There is a light warmth traveling through his body. It makes him sensible to the blades of grass that have gathered round his contour. A receding current brings a vivifying scent and hints at the presence of a field. He opens his eyes with strange effort. They put forth a variegated blur. His lips are numb, and he surmises his vocal cords have accumulated rust. He straightens up, realizing almost immediately that his whole body shares the subdued weakness. As he is about to fear for his vision, he notices a series of irregular triangles on the horizon. He wonders whether they could be mountains. He is confused.
His internal monologue is rudimentary. At the moment, he finds himself satisfied with modest discoveries related to perception. While the horizon still reveals only basic geometric shapes, he now sees the grass surrounding him as something more than a green blot. Confident of his advance, he tries to stand. He sways but does not fall. After a brief struggle, he is able to walk.
He keeps walking. He feels as if he were going downhill. The motion seems to force his eyes to focus. Finally, he distinguishes a semicircle of mountains enclosing an immense valley. Far from the center, a coast redwood rises. There are no other trees. He cannot understand what is before him. It is all unasked for. But he walks.
By the time he reaches the valley, he is tired. A large, moss-covered rock offers him a comfortable resting place. He stares intently at his body. It amazes him that such a heavy looking thing can advance with so much ease once it starts. His mind sifts through every impression his eyes have welcomed. Amid the barrage of yellow, green, and brown, he discovers a patch of inert colors. They are spread across a closed space. This particular image has no movement. Nevertheless, it is vivid.
It takes him days to roam over most of the terrain. At least that is what the sun’s uncertain cycles tell: he has not found a pattern. He perseveres because of the growing complexity of his thoughts. A number of foreign images have crowded his memory. In them, he meets disconsolate landscapes that extend indefinitely, the same closed space ever more detailed, people whom he does not recognize. He recalls these cryptic still-lives again and again. He has come to esteem each one. More so, owing to the way in which they have expanded his palette of feeling.
But the unearthings ultimately cease. He suspects that the valley is at fault. His eyes must tire of the known prodigiousness. He is not blind to the assumption—his imagination needs more outer nourishment to build. Even so, he can reconcile it with the truthfulness of what he cherishes.
He walks toward the mountains. Their size unsettles him as he gets nearer. They are an impersonal miracle. And, as such, spurn his inquiries. A narrow path, however, lifts his spirits with the promise of a hospitable nook.
There is no end to the mountainous region. The path is so tortuous that he worries it may lead him to his starting point. He carries forth, shuffling the contents of his inner gallery. An old couple has stood out. The woman wears a light-brown shawl; the man, a navy blue coat. They have a tender look on their face. He knows them; he knows them thoroughly. He has desired movement for almost all the images: many things of the world uncover themselves only through change. But this he does not ask of the old couple. The woman is present in her entirety. So is the man.
His voyage across the mountains strikes him as an immemorial one. He has no recollection of when he began to invent stories about the inhabitants of his mind. Yet they have formed a web that could be called a life. On occasions, he believes it is close to some private truth.
He arrives at a cliff. Bristlecone pines are congregated in a monk-like manner. The sight suggests a gothic structure consummately imitating the motions of a wave. It relieves him of the arid majesty of the mountains. He approaches one of the pines—the texture seems inviting. But before he can touch it, he steps on a wooden figurine. He is sure that it is no accidental product of nature. Its outline is too plain for chance. He seeks out more. Each pine hides one or two. They are identical and frail. The contriver must still be around.
He waits. It is long before he sees the scrawny silhouette that has gone through the trouble of creating a miniature kingdom of indiscernibles: an eleven- or twelve-year-old boy. Silence imposes itself at once, as if it were the expected and thoughtful choice. The boy resumes nonchalantly what might be his routine. Hours are spent in fastidious arrangements. Not a single wooden figurine is spared relocation.
He does not speak until the boy sits to rest.
“Why do you make these dolls?”
“They’re not dolls.”
“What are they, then?”
“I don’t want to tell you. But they’re not dolls.”
“Why are they all the same?”
“I use different types of wood for each.”
“Really?”
He is slightly annoyed by the childish humbug.
“They look the same to me.”
The boy ignores him. They cross no further words.
In the coming days, their relationship grows among sparse exchanges. He follows the boy on his excursions and, to his surprise, learns much more about the place. It is a world of labyrinthine recesses facing portentous expanses; it is a world that does not withhold its riches from curiosity. And the boy understands.
He maintains the habit of telling himself stories about the images. But lately he has noticed a certain patina of vagueness. Numerous treasured details have been lost. It occurs to him that speaking to the boy can help. Perhaps the boy has his own share of stories.
This time he shuns rest. They are walking close to the headwaters of a river.
“Do you have any thoughts that appear to come from somewhere else?”
“Somewhere else? Do you mean somewhere far away? I have a couple of memories that go far back—before I chose the cliff.”
“Tell me about them.”
“I remember a big plain. There were animals: birds, rabbits, badgers. I’m still surprised when I think about it, you know. Here you won’t find a single one. And if you do, it will be a miracle. I once saw a fox.”
“Are these memories alive? Are they like the ones you form now?”
“Yes. I even remember when I left.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I like moving around. I like how things change. If I stay too long anywhere, I feel like a tree must feel—full of life but stuck. I’m very much not a tree.”
“They can seem noble and wise, no?”
“But that’s boring. Being noble and wise is just getting used to your old, old roots.”
He laughs heartily. The boy joins him in earnest.
“I guess so. My memories are static. And I cannot say I remember the day I left the sceneries they present.”
“What do they look like?”
“Narrow—even when they are eye-threatening. They are just a string of blocks. There is also a closed space . . . rather cold.”
“Animals?”
“Only people. Have you seen people around here?”
“They are almost as rare as animals, but not as fantastic. I’ve seen two. One was a stumbling man. He moved like a wolf trying to walk. Maybe he was blind. I don’t know. I let him go on.”
“Why did you not help?”
“I said wolf, didn’t you hear? He was all jumpy and irritated. It was odd.”
“What about the other one?”
“It can wait.”
The boy suddenly sprints, careless of distance or of any sense of partnership.
He lingers and stares at the now remote headwaters. They resemble an old staircase; he feels the eerie way a child does when forced to speculate about its destination. He sits on a rock by the river. He submerges his feet under the soothing rush. His reflection promptly betrays the reason he shared no story: he is lost. The features that gaze back are hermetic. They refuse the encumbrance of language. Still, he holds on to what he has created; it was he who plunged into the wordless abyss and named all that could be named. But his grip is feeble.
Thereafter another spell of muteness flourishes. He and the boy depend on small gestures and scattered grunts. No longer are his memories a source of passion, an education of the sensibility. Thus, as raindrops on a leaf hesitantly fall into a vanishing puddle, so each image trails off.
The detailed world that lies outside him has proved capable of sustaining its luster even at instants of decay. He knows he should yield: he would be received as wings are by the wilful air. But he cannot. Nor, he is certain, can the boy, despite his apparent lack of introspection. There are days when the boy’s silence is not that of a beast, a mere grazing on the verge of consciousness. He sees a glimmer of unrest. It might be the answer to the figurines.
While he is in many ways the same, he has acquired a talent for patience. The boy has been compelled to start more conversations than one. And, surprisingly, he has been moved to a confession.
“I saw a woman.”
“Was she as agitated as the man?”
“No. She was calm. I mean, she seemed calm. But I guess she wasn’t.”
“Why?”
“I couldn’t help following her. It’s just . . . She didn’t look angry. And I was curious.”
“I understand.”
“I wanted to see her face up close. She was too calm. That’s what I could tell by her movement.”
“Too calm? Are you not an example of this?”
“I followed her, and one day I was able to see her face. She had sad eyes.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“No. I never planned on doing that. We’re fine going at it alone.”
The boy has abandoned his playful delivery.
“So you eventually lost sight of her.”
“Yes, but I’m sure you can’t imagine how.”
“She must have walked on without repose.”
“See? It’s very strange. She simply let herself go into the river. And then she drifted and stared at the sky.”
“The same river we frequent?”
“Yes. It was long ago.”
“I would have spoken to her.”
“You think that would’ve helped? The river is nice. I myself have thought of diving into it and seeing where it leads.”
“Why did you not do it then and there?”
“I sometimes imagine that this place has no end, that it goes on and on. Depending on the day, it can be a comforting idea or a frightening one. I was afraid.”
“Before we met, I would have agreed with you. Now I am not sure. As I traveled through the mountains, there was a continuous sense of unfamiliarity, and that made me believe in how laughable limits were. This instant, however, I am a devotee of limits.”
“So you’re a noble and wise tree.”
“Oh, not quite. On the contrary, I wish to leave.”
It is only by saying the words that he realizes their authenticity. He needs to move. He is no different from the boy.
There are many questions that remain open. He considers having one last conversation in the hopes of answering some of them. Yet nothing intimates that the boy would be more receptive. Why would he? The boy has done his part.
Close to dawn, he gazes at the boy; he is asleep near his overflowing kingdom. The sun’s somnolent light seeps through and confers it a tinge of life. Its plan exists only in the ruler’s mind. To the foreigner, it is a remarkable jumble.
Once again he walks. His step is firm. He has retained the old couple amid a flood of renewing memories. He has before him the far-flung river and the melancholy woman. Although the tides are persistent and all cairns must founder, he is content.
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