BIRD
And so her desire to destroy the child grew.
The thought was simultaneously unbearable and unbearably tempting; the fear of it would not leave her, nor would the desire for it.
And so her desire to destroy the child grew.
The thought was simultaneously unbearable and unbearably tempting; the fear of it would not leave her, nor would the desire for it.
Sickening to imagine various tragedies, yet from her mind they leapt unbidden. Greatest of these was the thought Morris would repent his small charity and return to finish them.
She knew she would try to kill him to prevent it, and would surely be destroyed in the process. The existence of her fear for another being she saw as some parasitic alien root that had captured her mind. To allow it to remain seemed intolerable. To uproot it would destroy her.
Early months were spent on the floor of the new-built kitchen, feeling cool tile on cheek and temple, as the nausea of fear washed over her—terrified that she would rise and dash the child to pieces, disgusted with herself that she would not.
Her freedom purchasable in any instant, yet when she would drag herself to the cradle where her baby lay, she would hold it and feed it, and wait for those Morris had appointed to provide them with supplies, and feel those tendrils snaked into her.
The baby, as if guided by atavistic instinct, would reach up one fat hand and perch it, gentle as a songbird, upon her nose.
She had fought against this unnatural attachment, this clinging to a thing that was not her and could in no way bring her benefit. Years passed before the struggle subsided, before Jane found peace in it.
The desire to purchase her freedom through Finch’s murder faded, replaced by a new hatred, the desire to appease transformed slowly into a hunger for defiance; but even still, Jane kept patient.
One day, playing with Finch’s hair and inventing a story for them, the thought came *I too can grow slow roots, even in this soil…*
and the girl, guided still by the same unerring gifts of entanglement, reached out her small hand and landed a finger upon her mother’s nose. Jane, with only the slightest hesitation, returned the gesture: a shared thing now, meaning nothing but itself, meaning everything at once
The girl never ceased terrifying her mother as she grew. She flitted, and chirped, and darted, she made herself impossible to catch as she explored the nooks of the dim cave...
..., bounced on the bed, made her mother gasp by climbing the wall of vaults, using the indentions as holds for hands and feet, climbing high, always returning.
At the far end of the hall from their rooms stood the door immovable, watched over always by silent deadlies dressed in scarlet.
They never moved against Finch, no matter how close she came, but there was never any doubt she would not be allowed to test the door they guarded, and so the door naturally became the girl’s obsession.
Jane wearied of protesting ignorance of what lay behind, and of delivering admonishments to avoid it at all costs. Whatever it was, it belonged to Morris, and that lent it danger enough.
But then would come the occasions when the guards would depart, banished to their quarters. For weeks at a time Morris could be seen, perched above on the landing, facing the door, immobile as an anvil.
Finch learned to detest the slight, raged at being forced into hiding. Tantrums came when reason failed.
"But why?”
“Never mind.”
“Just for minute. Please.” Finch could massage five extra syllables from “please.”
“Not even for a second. Not ever. Do you hear me?”
Sullen, she didn’t answer.
“Never mind.”
“Just for minute. Please.” Finch could massage five extra syllables from “please.”
“Not even for a second. Not ever. Do you hear me?”
Sullen, she didn’t answer.
But when Jane touched her nose, she reciprocated automatically. She held the girl and rocked her until she passed into sleep.
Later, outside the Sanctuary, she remained in the dimness, observing Morris for hours; an obelisk of a man, sitting naked and cross-legged, murmuring petitions at the ancient ancestral obsession.
She counted her exhalations to ten, then took a step.
In this way she closed the distance between them; crept close enough to hear him muttering, though the words remained indistinct. Every muscle strained, each breath precisely measured.
In this way she closed the distance between them; crept close enough to hear him muttering, though the words remained indistinct. Every muscle strained, each breath precisely measured.
For some reason, she was focused on the shadowy concavity where skull met neck, the entryway to the brain-stem.
A fascinating place, perfect for a sharp thin object, which would turn a man into nothing but meat on the ground.
She had a sharp thin object in her hand—how strange.
The letter opener had been on her desk, and she had without thinking put her hand to it as she left.
The letter opener had been on her desk, and she had without thinking put her hand to it as she left.
Creeping forward, soft and slow. He had never needed to teach her stealth.
She was near now,
and nearer.
She was near now,
and nearer.
“There are times when I think it will never open, Janey.”
Surely he heard her gasp, but if so he made no sign. He continued without turning, without pause or inflection.
Surely he heard her gasp, but if so he made no sign. He continued without turning, without pause or inflection.
There are even times when I stop believing it’s me on the other side. You see? The true me, the real me, not this shell. More and more I think I’m going to die trapped in my shell. And then what will happen to all of you? When the light goes out, what happens to the shadows?”
Jane backed away, slow and quiet. How he had sensed her she didn’t know—was it even possible he was unaware of her, that he was simply speaking out to the air to which he ascribed her person?
Even as she retreated, his measured voice came reaching out to her. “No blasting through. Whatever material those walls are made of confounds all explosives, every diamond-tipped drillbit, each hope and desire...
... . No admittance, no admittance, no admittance, impenetrable as gray matter. No matter. None. I have learned the lesson. Matter is useless. Now I will open it with the best tool, the only tool. I will open it with my mind.”
He gestured to the great silver wall. “Then they can all come out, then I will call them all back to myself. I love them all as I love myself.”
Jane, still retreating, not daring to look away from him, forcing herself into deliberate movements—for she was convinced if she ran he would rise and charge her—looked up at the oubliettes and for the first time allowed herself to understand the full terrible scope of them...
... , row after row after row, drawer handles upon which Finch had terrified her, climbing monkey-nimble, each one of them at last representing more to her than a handhold ...
... ; they were no longer irrelevant, no longer ignorable, no longer a bad potential fate to avoid, but a bad actual fate already consummated.
Each handle, each file-drawer rectangular outline stacked up and up and up, each one had at one time closed shut with a bureaucratic snick upon a human face ...
... each represented a Finch, a Jane, each placed there at a madman’s whim, conveniently warehoused, catalogued and labeled, in anticipation of his time of muchness, of fullness, of allness.
She thought: Why were we spared? How? For what? Up and up and up and over, and running out of sight, the shelf doors. Each of them Finch and Finch and Finch and Finch. So many of them, and nearly full.
When would the digging equipment come to add to their number?
When would the digging equipment come to add to their number?
They were in there, right now. Screaming even if those screams could not be heard.
People who had passed in front of her, on their way to be shown the sign of the spade, six months before, twelve months, eighteen, twenty-four, thirty.
Thirty. Thirty months. Thirty.
They were in there.
Hours, minutes, seconds.
Thirty-six months.
Forty-two.
Thirty. Thirty months. Thirty.
They were in there.
Hours, minutes, seconds.
Thirty-six months.
Forty-two.
“Jane. Wait. Don’t go.” But she had already stopped. Halted by the accumulation of months. The horror of days. The insanity of seconds.
Forty-eight months.
Fifty-six.
Sixty.
Forty-eight months.
Fifty-six.
Sixty.
Morris hid submerged in the shadows ahead, but his echoes chased her, less measured, no longer without inflection, and now he sounded more like a child.
“I’m afraid, Janey,” he said.
“I’m afraid, Janey,” he said.
The silver wall wheeling above her, pressing on her lungs stealing all her air so many of them so many sixtysix how long have they been there seventytwo how have they been there so long?
“I’m afraid I can’t do it. It won’t open. It won’t. I’m afraid it’s all lost.”
She knew the words to reach him, and so she said:
“You will do it. How is it possible you won’t? Then all these prisoners can become you, when they see you are already them.”
She knew the words to reach him, and so she said:
“You will do it. How is it possible you won’t? Then all these prisoners can become you, when they see you are already them.”
From the formless dark came no hint of sound. In her ears, only her own breathing. She spoke again: “But it isn’t good for them. They’ll be insane when you’re ready for them, if you don’t let them out.”
“They are distractions. They are what prevents me.”
“You’ll want them whole when the day comes for them to return into you. Somebody should help them. Somebody who can afford distraction.”
And then she ran, certain he was on her heels.
“You’ll want them whole when the day comes for them to return into you. Somebody should help them. Somebody who can afford distraction.”
And then she ran, certain he was on her heels.
She locked the door behind her—futile gesture against one who certainly had the key—and collapsed onto the bed. Weeping bled into a long and troubled sleep.
When she awoke, there was a note pushed under the door. The note was written in his hand.
It read.
~tend my sheep~
It read.
~tend my sheep~
After all this time, a further unfolding; his tragedy unfurled for her in three scrawled words.
Her first realization of his perverse tenderness toward those treasonous bits of himself gone astray—but she delivered him no absolution for it, indistinguishable as it was from self-pity.
Again and again she returned to her fulcrums: a movement of the eyes, a boy beneath the bleachers; a girl flitting about her cage, yet always returning to mother for rest, placing, for an instant, a solemn finger upon her familiar nose.
This was how she had become the caretaker.
• • •
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