The Tent Read Free Page A

the other way around. The orphans are not the stealers but the stolen; they are not the killers but the killed. You can tell where the orphans have wandered by the trails they leave: breadcrumbs in the forest, drops of blood, tears that have turned into small white mushrooms, small piles of fragile bones among the roots and moss.
    Read the statistics: their chances are not good. Their stepmothers demand their tongues on a plate; their fathers have skipped town; their uncles send villains with pillows to smother them in their sleep. It’s only in books – and only some books – that a generous benefactor appears in the nick of time to save the orphans from the forces of malice ranged against them. What are those forces? Look into the magic mirror, sweet reader. Look into the deep still wishing well. Ask yourself.
             
    x) It’s a good excuse, though, orphanhood. It explains everything – every mistake and wrong turn. As Sherlock Holmes declared,
She had no mother to advise her.
How we long for it, that lack of advice! Imprudence could have been ours. Passionate affairs. Reckless adventures. Of course we’re grateful for our stable upbringings, our hordes of informative relatives, our fleece-lined advantages, our lack of dramatic plots. But there’s a corner of envy in us all the same. Why doesn’t anything of interest happen to us, coddled as we are? Why do the orphans get all the good lines?
             
    xi) Now the letters will arrive, from orphans.
How could you treat orphanhood so lightly!
they will say.
You don’t understand what it’s like to be an orphan. You are the sort of person who jeers at those with no legs. You are frivolous and cruel. You are harsh.
    Ah yes, dear orphans, I can see how you would feel that way. But to note is not to disparage. All observations of life are harsh, because life is. I lament that fact, but I cannot change it.
    (And consider: It is loss to which everything flows, absence in which everything flowers. It is you, not we, who have always been the children of the gods.)

Gateway
    You were led to expect a road, a river, a boat, a gate, a guardian. All were supplied, though none was what you’d imagined. The road was indistinguishable from many of the sidewalks you’d so often trudged along: poured concrete, dirty in the usual way – weathered chewing gum, fresh spit, the odd dog dropping. Your feet were tired – whose shoes were you wearing? – but there was no place to sit down. The river, when you came to it, was a canal, stagnant with algae and floating plastic bags. A shabby houseboat was moored there, but no path led down to it. Instead the sidewalk took you across a massive iron bridge, painted grey. After that came a red brick wall that went on for a long time. It had posters stuck onto it – a play was being advertised, or else a film – the same poster, over and over. They showed a woman’s face with a surprised expression, her hand raised as if in self-protection, with big lettering in blue and orange and lines of smaller print: favourable quotations from the newspapers, no doubt, but somehow you couldn’t read them. In addition to the posters there were names spray-painted on the brick – no one you knew – and hot-pink symbol-writing that suggested the twisted-balloon animals made by clowns at children’s parties.
    At last came the gate. It had a door, a steel door set into the brick wall. It was dented, as if people had been kicking at it with heavy boots. The guardian was leaning against it. He had the look of a man who’d been sleeping rough for some time. Old jeans, stubbled face, broken sandals; a torn rucksack by his feet.
    You got here at last, he said. These are your things. I’ve kept them for you.
    My things? you said. You inspected the rucksack. It didn’t look familiar. What did he mean by things? A toothbrush, underwear?
    Things you saved up, he said. For this occasion.
    You lifted the rucksack. It was very light. You