Au Fait with the Mind’s Atrium
Contents~
I
Preludia……………………………………………………………………………0
II
Port...........................................................................................................................2
Tuesday....................................................................................................................3
Nausea......................................................................................................................5
Span..........................................................................................................................7
Scent????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????8
Gulch......................................................................................................................10
Nerve......................................................................................................................12
Leftovers................................................................................................................14
II
There are some things that you know before you understand. As a child, She remembered little, as could be expected. As though she was dreaming, She wandered around, free. She could not recall parents. She was in love with life, everyone’s life, and it scared them that she cared so much. When She would give another child an apple, the parent would steer the child away saying Don’t Eat It, It May Be Poison. She loved the port, which was always full of every sort of people. Some wore brilliant colours, some carried special trinkets, some were artists, or musicians, or government workers in pressed suits. She loved them all, and they didn’t notice her. They were not like her. Their eyes would pass over her as if she were part of the scenery.
She saw others, but not often. They stopped to greet her or shake her hand. They were different in every way possible. They were original, and new, and their eyes were older than their faces. She especially loved the candy man. He sold assortments of funny coloured sweets from a long flat brown box that hung from his neck by a guitar strap, situating the box atop his belly. He had brown eyes, and he would give her candy for free when she asked him silly questions like How Do Helicopters Fly? and Where Did People Come Up With Painting? and the like… his favourite of which was If I Were Rich Could I Buy Wings?
She met his wife once and again. Her silver curls spilled from a little lacy bonnet she put on the top of her hair. The kind lady insisted that She Come Inside And Eat, so She accepted. The lady cooked food that was delicious and simple, hot bread with butter, thick soup, meat, chopped fruit, and always milk. Then the lady would insist that She take a bath, saying that She Was Too Pretty To Be Covered In Dirt, and so She would bathe, and then the lady would give her a soft bed to sleep on. She would wake early, and leave something for the lady always, in return for her kindness, once the ring on her finger, once a little embroidered cloth that was too pretty to use as a handkerchief, once some coins that she had been given by a man at the seaport who thought she was a beggar. In the end, though, She never stayed at the lady’s house for very long, if only because she could not well express her gratitude. Then there was the constant excitement of the port, where she could never feel too comfortable. Comfort was hard to get used to, and it made her feel dull. Nevertheless, she loved the lady, and smiled at her and called her
She was rather frightened by the sea, by how vast it was, its salty grey-green waves sloshing too-deep-to-see-the-bottom, even right by the rotted wooden logs around the huge cement docks. She loved fishing boats and dignified old-fashioned ships and lacy white tourist ferries however, and would skip daintily on board whenever the rough unshaven seamen were not there lugging heavy wooden crates; they would scold her and tell her to go home, Sea Port’s No Place For A Kid. Then she would explore each magical boat, marvelling at everything but touching nothing. Sometimes she was told gruffly to Get Off, other times she went unnoticed completely, but occasionally a kindly weathered captain would show her how to Navigate, pointing to little brass controls and monitors and electric bulbs, some with dials or needles to track progress or direction, others with old wooden steering wheels which she could barely move an inch. Twice She went exploring on great intimidating steel-plated ships of the newest designs, and found herself lost amidst rooms and rooms of huge cables and funny loud machinery, all far too big and scary. She slept one night in one, and awoke with a headache to find her way off; and in the other she frantically called for help as the ship was starting to move, whereby a boy tugged her by her wrist to the emergency exit, out of which he jumped into the port’s deep water, now churning with waves from the sides of the ship. It took all her courage and his shouting Come On, Stupid! for her to jump out herself, slapping the water with all the force from the high jump and bruising her shins. Glancing back at the ship, she saw the oval door out of which she had just jumped swing shut as the ship made its impressive departure. Swimming up to the dock was not hard at all, even against the immense pull of the ship, but the dock was a high wall of concrete, impossible to climb. The boy yelled until a lady in a maroon suit came and rushed off to get help. Some people came with a small wooden boat, rocking dangerously in the waves still coming from the ship that had left the wide harbour big and empty. The both of them climbed onto the boat. She was shivering and sneezing icy brine, and they were rowed to one of the short rickety log docks where they got out.
She meant to thank him for rescuing her, as he was no doubt brave and kind, despite his crude manners. He left quickly, though, without saying good-bye, ramming a brown cap on his head so that his ears stuck out. He called after two other boys, Paul and Adano. Stephen! they called back. Stephen, Stephen, she sang. She wrote his name in clouds in the sky, sand and pebbles on the beach. She liked names, though they were curious. Her name came from an old sailor who had wood instead of a second leg. Referring to her, but talking to someone else, he had said She Looks Hungry, so She knew that that was her name. She heard her name everywhere, and smiled at those who said it, but they seldom smiled back. She knew it was because their lips hurt them, especially the ladies. Some days many ladies would have different colour lips, like angry red or bruised plum. She saw a lady with black lips once, and when she smiled she had no teeth. She really liked that lady for smiling, even if she hadn’t much to smile with.
Tuesday was different. If She smelled the air, she could tell that the fishermen were not working, and the wood on the docks was less briny. A gentleman and his wife stepped regally off a small private vessel, talking to each other in the most ornate French. She understood that well, far better than the language the people spoke here. The lady held her chin at a right angle to her neck, so She thought the lady must be a queen. She stepped away from the crowd into the parted aisle down which the two were walking and attempted a curtsey, which failed because she was clumsy. The queen looked at her with a strange expression, a sort of sedated shock (for she never fully opened her eyes). A stout man who stunk of ink and erasers yanked She out of the aisle so that the queen could move along unhindered. She squirmed out of the man’s heavy arms and, with much difficulty, freed herself from the crowd. She reached her mountain tree and slowly pulled herself up into its purplish blossoms. She could see the queen now, stepping delicately into a motor carriage and driving towards the mill at the greyer end of Port. She decided against following her, and instead jumped out of her mountain tree and headed uphill. At the top, she could look in every direction and see the sky kissing the ground.
The road was big, fat yellow stones, but they didn’t hurt her feet at all because they were smooth like the water. Beside the road grew thick green grass and tall flowers that were bluish grey, storm flowers. The land was owned by an ancient lady whom everybody called Crazy. She was fairly certain she liked her, though she had never set eyes on her. The lady Crazy kept a funny array of rusty clocks planted on one side of the road, along with the wildflowers that mirrored the clouds. They all said different times, but that made sense to She because she’d often seen wise folk shake their heads and say Times Change. The lady also had a funny orchard of trees across the yellow road, around which floated the pungent aroma of something like bananas and meatloaf, which She actually found very attractive. Beyond the orchard was a small hill the lady had built entirely of seashells of every variety, and beyond that was a curious bridge over the road. It appeared to simply cross into the clock garden, but if you walked backwards (as She had done on several occasions) you would find yourself in a different garden entirely, depending on the weather. Today, however, She was too busy searching for a stray thought which was on the cusp of her consciousness, a fusion of a memory and an idea which she’d only just forgotten. So she travelled through the old lady’s extravagant makings and followed the road to the top of the hill.
Rain clouds pushed threateningly towards the sun, and a cold current was stirred into the wind. She waited, at home and lost, for her dizzying memory to right itself. There were times in which she thought until her mind screamed, and out of those screams oozed anticipations of what would be soon. These could be very helpful, and they could also make life very dull, when She was merely reliving what had already been painted in her head. She generally avoided them because dullness was nauseating, but today she could not help but lapse into them. Sometimes the anticipations were clear, sometimes they were vague. Today they were mottled, brown and blotchy with ears. She remembered Stephen, and she saw the vines growing out of his eyes. This made her irrationally sad, and she pinched her arm to force herself awake. There was a little wooden signpost at her feet, the type that pointed specifically in one direction. Painted on it in sharp, tiny white letters was the word Span.
Whatever Could That Mean? she wondered aloud. She reached to pick it up. There were several raucous shouts from the ferns behind her, and she lost her balance and slid ungracefully down the side of the hill, catching a shrub to keep from falling further. Where she had stood not a moment ago were two boys, one short and plump with a shock of blonde hair that stuck up on one side, the other tall, dark and wiry, with ears that stuck out because of his silly brown hat. She brushed herself off and started back up the hill at once, smiling warmly. She recognized the second boy; he was Stephen from the dock. The sun glanced off his face and she saw he wore an angry expression. She stopped smiling and stared at them both for a few uneasy moments.
Did You Move This? Stephen asked eventually, jerking his thumb towards the sign.
No, she said, puzzled. Didn’t he recognize her? Did You? She retorted.
Not I, Stephen said. He raised his eyebrows at the blonde boy. Paul? he asked. Paul shook his head no.
She tried to break the silence. I Wanted To Thank You… she started. Stephen interrupted her.
I’ll Be In Big Trouble You Know, he said, My Father Doesn’t Like This Sort Of Thing. If You Confess Now, It Could Save Us Both Some Trouble…
She really had not the faintest idea what he was talking about, so she tried to guess, by his accent, which place he came from. She gave up after concluding that his accent was completely unfamiliar, and asked him most politely: Please, Stephen, Where Are You From?
His eyes were furious, You Did Do It, Didn’t You? his voice, accusatory.
Did What? I Was Just Standing Here.
Col Cavolo, he said.
Pardon?
He sighed and turned away. Listen, I’ve Got To Leave, he said, To Clean Up This Mess You’ve Made. Paul had already started down the other side of the hill, holding the sign as if it were very fragile. Stephen made to follow him.
Wait, she said, I’ll Help You, If I Can.
I Don’t Know You.
I Remember You… From The Port.
Stephen paused and looked back at She. There was a moment when she was sure recognition flickered in his eyes, but then he said I Don’t Remember.
Well I Am She.
He laughed. You’re Very Proper For A Peasant.
No, I Mean It’s My Name.
Oh, he said, pausing, frowning, deciding. Well, Keep Up.
She had never been beyond the peak of anticipation hill. The path, which now consisted of rougher stones, mostly brown and green, wound around in quite a peculiar way. It appeared that the bottom of the hill on the opposite side was also the top of a very steep mountain. With far more caution, the curious trio began to descend the mountain as well. The evening grew old and smatterings of rain lighted on their faces. At the mossy top of one outcropping, Stephen stopped to point silently past the low, scraggly treetops to a tiny circle of roofs far below. When She squinted her eyes she noticed that they appeared to be thatched with straw or grasses, instead of the common red or slate roofing seen on the flats scattered Greyward of the Port. This brought She to thinking that, unless they had gone uphill somehow previously, this valley would be far below the sea. She was also aware that every half moon perhaps, the waters sloshed up between the planks of the largest docks in the port and completely engulfed the smaller fishermen’s docks, sometimes even washing up to shops and homes nearby. Such waters would destroy the miniature circle of dwellings at the bottom of the valley, unless they had turned Redward and the rules of the Port didn’t apply here. To She, Redward was one of four directions that made Helena giggle until her eyes watered. Redward was away from the water, red for the air that way before dark. Greyward was to the thick city with thin streets that was just off the harbour, and Greenward was to the woods and hills and thickets of the illustrious lady Crazy.
The darker it got, the quicker the darkness came, as if the light of the day were rolling downhill, gathering speed. Paul lit a match and held it to a candle from his jacket pocket. Close, Stephen glared at him, but Paul twitched his shoulders carelessly. Minutes later a gust of wind extinguished the futile candle, and the darkness was like pitch rubbed in She’s eyes. She fell twice, so Stephen took her hand.
The Good Thing About Travelling In The Dark, he said to her, Is That You’ve No Sense Of Time, Nor It Of You. We’ve Come A Long Way In No Time At All.
So How Have You Any Sense Of Direction? She wondered.
Boh. Direction Never Changes. Not Around Here Anyways. Northwest And Downhill. It’s Up There Things Get Funny. He pointed She’s hand in his up at the lightning drops. Sky Stubble, the candy man called them; They’re Always There But You Can Only See ‘Em As Day Grows Weary. She wanted Stephen to keep talking to blot out the darkness, but they were picking downhill rapidly-slow again. She wondered why they did not stop. Her eyes were adjusting so that she could make out a little, mostly skyward, such as treetops. She fancied she could make out Paul’s plucky figure ahead, but she wasn’t sure.
The ground levelled gradually. Stephen let go of She’s hand, and Paul relit the candle. This time it stayed lit a while before flickering out. The air was so thick with moisture that She could make raindrops fall out by exhaling. Here and there, stones stood upright in the ground, some carved elaborately, some roughly rectangular. She reached out to touch the face of a sad lady with wings, but Stephen snatched her hand away. She was too tired to wonder why they had not stopped yet, and she stumbled along in a daze. There was a large circular abode, a light with a turquoise hue dancing about inside. She slept, maybe, because she awoke with a pale, sickly morning that turned out to be afternoon. Memories of falling asleep eluded her, and she gratefully dunked her face into the bowl of cold water a familiar stranger brought her, For Drinking, he said. She blinked haze out of her eyes and inspected him more closely. Stephen’s Face But Older, she murmured, trying to right her thoughts.
Did You Grow Overnight? She asked, blinking.
He frowned. No, he said, Cazzata. I Am Adano. Brother, he clarified.
Oh… Where’s Stephen? She shivered. There was a difference between comfort and familiarity, between sleeping on soft grass in a strange place and sleeping on the corroded wood docks which she knew lock, stock and barrel.
Too Much Question, Adano waved his hand dismissively. Done? he nodded towards her bowl of water.
I Think So. She made to get up but Adano put a heavy hand on her shoulder.
Stay, he said, Nausea. Rada Come Soon. He handed her a mauve blanket of coarse knotted lumps. She wrapped it about her shoulders and relaxed as the heat returned to her fingers. She pressed her face into it and thought of the Queen of Tuesday, wrapped only in shimmering colours. She must’ve lost track of her hands.
Adano stared out the door, immersed in thoughts. He tapped his fingers together, five on one hand, six on the other. If the winds blew his hair into his eyes they would close, but otherwise he may have imperceptibly stopped living, he sat so quietly. She watched his lethargic fingers intently, making sure he was alive.
She, Answer Me, Please! a woman’s voice. Shaking.
Peace, You’ll Wake The Flowers, She mumbled. Her eyelids must have been sewn together, for she could not open her eyes. When she tried to turn over, fluids shifted in her head and she almost cried out. Then she relaxed. There was cooling on her neck where she hadn’t noticed burning before. Her back, her cheeks, her forehead, all too warm. Dots expanded and contracted in funny spirals. Rada was somewhere, chasing away the overwhelming geometry of She’s eyes, if only for seconds at a time. There was a spray like the one at the Port. Dreams were painful, sleep was tiresome.
Span.
Some measure years, some waking time, some moons and harvest. She had no accurate recollection. She had grown a little, perhaps. Rada took good care of her. The fever had left her frail, no more than a body and a pronoun. While she was away, change had come, though mostly good. Her hair was shorter, and the ends were clean. Her dress was new, the same elegant simplicity that the other women wore. Rada went for walks with her, to help her grow strong. She had found someone to trust as much as she trusted
It was always dimmer here, Due To Foliage, Rada said. For lack of better things to do to pass the time, Rada had become an informal mentor to She. Stephen had stayed until Rada had been positive She was going to recover fully, and then he had gone to visit someone mysterious and named Chalk Ryan. Rada knew practically everything, but Rada would say nothing about him.
Rada told She of a place called
Sometimes the border sign was removed by Epiburts, obnoxious little balls of brown fur that lived underground and had permanently sticky fingers and big noses. She laughed when she first saw one scurrying around, for it looked quite ridiculous. Rada cautioned her, however, that They Are Very Clever About Taking Anything Important And Hiding It Away In Their Massive Junk Mounds, which were sometimes as much as ten feet under Span.
Rada told her of other things as well, such as why Paul never talked.
He Had His Tongue Stretched Out Between Two Trees, Rada said, And Now He Can’t Talk Because He Keeps His Tongue Rolled In His Mouth. She wondered how he ate.
She met some of the oldest folk in the village, those who no longer travelled up the other side of the valley to replace the border sign. One of the old men was Rada’s Father, Valdemar. He was an odd man to look at, mostly because he walked a crooked line and had very large ears, which were stretched by gems and bolts and milky ornaments She thought might have been teeth. His skin was brown, with patches of violet and orange that were Killing Him And Making Him Even More Interesting At The Same Time. He told She of Days Past when the leaves were glossy with health and the people of all places loved one another. Rada said there was no such time.
There was an old lady whose house was not in one of the circles of Span, but off to the side and hidden by banana leaves. She was Rada’s grandmother, who had been the daughter of The Lady who founded Span as a Bridge To Beyond. She would not speak to anyone.
Then there was Roger. He was ancient and unconventional, or perhaps he was young. At any rate, the people of the town would always laugh at him. Even Rada, kind and bright, would say he was probably Mad. He balanced a pot or a kettle or a vase atop his head at all times, and even as he slept he would rest a small jar on whichever temple faced the sky. If it were a vase, he would fill it with as much of the sparkling river water as his mood allowed, near full if he was jovial, more empty if he was glum. Whenever it suited him, he would float colourful stones in the water. The sleeping jar he used for amber liquid afloat with leaves, and the great steel pot... well, who knew? If his face was young, age showed in his deep eyes and weathered hands and greying hair. Rada said he had no smell. He filled his home with dried leaves and petals, and his fire was not turquoise because he burned something that smelled like honey. He ate nothing but bananas and peanuts and drank only milk from his little goat, which he called Watch. She decided he would be good company on the days when Rada spent hours filling long reams of paper with funny little symbols. She tiptoed to his backdoor with a jar of honey from Valdemar, and then tiptoed around again to the front where she knocked.