In This World

In This World

Prologue: Blaevin

1

When I was eight years old I was alone, and I started for the last time. The last time so far, that is. No, I do not know how long—how long this one will go, I mean—or if there will be others after it. I seem never to know the things I need to know about when I need to know about them. Maybe I did know things like that at one time, but that would have had to be different, wouldn’t it? An other time—if that/maybe that would be a better way to say it? Anyway, I haven’t stopped since then—since the last time I started. When I was eight. like I said. I haven’t stopped. Well, I haven’t stopped yet, that is. Haven’t stopped yet. I think these two things, the starting and the not yet stopping, happened because my parents died or went away or escaped or something—I’m not really sure what. But I know it has something to do with them, though—my parents—that caused the starting and the not yet stopping. But that’s the way, isn’t it? It always starts with them, doesn’t it—parents, I mean? One, the other, or both. And what makes the most sense to me is, like I said, they must have—my parents—must have died or escaped, or gone away. And no, I cannot think of anything else it could/might be—or at least, I haven’t thought of anything else so far. I must say, though, that I do keep running up against the idea that maybe it was I who did—who went away or escaped, that is. Maybe I’m the one who did and not my parents—either one. And no, I don’t think I died, if you’re wondering about that—but who knows, maybe I did. But I wouldn’t say that without more to go on—wouldn’t go that far. And yes, of course, I know you can’t be too sure about things like that these days. I do know that. But I think I would have known, you know what I’m saying? I think I would have knows about the dying, I mean—if that really is what started it all this time, concerning me. But you’re right, you know. I can see it. You know I’m winding you up a bit, don’t you? Just a bit? Of course you do. Because you think I have a better idea—better than I have let on—about what happened, don’t you? And you’re right, of course. I do. It was like this. I was alone, you see—like I said. I remember that much for sure. I was alone, and just standing there, and then they came and scared me is what happened. That’s right. Just like that. And because of that—because they scared me so hard and so suddenly—because of that, I started for the first time. For the very first time. Never before. Never anything like it before. Nothing. No, it just started. Right then. No thinking about it first. No warning. No wondering. It just started. No blinking, no throat-clearing, no shuffling feet—nothing. Nothing at all. And they couldn’t/wouldn’t believe it—the ones who came for me—they wouldn’t/couldn’t believe that scaring would/could do that to me, make me start up like that. I’m sure they must have had an idea, though—would have had to, I suspect—that I might react that way. They must have been small once. They must have been afraid sometime. But nothing they did would stop it once I started—not the food, or the drinks, or the coins, or the little toys. Or the hitting. Nothing. And those first few times—oh yes, I was with them a while, and I started and stopped a lot—but those first few times, I just finally got too tired to keep going, and that was why I stopped. And usually I fell asleep soon after—at least I think sleep is what it was. Anyway, that was how that/those early times went. I would start and would go until I was too tired to go more, and then I would stop. That was how it was as I remember it. But I try not to concentrate too much on that anymore. Any of that. Or anything near that. You see, stray things float and move for me/around me/inside me when I try to focus on that time now, or if I think about it too closely or for too long. Let’s just say that the last solid thing I remember and can be sure of is that I was standing on a long strip of concrete—or cement, if you need that kind of detail, or like that kind of detail. I don’t, most of the time—need that kind of detail, I mean. So, I was standing on a long strip of concrete/cement beside a not-much-wider strip of well-worn asphalt. Worn to a grayish tan, in fact. Or a tannish gray. And maybe it was macadamized instead of asphalt. I’m afraid things like that are more impression with me than, say, inspection—if you know what I mean. But you get the idea, I’m sure. The general idea. Worn. Well-worn, it was. Individual stones beginning to show through, and pebbles popping out here and there. The same was true for the concrete/cement. That was well-worn, too. You could put your whole finger—even if your fingers are fat, like the fingers my cousin Horace has, or my Uncle Alvis, like one of them—you could put your whole finger into the channels between the slabs of the cement/concrete. That’s how worn they were/it was. It had expanded like that over the years, the channel. That’s how it had gotten that way, and that’s how I see it and how I think it. Long before they came, like I said—the ones who came and scared. Eight of them, four in each of two cars, two in the front seat, two in the back. One from one car talked to me. No, I did not understand a word of it, if you’re wondering, and no, it was not a nice sound. The way he talked. At first, he just talked to me and there was nothing else. Or, talked at me might be a better way to say it. Then the other three from that car got out and took me inside the car with them—and him, the one who had been talking. The ones in the other car didn’t do much but look all around them/us every few seconds. Then I was looking out the rear window and watching my house getting smaller and smaller, and my dog getting smaller and smaller looking for me, and that was when I started. When I knew my dog wouldn’t find me. That was it. That was when I started. For the first time. Started. Trees, too, there were on that concrete/cement/asphalt/macadam. Or did I mention the trees already? Regular trees. Not constipated. Ha ha! What were you thinking? Constipated trees, right? What, because they have all those knots and bends and twists and angles? I know, I know. I do understand. That is the kind of thing I can understand without saying words that just won’t fit in no matter how hard. But no, these were regular trees at regular intervals with a little square patch of grass around the feet of their trunks. Between the well-worn strip of macadam/asphalt and the well-worn strip of cement/concrete with the pockmarks and pebbles. Both. Well worn. Macadam/asphalt and cement/concrete. All right. So I’ll say old neighborhood. Okay? Old neighborhood, then. It was an old neighborhood I was standing in. Living in. With old houses—a lot of which had workers working on them a lot of the time. But new houses, you know, new houses, too. New houses and newly-redone/remade/made-over houses. I know about those things now, you see. And that’s how it was. And yes, I know, people say roots, not feet, for trees. I know that. But I want it feet. The feet of the trees. I’m partial to good feet, and you will see why as we go on—because I will tell you. Mostly, that is. That’s why you will know. And while I’m at it about the tree feet, of course I know it was a sidewalk and a street, too—instead of well-worn strips of whatever. But that’s how I see it and think it when I do those things—seeing and thinking about back then. Like I’m/we’re doing now. Before they came squalling and bawling around the corner that day and squealed to a stop and said some words I did not understand in one way—although I did in another—and rushed at me and grabbed me and then I myself was gone, but the macadam/asphalt and the concrete/cement and the trees, with their feet, stayed. And, most of all, the house and who/what was inside it. Stayed. I knew the street. And I knew the street because I knew the sidewalk, not the other way around, the way people usually do it. Because I used to lose all my marbles in the cracks of that sidewalk. Yes, I hear you. Ha ha! You’ve lost your marbles all right, you’re thinking. I know you’re thinking it, but you didn’t—and you won’t—say it, will you? But don’t worry. It wouldn’t hurt my feelings any, I promise. No, I do. I can—do that. I have no problem with things like that the way a lot of people do. And if it did—hurt my feelings, that is—if it did hurt my feelings, then I probably would just kick you is all. I do that very well. Only thing I could do to you these days, so I’ve gotten good at it. And that, in return, might hurt your feelings, but there you go. That’s the chance you take when you start out thinking like that about people—people like me, I mean. My father would give me new ones—marbles, that is, not people—every few weeks. Just like a calendar. Well, maybe a little faster than a calendar, if you know what I mean. I mean, calendars just take so long, don’t they? For just about anything. Well, most of the time they do—in my experience. But I always lost them, the marbles, I mean. I’ve always been that way with some things. I just lose them. That’s it. Gone. But not to other kids—the marbles, I mean. I wouldn’t lose them to other kids. Not like that. Anyway, they—the other kids—usually didn’t bother playing with me, nor I with them. I guess you could say my birthday parties were always quiet. I think what it was, most of the time, is that they didn’t like the sores. Or the bent toes. Plus, I was small for my age, though my father always said I was old for my size. So, small, crooked, and oozy would just about sum me up back then. And probably smelly, too. And we know how kids are/can be—especially their parents. So, no, I did not lose to other kids the marbles my father brought me. No, usually I would lose the marbles because they would slip through a hole in the bag and then through a hole in my pants pocket. My mother would scold him—and scrunch her nose just that ugly way she could do—scold him without mercy for buying the marbles for me. And sometimes—when he brought them home—she would go on at him about it for the rest of the evening, and he would sigh and shrug when he handed them to me and say, Now try to hold on to these for a while, okay? I liked the way he would smooth back his thick brown hair when he said certain things like that. And I liked the way he would clear his throat—just a bit; and the way he would nod his head at the instant of speaking—just a bit. But nonetheless, I would make a hole in the thick plastic bag that very day—I knew I would—and of course, I already had made holes in all my pants pockets, so it was only a matter of time before I would lose them all yet again—the marbles. If I knew why I did those things, I would say. I would. I wouldn’t hold back about a thing like that. So, no, I don’t know why. But I have worried over it. In fact, I have thought perhaps my parents found out about the holes—and found out that I had made them—and that is why they went away. My parents. Or why the men came to get me and I went away. If that is what happened. Or how it happened. Yes, I am saying maybe the men didn’t come at all, like they—the ones here, or if not here, somewhere else I’ve been—like they keep trying to tell me. And I’m saying, too, that maybe I am just hiding something—like they say. Oh yes, they do say that. The ones here and the ones at the other places. But no, you don’t need to know any more about them now—it’s enough that you know that they are there. There will be more about them. I will give you more about them as we go on. I mean, all this probably is their idea in the first place. Well, largely their idea anyway. I think it’s possible. I know we have spoken about it a time or two—they and I. But later. Later, for that. Not now. So, where were we just now? Was it the maybe-none-of-this-happened thing? Had I/we had gotten there? Hadn’t we gotten to where maybe I’m hiding all of it—even from myself? Or, better still, maybe I’m hiding myself—hiding me. Now that would be a trick, wouldn’t it? Hiding myself. But I never know these things. Not anymore. I mean, know them now the same way I used to know a lot of stuff/things. I can feel them, yes. I still can feel them. Most of the time. See their shadows. Hear their whispers. Stuff/things. Maybe. But I never can know them anymore. Some of them. My mother might have done it, you know—gone away, that is, and left me—because of the deliberate holes I had made in all my pants pockets so I would lose all the marbles. She might have. The treachery of that boy, she would call it, she would say, and the gall of him and his actions. And to think how I wrecked and wracked my body for him. And she would silently but surely smack my bottom as hard as her small hand would let her. And yes, she had said this before. And before. And before. She was very highly strung you could say, if you wanted to. If that is the way you think about such people. But my father? No. Never. He would never do that. Most likely, he would laugh and snicker right along with me—and low enough for my mother not to hear. If he were here with me now. But since they both went away/escaped/died at the same time, or I did, or the oily little men in the dark purple suits and yellow ties came in the slick clean shiny cars—since all that, then maybe it wasn’t about the holes in my pants or the missing marbles at all. I have thought about that many times, as you might imagine. I have considered that. And if you want to know, and even if you don’t, years later I still would find those marbles—the ones I had lost—find them now and then, when I was crawling around the streets and sidewalks and yards of that neighborhood. You see, I did make it back. I did get back there. Took me a while, a good while, but I made it back. Despite. Despite. Yes, I said crawling just then. Because that is what it was. Some of them somehow would have gotten themselves lodged in tree roots/feet—the marbles. Some would get stuck because they were just too big to fall through the grated openings of the storm drains. Grid niches too tight for them, you see. Things can be like that. Too tight. And even with the best of intentions, too, things still can end up being like that. In this world. So they would eventually get floated away—the old marbles, some of the old marbles—maybe like too much rain and the rising tide lifting all boats and all that. And then there were the ones that—for whatever reason or reasons—became worked loose from the cracks in the sidewalk and made their way over and through time on their own journey as I have mine, escaping the pitfalls of drain grates and sidewalk crevices and such. Like me. Like I did. Made my way over and through the time, if that is what it is called, that has passed since those days. Some days I wonder if it really is time in the form of the days, or me, that has passed through all that. Some I have found squished into the soil of the green grass squares at the tree feet/roots. Stamped in, stomped on they were, and then I would come crawling/slithering by. The marbles, that is—not the days—would get squished, though I suppose days can be squished, too. Maybe even stomped on if you try hard enough. But I gave up trying to do things like that a long time ago. And it was always when I was crawling or slithering, by the way, when I would find them like that. It never happened—finding them, the marbles—never happened any other time, as when, say, I was crab-walking or sidling. Or even when I was sliding, if it was slick and slimy enough for me to slide—usually needing a healthy rain or dose of snowmelt. So, I would come slithering, crawling by—years later sometimes—and I would catch the glint and there it was, there it would be, and I would dig the marble out and roll it around in my mouth a while, savoring its tastelessness—the cold glass and the acrid mud. Nothing like it, really. Even now. Mouth watering just to think about it. Sucking on them until the drool would wet my shirt, if I were wearing one, to the skin. I don’t know what I did with them after that—probably just threw them away. I simply cannot be bothered trying to remember some things, so throwing them away will serve as well as anything here. But I never ate them. No need to go having thoughts like that. I wasn’t one of those. I never ate them or swallowed them—though there are some, even now, who say I did. But I didn’t. I know. And some of those who lie and say otherwise, some of them are here right now—this very moment, as a matter of fact. And you did say you wanted me to do that—the fact thing—didn’t you? Well? Oh, wait. I came off just then, didn’t I? I don’t feel the sleek steel under my wheels anymore, so I must have come off. But the house. Let’s go back to that. I know I wanted to do some more with the house, so we’ll go back—get the wheels back on the slick shiny steel—there. At the house. The house that was behind me when I was standing on a long worn strip of concrete/cement beside a wider worn strip of asphalt/macadam. That house. As I have mentioned already, that was our house. Ours—my mother’s, my father’s, my dog’s, and mine. I can remember it both ways, you know. I have memories of both ways. Or several ways, if you want that. But mostly I prefer the both. The two ways. Full or empty, if we’re talking about the both ways—full or empty. The house. The house’s being full or empty. Otherwise, of course, if we’re talking about otherwise. These things don’t really matter to me. At least, not the way they would matter to some. But then, there aren’t any other ways otherwise in this case, are there? Only the two, after all. For me, that is. For me. Only two ways of thinking about it for me. And by full or empty, of course, I mean whether my parents and my dog were inside the house or not. I liked it when my parents and my dog were inside, and I use full to describe that because I could think of nothing else I needed at such times, and it was like I had eaten a large meal but not enough to hurt my stomach. That kind of full. The happy kind of full. If that is what you call being happy, when you’re talking about happy, then I was—at such times—that. Happy as people usually look in pictures when they have had a full meal and now have a full belly and a smile. I can remember the house empty only once. Once only. And it wasn’t really empty then—I mean, nothing ever really is empty, is it? Despite what they tell you—and I’m not counting me in the full or the empty when I say that, by the way. In case you were wondering. I never do—count myself in the full or empty of things. It just doesn’t seem right/feel right—like belonging. It makes things a little slippery when I do that, I have found, so I try not to do that—including myself in things, I mean. But I do remember it, though some prefer to think I don’t remember some things—like those eight that day, and those eight on one other day. Some prefer to think I don’t—remember it/them, either one. But I will say no more on this for now, for that is not why—or not the main why—I am speaking. Maybe, well probably, later I will tell you why they say I should not remember things like those two times with the eight. So, no more for now. I repeat. I’ll tell it later. The truth is—and yes, I’ve been telling the truth before now, too—the truth is, I have a gap. A hole. A void. I seem to have gone away for a while. Yes, it’s like that. Don’t know how else to say it. They say I didn’t go away at all, that I just don’t want to, or can’t, fill it in. The hole. It isn’t like it’s all gone. Some of it is there. Like, imagine you throw up a handful of dirt and it hangs there. Just hangs there. You can see through it in some places but not in others. Something like that is how it is. I know I started and stopped a lot during then. During that time. That’s what it feels like when I try to think about it—a lot of starting and stopping. I know there were more, others, than the ones that grabbed me and took me away from my house and my parents and my dog. And, as I’ve already suggested to you, I do remember the last time I started—a starting that has not stopped, as I’ve said—muted, maybe, if that’s what muted is, but not stopped. So, for now, let’s just allow an interval. I was standing—unless I was on my knees, my toes curled and my ankles twisted. It might have been either way. But then, flashy cars roaring to a sudden halt before me, in front of me—you choose. Picked up and packed into the car—I was. Started for the first time—I did. A lot of stopping and starting—mine. Not much else. Then a lot of short sharp noises—and then the moving shadows and almost all sound go away. Almost. Then the final starting—I did. Then came being alone, and knowing it. And slowly I came back to things, and slowly things came back to me. And I think there is time through all of that. Time enough. That is, I think one might say time obtained and adhered through all of that. Perhaps as much as a lot of time. Maybe even in years. If that’s not too much or too harsh. So, after I had been out of our house and alone for a while, let’s say it that way for now, shall we?—over time is what I’m trying to get across here—I came to see what seems so natural now. But if I am objective about it, I must say the events that led to this discovery were not trivial. Nor were the effects of it. They still bear—fruit and weight. Even now. But you see, over time—as I just now have told you, however much time it was, after I came back, and I don’t know how long, maybe months—over time, I found that by strapping skates to my knees—they were a lot more prevalent in those days than they are now, the skates—and with a nice cushion of foam rubber in place, just right, against my knees (from an old pillow or sofa cushion—also thrown away, of course, urine-soaked or not, it really didn’t matter), by strapping the skates to my knees,  I was able to move about far more freely than when I had to use my feet, in the condition they were in, to walk. For one thing, and perhaps the most important one at that time, my feet would start to hurt so soon after I began to walk anywhere that I simply couldn’t—walk anymore. I would be forced to sit—sometimes an hour or more. Felt like that long anyway.  They always had done that. My feet. Hurt like that—even before they started to bend. But you get used to things. You just do. And of course I couldn’t wear skates on my feet because of my toes. Once they started to curl, that is. Which I think was just after the first time with the eight. With the loud tires and motors. And the thick ugly hair everywhere on their bodies. That time. After that time is when the toes started. I will add to moving around freely with the skates on my knees and say here I moved far more quickly, too—but quickly, to me, says more speed than I want to say, so maybe I shouldn’t say it quite that way. I mean, people don’t say slow quick, or quickless. So let’s take back the quick—certainly take back the far more quickly. Instead, let’s just say I moved better with the skates on my knees. For one thing, having to steer and/or stop and so on with the little crutch sticks I used slowed me down a good bit sometimes. Then there was having to keep my feet raised so they wouldn’t drag behind me—though I did finally take care of this by using twine to tie my feet together and hold them up by running the twine around my belt—when I had a belt, of course. When I didn’t have a belt, I ran the twine through a belt loop. And yes, I made a hole in the waist band of the pants (if they were pants, if I had some) when there was neither belt nor belt loop. You learn. You do. When you have to. But I think you probably get the idea anyway. I got to places sooner and left them earlier than ever I had when I was confined to my feet only or to my feet and/or my knees—without skates and with or without padding for my knees. And of course without tying my feet so they wouldn’t drag. The whole arrangement was far less wear and tear on my knees—and my body below my waist in general. Much better arrangement all around. The only problem I ever had with the skates and the pads was they made it harder for me to fight the mean dogs—and by this I mean the ones that really did want to bite instead of just making a lot of idle noise and chatter about it, and who wouldn’t quit and go away whenever I would manage to reach back and whack them with one of my stick crutches. These were the really persistent ones who just would get you, no matter what, with at least one good bite. The skates would roll at those times—when I had to fight one of those—and I would lose my position as well as the force of any blow I was about to land or was in the process of landing. So, from that point of view, I didn’t fare too well with the new arrangement. Still and all, despite the difficulties with the dogs, I preferred it—the new way—to the way things had been before. Finally coming across a pair of skates with toe stops, of course, changed all this for the better and made things round, and my life brightened a good bit. Not that it was/had been unbearably dark, or anything like that. But it did have a bit of room for better, if you know what I mean—and the better, when it came, was welcome. And now that I have finished with the skates part, and the way they made things ring a bit more pleasantly, I’ll point out once more the key role of the knee pads—what I used between my bare knees and the metal of the skates. Yes, the foam pads. How life can turn on the axes of the most insignificant objects. Foam pads. And skates. Those kinds of things. The pads made the skates possible. The skates made the...well, we’ve already been there. The point is, now I can say that you might say—no, wait, it should be I might say, Ha ha!—I might say that foam pad, those two words together, played a big part in my life in the time immediately after I found myself suddenly alone. And we’ll just leave it at suddenly alone, for now—without the why or too much when. As we just labored to say, foam pad(s) made my knees not hurt and made me better able to be mobile. And, along with toe stops—saved me from a lot of bites and scratches I otherwise would have had. Made a big big change for the better in my life, they did. And you could say, too—and this is what I’ve been building up to with the foam pad thing—you could say, too, that my first home after my first home was a foam pad. Ha ha!, excuse me, it just happens...comes out like that at times. Usually when I’m tickled, or almost. No, nobody’s tickling me. You know what I mean. Especially since I’ve been in here. Nobody tickles you in here—and I don’t think I would care if they did. I think that’s because of something I take—or something they put in the food, maybe. Anyway, my first home after my first home, right? Yes, the first place I remember as being a distinct place and not just some spit of grassy ground or shade under a tree or a culvert or some other some such. My first home after my first home was a foam pad. You would call it a nook or cave, maybe, by the water—at the end of a pretty little white (foam-strewn) beach. Hence, foam  home. Get it now? Foam home—foam pad? See? Sea? Some might say vault here, though, in all fairness. That’s right. Vault. They might say, He lived in a vault. When he was a boy, that boy lived in a vault. Imagine that. Somebody who lives in a vault. Or saying somebody lives in a vault. Or someone actually admitting it—that he/she lives in a vault. What kind of person would admit that? What kind of person lives in a vault? Or an underground (though it wasn’t, really) chamber. They might say that—He lives in an underground chamber. Nah. You could say crypt, though. Crypt would be about as good as nook or cave. And no, I don’t think crypt always has to have something to do with death. Do you? I mean, we do say cryptic, don’t we? I don’t think that means, necessarily, deathic, do you? That’s not what I mean when I say it. And I certainly never have had anything, well, anything much, to do with death. I didn’t then, and that’s what matters here. That’s what we’re talking about here. I didn’t have anything to do with death then. That is, unless my parents really did die. And I didn’t. If that’s what you mean when you talk about having anything to do with death. Then maybe I did have something to do with death. If they died, and I didn’t. I’m skating, aren’t I? And this despite the fact that we both know I don’t anymore—skate, that is. And we won’t talk here about my dog. In case you are wondering or have wondered. Not yet. It’s too soon, too sudden. I can’t be just running up on it/against it like that. I can’t. So, forget it. For now, anyway. Maybe later. I mean, yes, this is later, a lot later—I know that. All this is a lot later. I know that. It isn’t then, back then. This is years later, so I could talk about my dog because it really isn’t soon after it happened, is it? No, it’s now, isn’t it—a now that is a lot later. I know that. I repeat. I am well aware of that. If I haven’t made that clear yet, then I will here. But I’m just trying to keep some sense of integrity in it while I’m telling all this to you. I mean, you must realize this as we go along here. It’s all happened—been told the first time, you might say. We’re just re-telling here. Re-capturing. Re-taking. Re-peating—that is, assuming we peated the first time. I repeat. Has liquid overtones, doesn’t it? So when we’re back then, in the real, original, peating flow of all those things and how and when they happened, it really was too soon to talk about my dog, at least it was for me. And that’s why I’m putting it off for a while in this telling about it. Because the telling brings it back, makes it so original. That’s why I put the gap in earlier. I think that’s why. Anyway, that’s why they say I put the gap in and refused to fill it in. What am I, a shovel? I hope that’s clear. And not cryptic. Or vaultic, either. Or even deathic. If that is the way you are about things like that. Where were we? Yes, I see the wall, and the window, and the road outside, and the sky. Ah, we were going on, weren’t we? Well, I was going on anyway, talking about the place I stayed for some time—my sea (foam) pad, as I was trying to get you to see it. Go ahead and look back. That’s what it was. That’s what I said. I was talking about vault and crypt and all that. And maybe for you it does—I mean, crypt does—have something of the scent of death about it. If you feel comfortable using scent—instead of, say, aroma or essence or odor—when you are talking about death. Or even stench, for that matter—that is, if you think death stinks. Well, it does, doesn’t it? To us, anyway. The ones left. Left waiting. And wondering. Some more. If you think death stinks, that is. Ha ha! Death stinks. Well, it does eventually, doesn’t it? Has to. Can’t help but. I suppose it doesn’t matter all that much to me, so you can use whatever. And of course all this assumes you, in fact, do feel like talking about death in the first place. Many don’t, I have learned. But if none of these others do it for you, you could try grotto. That would work well, too, I think. That is, if grotto isn’t too dark or dank for you—almost like cave, I think sometimes. Grotto. Grotto would work. I would be comfortable saying I lived in a grotto on a beach—if you would be comfortable hearing it. It didn’t really have a roof, and maybe grottoes should have roofs. No, what it had along that line was just something that was more of a jut, or a jutting out. Or a jutting out over. But that’s not good, is it? Two prepositions back to back like that? And at the end, too. What will people think (to say nothing of say, and we won’t) when they find two prepositions in such a compromising position? I know. I know. How can a preposition be in any position at all? Compromising or otherwise? It’s not even there yet! I suppose I could say it was just one stone jutting out over the others, and I did. Say just that. Wasn’t even all that neatly jutted, either. It had three or four places where the wind in the winter just came through and straight down, drilling and biting right to the bone. If you happened to be sitting anywhere nearby, that is. Which I was, more than I care to remember. And once in a while I’d come back after I’d been gone for, say, half a day or so, and I’d find a gwylan or a cormorant or some other such fussy noisome winged bothersome thing had invited itself in—once it was a feisty pair of black jackdaws. Didn’t care for my coming back so suddenly and unexpectedly, they didn’t, and let me know it in no uncertain terms. Told me so, they did. Pecked me a time or two when I tried to shoo them out. Streaks of white bird shit on the backs of my hands. With the little red blood dots. I remember thinking I had seen little red blood dots. Then the bird shit and feathers and some red were on the walls. They left. But they weren’t the last. To come into my home, that is. My first home after my first home. Seals there were. Seals, too, I had. I wanted to think they were selkies. But not for the same reason I would think later—when I was older, of course, and knew a lot more about long hair and curves. Oh yes, and fur. But at the time we are talking about, I was something around ten years old and selkies were beautiful creatures. That’s all. Give me a little bit of a break here. And later, too, I would come to feel the same way—I should say ways—about the four kingdoms and their folk—or maybe I should say their hosts and trains and paraphernalia and idiosyncrasies and kings and queens and such. But I didn’t feel that way then. Then, like the selkies, they still were very special, and at that time I still believed in very special things and the value those things can have in our lives. I have lost something of that since then, but then, we all tend to lose a few things like that, don’t we? Sooner or later. Don’t we? No, I don’t know where all that just now came from. Books, most likely. Dreams. That sort of thing. Nobody I knew would talk about such things out loud. Maybe in whispers. But who wants to whisper about kings and queens and faeries, eh? But the seals. They usually, almost always, came to my place in pairs. I never had any that were nasty-tempered—and I easily had maybe six or seven run-ins with them during my time there at the grotto/vault/crypt/whatever beach—though I have heard from several different people since then that seals have been known to be temperamental, if not downright querulous and even dangerous. Maybe most of mine were selkies after all. That would be funny. Wouldn’t it? That would, indeed, be a healthy hoot. I mean, considering all that’s happened, if I really had known selkies? In any case, sometimes I didn’t even bother to run the seals out when I would get back from wherever I had been. I would be too tired, usually. And anyway, they would be too big and heavy most of the time—even if I weren’t too tired. Or it would be too cold inside if I drove them outside. And they wouldn’t mind, most of the time—and would let me know they didn’t mind—if I wanted to lie near them some to stay warm. Or maybe I just wanted the company, and they could be good at that—especially if you just kind of let them alone and let them come and go the way they wanted to. And they didn’t bite much, or even try to—only if you got too close to them or if they thought you might be going to hurt them or the one they were with. That’s how I used to try to figure out which one was the male and which was the female. I told you I was young. The male would be the one who would try to protect. But they all left sooner or later. I’d always kick them right out if I didn’t like them, or if they were nasty to me—as long as they weren’t too big, of course. That was always a factor—a big factor, you could say—in any of my dealings with them. And I have to say, in their defense, they never kicked me out or even tried to. And most of them certainly could have. Go figure. But even the ones I liked the most, the nicest ones, left sooner or later. I’d come back one day, and they would just be gone. That was all. And then I would be alone again. Sometimes I wouldn’t even shovel out after them, for days, just to have the memory of the company a little fresher—if that word would work here. Well, it does for me. Of course if I’m going to talk about the jackdaws and the seals, I should mention the other boy. Yes. That’s right, the other boy. Not the one in here. Here. The other one out there. At that time. It was during the second long time of cold. I know. I know. You’re thinking, Isn’t it cute? He’s talking like a little primitive. Well, no. Not exactly. I don’t mean winter—though in this case, coincidentally, the meanings do overlap. I could have said it was during the second winter, but winters around here aren’t always synonyms for long times of cold. Because of the North Atlantic Gulf Stream, winters around here usually aren’t bad at all. Low teens, maybe single digits—for a few days, at the worst. But mostly twenties and thirties, or better. Yes, some snow and such. The hail, the sleet, the freezing rain. Whatever. Not much, though. And I certainly wouldn’t call them long times of cold. But the first two winters I was alone each happened to have within it one extended period of quite cold temperatures—day and night. So you see, if I mean the second winter, which I do mean, then saying either the second winter or the second long time of cold would be correct. Well, they would. Both of them. I just happen to prefer the latter form of expression in this case. Why? Why, because I want to sound like a cute little primitive. Yeah, I know. Well, suck it up. They weren’t selkies either, were they? You have to ask? But the boy. The other boy. The snow was almost a foot deep when I came back that time. He was curled up inside a long coat big enough that I knew it couldn’t have been his. Probably his father’s. Like mine was. Or used to be. When I had a father. And a mother. And a house. And a dog. If I had a father and mother and house and dog. Or maybe he had stolen his. His coat. He didn’t see me until I was close. We didn’t talk. Either of us. The whole time. When he stood, quick and sudden, seeing me there, I saw he was about my height and size. I’m sure he saw that in me, too. Clenched fists. His and mine. Eyes burning blue marbles, chin pulled close, shoulders hunched, breath vapor. Darting looks from both of us all around—anybody else, anything to hit or cut or stab with, like maybe a long jagged piece of ice? We fought. And then some more. And gasped, staring—hands on knees. And some more. Grunts and sudden cries. Tripping rolling hitting kneeing kicking pulling biting snarling. He ran off this time. Finally. Bleeding. Gasping. Boot prints. Blood blots on snow. I’ve seen blood blots on snow. It was still my place. I lay there. And lay there some more. Waiting for him to come back, but he didn’t, then. And since I’ve spoken about the birds and the seals and the boy, I should mention her, too. You knew I would get there, didn’t you? Eventually. She’s the one you really want to know about. The parents are pretense. You do know you have convinced me of that, don’t you? That’s not it. Not what you really want. If they even were my parents. But the girl. Ah, yes, the girl. Yes, I know. How long will it/he go on? That’s what you’re wondering. As long as he says. I repeat. I will go on as long as he says I should go on. That’s the way these things go. This is it, believe me. I just wanted to clear the whole shelf and be done with it, eh? And we’re almost there. And these, almost, are your exact words, aren’t they? You should know, you spoke them. So, the her. The she. The female. No, not my mother. And not my sister. I didn’t have a sister. At least, I don’t remember my having one. Despite what you’ve said about brothers and sisters. She was just there one day when I came back. This girl. Like the boy was. Just there when I showed up again at what I thought was my own place. I used to wonder some—a little while after it all happened—if the boy and the girl knew one another maybe, or if they were friends or cousins or maybe even brother and sister. Like I never had. Either one. Or something like that. If there is anything else like being brother and sister that might be mistaken for it. Besides cousins or friends. She was sitting there bundled up and barely moving because of the cold, and it had snowed and her face was just little patches of skin—two or three—and green eyes and brown hair, and she didn’t say anything. But I knew she was a girl. You can tell. She watched me make the fire back up after I put the rock and plank back to hold the blanket over the hole. And her eyes got a little bigger when I took out the bread and the pieces of bacon. I held out a piece of each for her with one hand and took the whiskey out with the other. I know. I know. I know now, that is. Not then. Yes, whiskey. Yes. Nine or ten years old I was. Yes. Whiskey. It was easier to steal, you see. Nobody ever thought of children stealing whiskey. Or gin. Or vodka. Or any of the other ones. And they do go on, don’t they—how many of them there are? When I would go into the nicer houses when a door or a window was open as I was crawling by. I would cry and they would feed me and I would steal their whiskey or whatever. And I always mixed it way down with snow or water. At least half and half or more. So when they would catch me—which they didn’t too many times—I would tell them I liked the labels on the bottles, or the shapes of the bottles, or both—or the smell, or the colors, or that my daddy when he used to be alive (this one always got them) would say, Nothing like a good shot of whiskey when you don’t feel so good, and I would wipe my nose here with the back of my always dirty hand and say I had not felt so good in a long time—making sure they saw my bent toes and the squint blink I ended up having for several years during that time. And I would tell them that since it was there, whatever bottle it was, that I was going to see if what my daddy—who wasn’t there anymore—had said was right, when he used to say what he used to say about whiskey when you felt bad and felt like things were beginning to slip away. And by the way, sometimes I really did feel that way when I would say that. And they would—most of the time—smile to one another while they looked down at me with wet eyes, and then take it away but pat my hand and say, Maybe when you’re older you can find out whether it’s true or not but now we have something else to give that’s better, so why don’t you come along this way? And of course I would go along because there would be food and the chance to steal more—both to drink and to eat. Which I would do—both—later, when they had come to trust me. She, the girl, drank almost half of what I had left in the bottle, which wasn’t much—but then I had not cut it as much either. Hadn’t had time. Came to me only the day before and I had not had time much even to squat, much less to cut whiskey. Had to lose a dog. A dog that tracked and chased me for hours—forever it seemed. Fought that fierce son of a bitch for over four blocks before I decided to risk the breakage and hit him in the face with the bottle. One advantage of the cold, you see. Hand wasn’t bleeding when I got back. Face either. Because of the cold. Nor did the bottle break. So, whiskey I had, she had. And we drank. And drank some more. And she began to glow. More than she already was, that is. More than she already was. In her eyes especially. Glow. Then she ate. And after a while her eyes had no more left of the hard and sharp like they had been. Nor did mine, I suspect, but I couldn’t tell, could I? Except what I could see reflecting in her eyes. And the skin of her face was more than a little pinker. But she still didn’t say anything. I put some more of what I had on hand for burning onto the fire. Mostly old books, turf, broken furniture—mostly thrown away, though some was stolen. You see, during those years I wasn’t much use with an axe, and although there was plenty of wood around, I couldn’t do much about it. I did get a good bit of dead wood from the forests, though, when it wasn’t too marshy and I could move around. What that amounted to, at that time, was a good lot of wood and not uncommon at all. A lot of trees old and young were there then and a lot of dead ones, time to time, lying around. A lot of different kinds, too. Not like it is now. Hardly anything left there now for miles except water grasses and sedges and some stunted firs and shrubs and such. Lumber business. Waiting for the next round—usually some kind of fir or pine—to spring and get running. Fishing went bad, so everybody had to sell the lumber. Not much cover left after that. Not much fuel either. Couldn’t live there now like I did then. But then, wouldn’t want to, would I? Why would I? No, don’t push that. It’s too easy for you and too hard for me. Is that what they call fair where you come from? I came back when I had the fire going pretty good and lay down and let her have part of my coat over her to go with hers. When I woke up she was gone. But nothing else was missing. Nothing anybody could see, that is. Nothing that anybody could see was missing. And I didn’t see her again until the second time it snowed after that. First one was just a little white dust about ten days behind the one that brought her to me the first time. But close to a foot the second one was, a little more than a month later, and it fell fast and without warning with the light of day and went until dark. Then it was hard to get anything at all—eat or drink—because people weren’t going out and weren’t leaving things unguarded, or any doors or windows open. And I couldn’t untie dogs like I usually did when it was just a little bit more than an inch or two of snow, so they, the owners, that is, would have to go chase them, saying—My Gawd, how the hell did Bobo get loose, that damned dog. I couldn’t use that because the only dogs that were outside with this much snow falling were the big ones—because they were the only ones who could stand above the depth of the snow, and you have to be careful with them when they’re that size. They have a whole different take on the relationship. Bigger brain, seems to me, lets them figure out what you’re up to. Bigger body makes it so they can take whatever interest in you they like and there’s not much you’re going to be able to do about it—especially if Bobo doesn’t want you taking his master’s whiskey bottle—or his whatever-the-hell-it-is bottle either, for that matter. Bigger, stronger, longer legs—all make it hard as all hell to fight them or to get away from them. You get the idea here, I think. But I did manage to make it back that night with one—a whiskey bottle, that is—and some food, and she was there again. Right there again. In the same spot. Just there. With the splotches of pink face and the the bright little green eyes. When she saw me she came to me and stood waiting while I made the door, such as it was, secure again. Then she led me to where she had been sitting, and together we made up a fire. She appeared to have been busy dragging in things just for that purpose for a good while. She had brought in quite a stash, in fact. Later, she held my face in her hands to warm it and rubbed my knees and did not laugh at my feet when she finally got the socks off. And I let her stay and fed her what I could until the ice went away again—which, as it turned out, took a while. And I must say I was not bothered that it took a while. Not bothered at all. But again, like before, I didn’t know about it until it was done. The leaving, that is. Her leaving. I didn’t know about her leaving until she was gone. She was there, and then one morning she was gone. Just gone. Nothing else. No, I don’t know how long I stayed there after that. Or, maybe I should say here, No, I don’t know how long I stayed there after the first few years. You see, after that—the first few years—I didn’t bother to count any more. It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to or had forgotten how to. I just didn’t is all. Sometimes the toes were worse. Sometimes