Falling Out of Time Read Free

whisper
    like an oath,
    and his breath
    through my mouth
    clouds the mirror.
    I am not alone,
    with him I am
    not alone—
    TOWN CHRONICLER: He gradually encircles the whole village, then he does so again. He walks by houses, yards, wells, and fields, past barns and paddocks and woodpiles. Dogs bark at him and quickly retreat with a whimper, and he walks.
    WALKING MAN:
    I am not alone. With him
    I am not
one
,
    I am alone
    with him in all
    my thickets, my labyrinths.
    He pulses in me, lives
    with me, one
    with me, with him
    I share the vast expanse his death
    created in me—
    and he surges
    and he wanes with me,
    unquiet
    unquiet
    roaming
    embittering
    redeeming
    shackling
    healing
    purifying,
    not letting go,
    not letting go,
    this
    lonely
    dead
    child.
    TOWN CHRONICLER: Night after night after night. Things are happening in your town, my lord, andI fear I will not have the time to record them all for you.
    Right now, at midnight, at the old wharf by the lake, something stirs inside a skein of fishing nets. A head pokes out and glances around. A tiny, supple body pulls itself out of the skein and sits up breathlessly. It is a person, undoubtedly. Frightened eyes gleam white in the filthy face as they scan the hilltops surrounding the town. The gaping mouth turns to look, like a dark third eye.
    Now I see: it is the net-mender. You may recall, Your Highness, that years ago, on one of your visits to the harbor, you enjoyed her sharp tongue when she argued with you over the needle tax you had levied, in your benevolence, at the time. A cheerful, curly-haired boy was tied to her chest in a brightly colored sling. He played a game of peekaboo with you, and you gave him a gold coin. I do not know what became of him. From time to time I see her roaming the streets near the harbor, grunting, muttering unintelligible words to herself, encumbered by a tangled web of fishing nets that makes one wonder whether there is a human being inside at all.
    She suddenly leaps up as if snakebitten. Her hands rise and she points far away. She groans—
    If you are awake, my lord, and would be so kindas to look out of your window, you, too, will see: a small luminance of sorts encircles the town. A man walks there, up and down the hills.
    WALKING MAN:
    One step,
    another step, another
    step,
    walking and
    walking to you.
    I am
    an unleashed question,
    an open shout
    My son
    If only
    I could
    move
    you
    just
    one
    step.
    TOWN CHRONICLER: And on the third night watch, in a side alley on the outskirts of town, in a little house with one room, a centaur sits at atable. That is what the townsfolk call him, Your Highness, and I promise to try to find out why very shortly. His massive head, adorned with snowy-white curls, droops onto his chest. His spectacles have slid down to the edge of his nose, and his snores shake the house. I glance right and left: no one. I rise up on my toes and peer inside. The room is dusky, but I can discern that it is overflowing: strange mounds and heaps that might be dirt or garbage, or piles of old furniture, surround the man and at times reach the ceiling. It is hard to see how he can move in this room.
    A dirty blanket is spread out on the desk before him. A few empty beer bottles, pens, pencils, a school notebook, all scattered around. The notebook is open; its pages have thin blue lines. As best I can tell from here, they are all empty.
    “Scram before I wring your balls,” the centaur growls without opening his eyes, and I flee for my life.
    Only when I reach the fence outside the home of the woman from whom I have exiled myself does my heart recover.
    TOWN CHRONICLER’S WIFE:
    The passing time
    is painful. I have lost
    the art
    of moving simply,
    naturally, within it.
    I am swept back
    against its flow. Angry, vindictive,
    it pierces me
    all the time, all the
    time
    with its
    spikes.
    TOWN CHRONICLER: The next evening, in a hut in a slum on the outskirts of town, a young woman—trained as a midwife—gets up