[0]
How do I know you?
I know you from within, from without. You are betrayed at every turn.
You cannot conceal what your heart sings, what your sweat cries out, what your gut bellows.
You are always in the presence of your stranger. It carries the guttering candle of self-who-is-known.
It is not the flame. It is wax. It is flesh.
I am stone. I know you, candle.
How do I know you?
I know you from within, from without. You are betrayed at every turn.
You cannot conceal what your heart sings, what your sweat cries out, what your gut bellows.
You are always in the presence of your stranger. It carries the guttering candle of self-who-is-known.
It is not the flame. It is wax. It is flesh.
I am stone. I know you, candle.
[1]
“And it’s not going to hurt him?”The boy is twenty-six and would call himself a man. He is afraid- his heart is lolling like a horse on its side- but there is no violence in the fear. He is a stone-carver and his eyes roam me looking for the marks of a chisel. If he thought me well-made, would he call it beauty or craft?
“I’m not a bloodletter. Nothing I do can hurt him- I will put nothing in and take nothing out.”
I am lying. I place my hand on his shoulder and let it be heavy; let it anchor him.
“You can watch if you wish to. It’s going to be alright.”
Today I have let gold come to the surface, a hundred veins of it, because he is cowed by privilege and wealth. I look like a beautiful vase and am amused by this. His bravery would tell him to do things himself, because he is a boy. I am veiled and my eyes are many and black, to frighten him, and I am gold, to impress him. My patient looks at me but does not see me, so I have made no changes for him. The house is dirt and fieldstone and sod, and the scent of moss is thick.
My fingers clatter in their sockets, and with two hands in the soil of the floor, I draw Keeping, so that his heart will not betray him. It is a treble circle and the letter inside is Known to me. With two hands in the air before him, I draw Calling, so that he will know that everything in him should bubble up. There will be no depths he can hide, and there will be terror in that. There is a number that shimmers briefly, like oil or a bubble of sweet soap, and it is Known to me. My last hands are on his brow and on his belly, and the cool of my fingers soothes him. My veil blows aside, and my mists are there.
I am Taus. He is:
[2]
He is a soldier and the thing that he felt is this: the fiber of linen inside of his skin. He is saying, within, that he was grateful for linen. It had seemed so fine and white. He is speaking the words of a song, on the inside of his eyes. It is a war song, for the old king. The fiber of linen is soaked and stiff and sticking, and it is inside him, under skin and yellow fat, because he has been cut. Sometimes he hears the song again, in the Now, because it is a skipping rhyme.
How many up at the top of the hill?
How many down in the river, in the rill?
How many fall when we nock and loose?
How many marched, and every one, fool!
How many down in the river, in the rill?
How many fall when we nock and loose?
How many marched, and every one, fool!
It hardly rhymes but the men who taught him the song were not singers or poets. They bellowed.
It was supposed to be the enemy who was foolish. On the inside of his eyes he is repeating that they were not- they had bows like long white moon-arcs of ancient yew and shafts a yard and two hands length. He had nocked and loosed and missed and now his tunic is inside, where it ought not be, and he will not admit that he is cut.
[3]
“He’s breathing hard; are you sure…?”I nod. I cannot speak. I am holding in two hands Keeping, in four hands Keeping and Calling, in Six Hands an old man. He has grown older and the callus on his thumbs has softened. His arms are still cord and meat, from kneading loaves each day and every day until he stopped. His son is of the same mold, but weaker. He needs stone to hold him up.
He needs me.
He does not know what I am any more than he knows what has eaten his father’s last years. Nonetheless he knew enough to find me, and to offer me a bolt of cloth from his sister’s shop- they are prosperous, and it is a blue like sapphire and night. I would have done it for free, but he doesn’t need to know that. It’s not as if I don’t deserve it.
I am Taus, and the old man is:
[4]
The old man is a spiral, without end.I am pulling him, and this hurts him, a little, but now he is hearing the song in the voice of his niece. She is so small he questioned, when she began to grow (but not so much) whether they were sure she was of the line? But there was a laugh in his voice that I Call and I Keep.
His son hums behind him and kicks his feet against the stool as the old man kneads and splits and folds. The son is eight years and grows like a tree.
His daughter dances with him at her wedding; there is a tinkle of glass and they are all singing- it is a song about an old woman who wanted to fuck. Everyone likes that song, except those for whom it is too close to their daily experience. His wife was older than he and she wanted him until quite close to the end, and he never minded.
In the Now my hand is crouched on his skull like a spider and the letter of Keeping is burning softly into the earth. I am Calling all his songs into him, and I am taking what he will pay me- all his songs, written into me.
[5]
“See if he feels better now. If he does, I may call on your sister, and you can thank me. If not I will try again, if you wish it.”The boy is twenty-six and beautiful, in the way that a horse can be beautiful- because there is not quite enough skin for the muscle he wrought beneath it. He is too young yet to desire me, so he is uncomplicated when I embrace him. Likely he does not know why he is comforted- it is weight and coolness and everything he knows, everything his broad hands touch. I am no product of his labors but I can grasp his shoulders and he feels the work of craft in me.
“When he wakes, try singing the bread song.”
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Sir's Dumping Ground - by sir - 11-27-2014, 10:34 AM
RE: Sir's Dumping Ground - by sir - 12-19-2019, 10:12 PM
RE: Sir's Dumping Ground - by sir - 12-29-2019, 11:40 PM