conspicuously) many others.
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