The Man with the Compound Eyes (32 page)

But Kabang was still contemplating how He should punish Yayaku, at once to put the minor god in his place and boost His own prestige. Kabang had given Wayo Wayo to the people, but over time the rocks on the island would become sand, and the sand would be blown away by the wind and carried away by the sea and the island would get smaller and smaller. Thus, Kabang resolved to oblige Yayaku to take on the form of a little bird and the quotidian task of collecting the grains of sand that blew away in the wind or floated away in the sea and replenishing the island with them. Because the waves never rested and the wind never tired, Yayaku never enjoyed a moment of respite. But Yayaku was industrious and managed, when the gods of sea and wind were not exerting themselves quite so much, to pile up a mountain. In possession of this mountain, the islanders could cut down a certain number of trees without fearing that Wayo Wayo might someday disappear. This was why the islanders worshiped Yayaku as the Mountain God.

“So your mountain god is a bird?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t it just be too cute to have a little bird as the mountain god,” Alice thought aloud, gazing at the youth standing before her. She couldn’t fully understand him, but there was more to what he was saying than just the words. His expressions, gestures, tones and dynamics made him a natural storyteller. His body had been milled, polished, scarfed and forged, as if by magic, a magic that would make people believe that any story he
might tell, no matter how absurd, bizarre and unbelievable it might seem, must have actually happened in real life.

“Adorable? No, Yayaku has no feeling. He is cold.”

They kept finding their way, and at dawn on the fourth day, they could see some peaks in the distance that Alice recognized from the map. She knew they were approaching the “forest” on the map. But by this time Alice was starting to show fatigue, so they took even more frequent breaks. Alice taught Atile’i how to read a map while they were resting. The key concept, which Atile’i soon grasped, was the use of a sign to stand for some natural feature. The next step was determining orientation, allowing the mind to match the observed landscape and its corresponding representation on the map. Atile’i’s ability in this respect greatly exceeded Alice’s. The only thing he could not get was proportion. The ocean was clearly vast. How could such a small image serve as a surrogate?

They made a fire to cook a meal. Alice had brought many vacuum food packs, which you could just heat up and eat. This evening they had spaghetti with pesto sauce and hot coffee. Atile’i had gradually gotten used to the food the Taiwanese islanders ate.

“So, what did you eat most often at sea?” Alice asked.

“Fish.”

“How’d you catch them?”

“I used things on Gesi Gesi to make a spear gun, and oyster shells as hooks.”

“You ate them raw?”

“What?”

“You didn’t use fire?”

“Fire? No.”

“No fire. Oh, right, it would be too difficult to make a fire on the ocean. What about writing? Do the people of Wayo Wayo have writing?”

“Writing? Like this?”

“Yeah.”

“Writing, we have not. The Earth Sage says, speech is everything.”

“Too bad you don’t have writing. There are many things that can only be expressed using the written word.”

“No need. Wayo Wayo has no writing, but we can express things all the same.”

“But how can you compose poems without writing?” Atile’i didn’t answer, having failed to understand.

“What do you call the moon again?”

“Nalusa.”

“Oh,
kaga mi yiwa Nalusa
,” Alice said in Wayo Wayoan.

“Tonight there is a moon,” Atile’i translated into Mandarin.

“Ah, indeed, your Mandarin is much improved, tonight there is a moon. And what’s the sun again?”

“Yigasa.”

“Yigasa,”
Alice repeated.

“
Yigasa
shines with its own light, which
Nalusa
borrows to be bright,” said Atile’i, reciting the lyrics of a Wayo Wayoan nursery rhyme.

“
Yigasa
shines with its own light, which
Nalusa
borrows to be bright,” Alice said. “
Aiya
, that’s poetry.” But Atile’i still didn’t understand what poetry meant.

That evening, shortly after the two of them had gone to sleep, Atile’i woke up, immediately pulled Alice over, covered her mouth to signal silence, and motioned for her to leave via the rear opening. Atile’i sensed that something was out there, but Alice saw nothing except an expanse of silent gloom. Alice’s blood and heartbeat were still sluggish, and because she had not slept enough her legs were still in a dreamland. Atile’i on the other hand was preternaturally alert. He gazed intently into the darkness.

Soon, in the shadows of the trees, he made out a looming form. It seemed to hesitate but was actually resolute. When it moved close to the tent, Alice felt as if a bucket of water had been dumped on her head. Now she was completely awake.

“Bear!”

The bear looked over toward the voice. It stood up on its hind legs like a man and craned its neck to catch the scent, revealing the pattern on its chest, like a crescent moon in the vast night sky of its body. Attracted by the smells, it hesitated before roughly “opening” the tent, spilling their food out on the ground. Then it tasted every item on the menu.

Alice and Atile’i tried to hold their breath. Alice wanted to leave while she still had the chance, but Atile’i felt they should stay put and kept a tight hold on Alice. Though it made Atile’i nervous, this bear before him was a magnificent, alert and tenacious animal, as beautiful as all the animals he had ever seen. Wayo Wayo did not have such animals, not even close. Atile’i was spellbound.

With dawn approaching, the bear stood up again, stomped on the tent, crushing it, and extended its snout and sniffed, looking much taller than a grown man. Alice was clasping Atile’i’s hand, her hands cold as dew. The bear slowly retreated into the forest, and the forest opened up again, readmitting the shadow into its fold.

The bear hadn’t made a sound, had given neither provocation nor pursuit. It had just rummaged around for things it wanted and returned to the forest. But Alice and Atile’i both seemed to have died and come back to life. They had scented something ancient, like the mountain itself but somehow not quite the same. Something divine. If it had wanted to, it could have taken their lives away.

Only now did Atile’i slowly turn to Alice and say, with the utmost care: “Clearly, God is there!”

When the man wakes up he doesn’t feel the pain he would have expected. He’s just had a dream in which he tried on a night of absolute night to “blind climb” his way down the mountain wall. Because all was darkness he had to use every cell in his skin to feel the texture of the cliff. It felt just like the first time he entered his wife’s body. Both of them had experienced a subtle trembling, as if they were replenishing something in one another’s souls.

Two-thirds of the way down, as a result of overexertion, his nails felt sore, his toes numb, and his eyes were stinging with sweat because he was not wearing a headband. But the more physically ill, the more intense the mental thrill—a paradox those who have never engaged in this kind of activity cannot understand. The man breathed deeply until little by little confidence returned to his fingertips.

But in the moment it did, his fingers parted from the face of the cliff. It was as if he suddenly switched perspectives and saw himself falling, getting smaller and smaller. The clouds and constellations dispersed, everything around him dissolved into darkness, and all that remained was void.

It was a dream, after all. Careful not to make a sound, the man walks out of the tent to the edge of the cliff. The cliff is not as absolutely dark as it
was in the dream. But leaves, backs of tree frogs, bent stems and droplets of water in leafy hollows … are all gleaming in the moonlight, making the cliff appear darker than it actually is.

Why not try climbing down? No, my boy is in the tent. What if something happens?

Why not give it a try? No, I can’t.

A blind climb? I can’t!

Why not try it barehanded, with no gear?

These questions fascinate him, stirring the blood in his veins. At some point the man gets up, fastens the chalk bag to his waist, changes into his rock-climbing shoes, and starts slowly climbing down the rock he sees in front of him. All inhibitions have been overcome; nothing can stop him now.

In the darkness, the cliff is like a knife and a shadow, hard to grasp. The man has strained his senses and used up almost all his strength, only managing to get five meters down. It is still not too late to go back up. But the man does not go back … or, one should say, he doesn’t go back up. He continues his descent, first feeling around with the tip of his toes, and then shifting his weight when he finds a new foothold. He tries to maintain three points of contact and to avoid overburdening his shoulders and fingers on either side. If you could see him in the darkness you would exclaim, What a superb climber! He is bold and focused, his body consummately trained and possessing a simian aplomb.

Right then, the man hears someone else on the cliff, and not that far away.

A climber can hear the faintest of sounds when he concentrates his attention. Everything is audible: fingers thrusting into the muck, fingertips slipping over moss. If there’s food digesting in his gut or force being sent to his toetips he can hear it. But at this particular moment the man hears something else, the sound of breathing. Clearly there is another climber up there.

Another person blind climbing? On the same cliff?

That sound stokes his competitive streak. Unconsciously, his movements quicken. It is like a test of strength between the two men in the darkness.
The other makes haste, too, and his every move is conveyed through the rhythm of his breathing and the occasional faint rustling of his clothes. Neither needs to be told which of them is one step ahead, which of them is the swifter at finding the next toehold.

That’s when the man’s dreamscape reappears.

In a moment of carelessness, his foot slips and his movements suddenly accelerate. The force of the fall pulls his left hand away from the wall for a hundredth of a second. With the man’s usual reaction speed, he should have enough time to grab hold of the rock again, but just at that moment, very unfortunately, something like an enormous beetle flies right into the bridge of his nose, momentarily dazing him and sapping his strength for a hundredth of a second. He starts falling. The clouds and constellations disperse, everything around him dissolves into darkness, and all that remains is void.

His shattered helmet lies on the ground. The pain is excruciating, as if every bone in his body has been snapped. This is not a dream. An irksome rain begins to fall. It should be falling on the grass where he is lying, but somehow it sounds as if it’s falling into an abyssal lake.

He can only get his eyes halfway open, and, blurry-eyed, all he can see is a shadow kneeling by his side. The shadow says, “Broken, every bone.” The man can’t tell from his voice whether he is the blind climber just now, but from his smell there is no doubt about it.

“Am I dead?”

“Pretty much. Fall in a place like this and you’ll be dead before anyone finds you.”

This is absurd. It does not sound like the man has any intention of saving him.

“Can you help me?”

“No, I can’t help anyone,” comes the reply, impassive, unwavering, unhesitating.

In spite of his physical pain, the man is quite conscious, and his vision gradually clears. He notices his counterpart is looking at him, but when their eyes meet it is less like he is looking at someone else and more like he is looking at himself. He closes his eyes again but finds himself haunted
by the other’s eyes. What amazing eyes the fellow has, as if innumerable tiny ponds have converged into an immense lake.

How come it looks like he has compound eyes? How could a person have compound eyes? Am I seeing things? the man thinks to himself. The man with the compound eyes has no intention to help or leave. He is just looking at the man quietly.

Then, for some reason, drowsiness overwhelms him. He starts to yawn. At first he yawns once every half a minute, then once every fifteen seconds, then ten, then five, until he is yawning nonstop, with tears in his eyes. Then he passes out.

Later he wakes, not knowing how much time has passed. He still feels sore all over, but is now actually able to sit up, and then stand. He can move without difficulty, except that any time he moves an injured part of his body he feels a heart-wrenching agony. It is as if all that remains of this body of his is a leaden despair. Noticing that the man with the compound eyes is still there, he tries asking for help one more time.

“Doesn’t matter if you don’t save me, but my son is up there, on top of the cliff. I beg you, please save him.”

“I can’t save anyone,” replies the man, impassive, unwavering, unhesitating. “Not to mention that there’s nobody up there to save.”

“Nonsense! My son is up there! I don’t care who you are, but please,
please
, I’m begging you, you’ve got to do something!” The man doesn’t know where he found the strength to shout.

“You know very well …” the man says, his innumerable ommatidia flickering, his compound eyes like an undertow that would suck you in, drag you down and drown you, “… there’s nobody up there,
at all
. Nobody
at all
.”