The Sea-Wave (9 page)

W
hales could write great novels if they only had hands.

T
hen I dreamed of a garden and woke in a garden. For I could hear the wind, still. In the green, grass. The stone changing, on which I lay, the cool stone . . . to my lonesome bed. Believing . . . I was still in that green place. For such a moment, only.

The moving grass
. It could only be him. The dark man. Brother Ulgoth.

I listened. But heard nothing. And then
something
. So very, faintly. The tone, so familiar.

I rose. I approached the door. Observing the grille. There was no man there.

I stepped closer. Laying my hands on the bars, of the grille. Peering into the hall.

I saw only . . . a shadow. And a deeper, shadow. The dark of the hall — there was a lone candle — and a greater shadow. The robe . . . of this brother. The black robe. The back of it. He seemed . . . to be speaking. Stirring, the black fabric of his hood. Surely, speaking. To the man in the cell, opposite.

I held, now, my ear, to the grille. And listened. As one might . . . a tragic man, to a dark bird.

So gently speaking. So quiet, the hall, I could hear. I could hear, each word:

“The sea-wave comes and goes forever. It rushes against everything forever. Nothing, not iron, survives it. For the sea-wave flows forever. It takes away everything, forever. All crumbs, and the phantoms of all things. Until they're nothing. Everything, we have. The good things of earth. The miserable things. All suffering. All, is salt. Your bones. They will wash away. It will take them, the wave, away. The Earth itself, is salt, and will wash away. In the wave. For it comes and goes, forever.”

Sliding my hand, down the wall. As a wave, against the wall. Falling.

Y
ou know, I don't hate the old man. He stole me, I am scared to death, I don't hate him. I don't know him or understand him. When a branch scratched me, he took a crust of bread out of his pocket and rubbed it on the scratch. At first I was appalled but . . . Maybe he thought the mould was penicillin.

I'm not sure if what he's telling me is real-life stuff. It doesn't sound like anything I ever heard of happening to anyone.

I don't really know anyone.

Maybe he's illiterate and picked me as an ideal secretary who's quiet and works for bread crusts. His stories . . . They could be life stories or a novel.

I don't know.

I'm writing it all down.

But I don't know.

W
hen I wake up and I'm not in my room, I'm in the middle of nowhere, I'm cold and I'm in pain . . .

It's like a dream.

One time . . .

Mom was at Thee Lingerie. I was waiting outside, reading
David Copperfield
.

A woman came up to me. A smiling woman. She crouched down. She rubbed my shoulder. She whispered in my ear:

“It won't be like this in the Fifth Dimension.”

She smiled even harder and squeezed my hand.

“In the Fifth Dimension, there is no disease. No
pain
. There is no suffering.”

I looked down the aisles. I couldn't see my mom.

“Our spiritual bodies will be strong. We will
flourish
, all of us — and shine with the light of pure life.”

I looked at her eyes. I hoped . . . But she was. She
was
serious.

Sincerity is terrifying.

I felt like screaming.

The woman put something in my hand. A pamphlet. She kissed my cheek. Then she walked off, smiling.

When Mom came out of the store, I stuck the pamphlet in the front of
David Copperfield.
I pulled it out later, in my room.

Humankind will soon enter the Fifth Dimension, a dominion of Bliss and Serenity.

World peace, social harmony, copious joy. The Fifth Dimension sounded perfect.

Nothing perfect is real.

I ripped the pamphlet in half.

At the mall, I kept an eye out for the smiling lady. But I never saw her again. She probably got hospitalized or arrested. Or she took a strange turn and made it to the Fifth Dimension after all.

I took a strange turn, too.

If I saw her out
here
, the smiling woman . . .

It wouldn't even surprise me.

M
y grandpa's a minimalist. He takes medication. He just said: “I'm a minimalist” and got rid of his furniture. He sold his bed and sleeps on the couch. When we go there there's nowhere for anyone to sit but me. There's two empty rooms, a bathroom, and a mini fridge full of yogurt. My parents gave him a table but he threw it away. They sit with him on the floor and eat yogurt. My dad opened a cupboard once and a million silver yogurt lids tumbled out.

Mental illness is pretty common in my family.

M
y parents thought a pet would be good for me, so they bought me an insane cat I named Wilkins. The night before we picked him up at the humane society I pictured him hopping on my lap and being like a small friend.

There were a lot of cats at the humane society. I chose Wilkins because when I wheeled past he meowed instead of backing away. Plus his eyes were two different colours and sizes.

I loved Wilkins but every time he came up to me he'd scratch my legs like a scratching post. Then he'd look lovingly up at me with his crazed eyes while I sat there bleeding.

When my dad saw the marks on my legs he was horrified. My mom must've seen them when she was bathing me but she never said anything. Then I seemed to be allergic too, and for a while I needed an inhaler. So my parents took Wilkins back to the humane society. They said it might be just temporary. That was a couple years ago.

I miss Wilkins. He hurt me sometimes, but so did life. You can't take your life back to the humane society. Or I'd've tried that a long time ago.

“S
ee them?”

The old man stopped. He pointed at a tree.

I couldn't see anything.

“
See
them?” he said again, really looking at me. Really
talking
to me.

“
See?
You see?”

I shook my head.

He made a sound like a small dog and then pointed again but didn't say anything. Then he made a sound like a bigger dog. He crouched and walked around my chair. He was breathing, I could hear him making sounds at about my head level. His feet, or probably his knees, were scratching on the ground. Every minute or so my handlebars creaked, his breathing sounds moved from behind my back to just behind my left ear, it was like he was breathing in my ear. Then they move quickly back behind my chair and became whimper-y.

There was really nothing that I could see in the tree. There could've been a bird or a squirrel. Though I don't remember seeing one. It was just a big, I'd say, oak tree.

This went on for maybe an hour. Sometimes he was so quiet I wondered if he was falling asleep. I was getting sleepy. I almost fell asleep, or did fall asleep. But then he just sprang up and wheeled me on past the tree faster than I think I've ever been pushed. If I'd fallen out he probably would've crushed me to death. And kept going.