The City of Mirrors
Page 158
Alicia opened it: a map, hastily sketched in Michael’s hand.
“When the time comes, follow the Rosenberg road south. Just beyond the garrison, you’ll come to an old farm with a water tank on your left. Take the road after it and follow it straight east, fifty-two miles.”
Alicia looked up from the paper. Something new was in his eyes: a kind of wildness, almost manic. Beneath Michael’s controlled exterior, his aura of self-possessing strength, was a man aflame with belief.
“Michael, what’s at the end of that road?”
—
Alone again, Alicia drifted. So, there had been a woman for Michael, after all. His ship, his Bergensfjord.
We are the exiles, he had told her in parting. We are the ones who understand the truth and always have; that is our pain in life. How well he knew her.
The rabbit was watching her guardedly. His black eyes, unblinking, shone like drops of ink; in their curved surfaces Alicia could see the ghost of her face reflected, a shadow self. She realized her cheeks were wet; why could she not stop crying? She scooted forward to the cage, undid the latch, and reached inside. Soft fur filled her hand. The rabbit made no attempt to escape; he was either tame, a pet as Michael claimed, or too frightened to react. She lifted the animal free and placed him on her lap.
“It’s all right, Otis,” she said. “I’m a friend.” And she stayed that way, stroking the soft fur, for a very long time.
* * *
65
Footsteps, and the creak of the opening door: Amy opened her eyes.
Hello, Pim.
The woman halted in the entryway. She was tall, with an oval face and expressive eyes, and wearing a simple cotton dress of blue fabric. Beneath its soft drape, her belly arced with the bulge of her pregnancy.
I’m glad that you’ve come back to see me, Amy signed.
A look of deep uncertainty, and Pim stepped to her bedside.
May I? Amy asked.
Pim nodded. Amy cupped her palm against the curving cloth. The force within, being so new, exuded a pure feeling of life—if it were a color, it would be the white of summer clouds—but was also full of questions. Who am I? What am I? Is this the world? Am I everything, or just a part?
Show me the rest, Amy signed.
Pim sat on the bed, facing away. Amy unfastened the buttons of her dress and drew the fabric aside. The stripes on her back, the burns—they were faded, though not erased. Time had given them a ridged and burrowed quality, like roots running under soil. Amy ran the tips of her fingers along their lengths. In the untouched places Pim’s skin was soft, with a pulsing warmth, but the muscles were hard beneath, as if forged with remembered pain.
Amy buttoned the dress; Pim swiveled on the mattress to face her.
I’ve dreamed about you, Pim signed. I feel like I’ve known you all my life.
And I you.
Pim’s eyes were full of inexpressible emotion. Even when…
Amy took her hands to quiet them. Yes, she replied. Even then.
From the pocket of her dress, Pim withdrew a notebook. It was small but possessed the thickness of stiff parchment paper stitched together. I brought you this.
Amy accepted it and opened the covers, which were wrapped in soft hide. Here it was, page after page. The drawings. The words. The island with its five stars.
Who else has seen this? she signed.
Only you.
Not even Caleb?
Pim shook her head. A film of tears coated the surface of her eyes; she appeared completely overcome, beyond words. How do I know these things?
Amy closed the notebook. I cannot say.
What does it mean?
I think it means you will live; your baby will live. A pause, then: Will you help me?
In the living room, she found paper and a pen. She wrote the note, folded it into thirds, and gave it to Pim, who hurried away. Alone again, Amy went to the bathroom off the hall. Above the washbasin was a small round mirror. The changes that had occurred to her person had been felt rather than observed; she had yet to see herself. She stepped to the mirror. The face she beheld did not seem to be her own, and yet it was also the person she had long felt herself to be: a woman with dark hair, a well-sculpted though not overtly angular face, pale unblemished skin, and deep-set eyes. Her hair was as short as a boy’s, showing the curves of her skull, and bristly to the touch, like the end of a broom. The reflection possessed a disquieting ordinariness; she might have been anyone, just another woman in the crowd, yet it was within this face, this body, that all her thoughts and perceptions—her sense of self—resided. The urge to reach out and touch the mirror was strong, and she allowed herself to do so. As her finger made contact with the glass, her reflection responding in kind, a shift occurred. This is you, her mind told her. This is the one true Amy.
It was time.
To quiet one’s mind, to bring it to a condition of absolute motionlessness—that was the trick. Amy liked to use a lake. This body of water was not imaginary; it was the lake in Oregon where Wolgast, in their first days together at the camp, had taught her to swim. She closed her eyes and willed herself to go there; gradually the scene arose in her thoughts. The cusp of night, and the first stars punching through a blue-black sky. The wall of shadow where tall pines, rich with fragrance, stood regally along the rocky shore. The water itself, cold and clear and sharp-tasting, and the downy duff of needles carpeting the bottom. In this mental construct, Amy was both the lake and the swimmer in the lake; ripples moved outward along its surface in accordance with her motions. She took a breath and dove down, into an unseen world; when the bottom appeared, she began to move along it with a smooth, gliding motion. Far above her, the ripples of her entry dispersed concentrically across the surface. When the last of these disturbances touched their fingers to the shore, and the lake’s surface returned to perfect balance, the state she required would be achieved.
“When the time comes, follow the Rosenberg road south. Just beyond the garrison, you’ll come to an old farm with a water tank on your left. Take the road after it and follow it straight east, fifty-two miles.”
Alicia looked up from the paper. Something new was in his eyes: a kind of wildness, almost manic. Beneath Michael’s controlled exterior, his aura of self-possessing strength, was a man aflame with belief.
“Michael, what’s at the end of that road?”
—
Alone again, Alicia drifted. So, there had been a woman for Michael, after all. His ship, his Bergensfjord.
We are the exiles, he had told her in parting. We are the ones who understand the truth and always have; that is our pain in life. How well he knew her.
The rabbit was watching her guardedly. His black eyes, unblinking, shone like drops of ink; in their curved surfaces Alicia could see the ghost of her face reflected, a shadow self. She realized her cheeks were wet; why could she not stop crying? She scooted forward to the cage, undid the latch, and reached inside. Soft fur filled her hand. The rabbit made no attempt to escape; he was either tame, a pet as Michael claimed, or too frightened to react. She lifted the animal free and placed him on her lap.
“It’s all right, Otis,” she said. “I’m a friend.” And she stayed that way, stroking the soft fur, for a very long time.
* * *
65
Footsteps, and the creak of the opening door: Amy opened her eyes.
Hello, Pim.
The woman halted in the entryway. She was tall, with an oval face and expressive eyes, and wearing a simple cotton dress of blue fabric. Beneath its soft drape, her belly arced with the bulge of her pregnancy.
I’m glad that you’ve come back to see me, Amy signed.
A look of deep uncertainty, and Pim stepped to her bedside.
May I? Amy asked.
Pim nodded. Amy cupped her palm against the curving cloth. The force within, being so new, exuded a pure feeling of life—if it were a color, it would be the white of summer clouds—but was also full of questions. Who am I? What am I? Is this the world? Am I everything, or just a part?
Show me the rest, Amy signed.
Pim sat on the bed, facing away. Amy unfastened the buttons of her dress and drew the fabric aside. The stripes on her back, the burns—they were faded, though not erased. Time had given them a ridged and burrowed quality, like roots running under soil. Amy ran the tips of her fingers along their lengths. In the untouched places Pim’s skin was soft, with a pulsing warmth, but the muscles were hard beneath, as if forged with remembered pain.
Amy buttoned the dress; Pim swiveled on the mattress to face her.
I’ve dreamed about you, Pim signed. I feel like I’ve known you all my life.
And I you.
Pim’s eyes were full of inexpressible emotion. Even when…
Amy took her hands to quiet them. Yes, she replied. Even then.
From the pocket of her dress, Pim withdrew a notebook. It was small but possessed the thickness of stiff parchment paper stitched together. I brought you this.
Amy accepted it and opened the covers, which were wrapped in soft hide. Here it was, page after page. The drawings. The words. The island with its five stars.
Who else has seen this? she signed.
Only you.
Not even Caleb?
Pim shook her head. A film of tears coated the surface of her eyes; she appeared completely overcome, beyond words. How do I know these things?
Amy closed the notebook. I cannot say.
What does it mean?
I think it means you will live; your baby will live. A pause, then: Will you help me?
In the living room, she found paper and a pen. She wrote the note, folded it into thirds, and gave it to Pim, who hurried away. Alone again, Amy went to the bathroom off the hall. Above the washbasin was a small round mirror. The changes that had occurred to her person had been felt rather than observed; she had yet to see herself. She stepped to the mirror. The face she beheld did not seem to be her own, and yet it was also the person she had long felt herself to be: a woman with dark hair, a well-sculpted though not overtly angular face, pale unblemished skin, and deep-set eyes. Her hair was as short as a boy’s, showing the curves of her skull, and bristly to the touch, like the end of a broom. The reflection possessed a disquieting ordinariness; she might have been anyone, just another woman in the crowd, yet it was within this face, this body, that all her thoughts and perceptions—her sense of self—resided. The urge to reach out and touch the mirror was strong, and she allowed herself to do so. As her finger made contact with the glass, her reflection responding in kind, a shift occurred. This is you, her mind told her. This is the one true Amy.
It was time.
To quiet one’s mind, to bring it to a condition of absolute motionlessness—that was the trick. Amy liked to use a lake. This body of water was not imaginary; it was the lake in Oregon where Wolgast, in their first days together at the camp, had taught her to swim. She closed her eyes and willed herself to go there; gradually the scene arose in her thoughts. The cusp of night, and the first stars punching through a blue-black sky. The wall of shadow where tall pines, rich with fragrance, stood regally along the rocky shore. The water itself, cold and clear and sharp-tasting, and the downy duff of needles carpeting the bottom. In this mental construct, Amy was both the lake and the swimmer in the lake; ripples moved outward along its surface in accordance with her motions. She took a breath and dove down, into an unseen world; when the bottom appeared, she began to move along it with a smooth, gliding motion. Far above her, the ripples of her entry dispersed concentrically across the surface. When the last of these disturbances touched their fingers to the shore, and the lake’s surface returned to perfect balance, the state she required would be achieved.
