Possibility Fields

Warm water flowed over his wrinkled skin, carving through his graying hair, branching in rivulets down his arm to the delta of his groin, over his member, past swallows staggering in the updraft of feverish rocks, plunging silently into the depths.

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P. thought of the river outside the sun-bleached gates of the small town of Ux. Of the rowing seat behind his father, who piloted the slender boat through the reeds with sweeping motions, his gaze darting here and there, in search of cherry salamanders. Their cocoons fetched a good price at the apothecary’s. And the Long Rain was coming. The demand for the eggs, which reliably withered the seed in the wombs, would rise again. Rain children were sickly, developed a stubborn spirit, brought bad luck to the town. Everyone knew that. P. had been born during a Long Rain, 12 years ago. That too, was known by all.

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P. listened to the ripple of the plunging oar, stretched his face towards the dawn that once more carried the scent of earth and damp cinnamon, and 70 years westward, in a different here, he will already be awaiting his arrival, whilst rinsing away the foam from his hair, submerged in a flow of warm childhood memories. How could that be, P. pondered, whose mind of late had often strolled through various times, pausing somewhere by the wayside, enjoying a view, dwelling deeply in contemplation, submerged in a different here and now.

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Lux Anima, his deceased friend Theo jokingly called it, with whom he often conferred at night—when he couldn’t sleep, his mind burning so brightly he feared something within him would surely ignite with his next breath. So, he allowed his mind to cool, while Theo mused in the overgrown park behind the house about possibility fields and the Abranov-Röhm space. He would miss him. The “when” came in a silent echo. When he too was dead? He didn’t know.

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With gnarled hands, he turned off the faucet and groped for the hand rail that Mia had installed last week. He had slipped again, bashed his head until it bled—Nonsense, you know my vigor! His chest ached. Something writhed and broke free from a tightening nest of dry twigs. Wanted to escape him to unfurl along a long forgotten shape. Earlier, too, on the river. As he had listened to the skyfall of swallows and, remembering his wings, had suddenly found himself screaming among them, swept up and thrown by the surging green of the churned morning.

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In Ux, whose narrow horizon was formed by the vast cornfields, river courses, and plane trees of the delta; guarded by the defensive foothills of the Break; held by the silent father and the wilting mother at the center of this small world, he had been happy. Yet, in his memory, his parents seemed strangely incomplete. As if the painter had lost inspiration midway through the work, set his canvas aside, and moved on in search of a perhaps more rewarding view. Back, by the wayside, between rockfoil and poppy, another moment bloomed. A cerulean blue with the smell of ripe strawberries, in a firm brushstroke the tall chimneys of Ux; the river, in which light and clouds interwove into a shimmering ribbon; and on the shore—almost as a negative space, a painfully familiar silence in the great swell of the late afternoon, alluded to with fleeting strokes - his parents.

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P. stepped out of the tub. From the bedroom, Mia’s humming could be heard. Her wild face with the thick eyebrows appeared in the gap of the slightly open door. She observed him, lost in thought, as if his naked sight had pushed aside all original intentions to make room for something else. Something she now cautiously explored with the tip of her tongue—like the foreign porcelain wisdom tooth the mouth bather had implanted. He had initially refused—such teeth are evolutionary relics—but Mia had muffled his ignorance with a kiss and spores. How long had she been in this “here”? It couldn’t have been for more than a week! But the man who now dripped like 

a frosty winter apple beside the bathtub, he was no longer the radiant person who had charmed and bound her to duty just yesterday. He had aged!, she realized in astonishment!

 

April Snow

Above Mia, the canopy of the ancient chestnut billows. She and her sister sway, held in the Long West’s sigh—until autumn embraces them, into a different dream of shadow, light, and flow. Since they can no longer remember and all mornings breathe in a perpetual Now, they have always been here. Mia—it’s not her real name, the one that sounds more like the gurgling and glooping of a stream, a wave function endlessly introduced to itself to map an n-dimensional topology of joy—listens to the caress of the sun in her hair and is content.

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She did not notice the young man with the gentle eyes and hungry steps until the very last moment. He stands there, on the edge of the clearing, squinting at them from under a dark, tousled mop of hair. Then he stoops, creeps closer, like a cat, silent, sleek. Around the ankles of his bare feet dangle the ears of a squirrel. On his forehead, the proud crest feather of a hoopoe. So that’s why!, Mia thinks, and her sister immediately whispers a sharp warning in her ear—no! But it’s too late. Mia has already stretched far through the mesh and lifted a sturdy root. She wants to bring the intruder down, pull him under the earth, and prepare a feast for the old Mushroom Mother. Surprise, then sorrow, flit across the man’s face. Almost casually, he hops over Mia’s extended root. Then, suddenly, he stands before her. With an absurdly slow movement, he drives a silver sewing needle into her trunk. She gasps. The needle doesn’t hurt, but she can’t move anymore! The great Flow stops! Suddenly, she tumbles out and flutters helplessly on her back like a beetle. Young chestnuts detach from her hair, falling as an angry downpour on the young man; but their spikes are still green and soft, they cause no harm. He shakes himself, brushes a bright leaf from his hair, pulls a yarn, red and strong, from his trouser pocket, threads it through the needle’s eye with a practiced hand, and smiles. Mia calls for her sister, but she has retreated into the deepest root.

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She is alone with the stranger. With fear’s ascent, a memory, worn from its lengthy wanderings, crests the whitened furrows of infinite cycles. She senses an impending wither rushing towards her. No, that it is already there and that she is rushing towards it, to it, yes, to the withering. Not now, but in a westerly direction, tomorrow, and the day after. A dull pain settles heavy like April snow on her shoulders. She knows that the withering is not the fault of the young man. But he is not a creature like her—though he too follows the sun. He is something singular, an alone and a foreign in the Flow. He is sorrow and longing at the same time. An avalanche that goes to the valley for a wedding in spring. She cries. She does not know whether from pain or joy. Sobbing, she buries her face in the soft moss between her roots.

 

Medicine

P. swept a dripping strand of hair from his face and saw a familiar stranger in the misty mirror. Mia’s face disappeared in the door crack. And reappeared just as quickly.

You look like a turtle! she exclaimed. 

Her giggles receded, turning into cheerful humming. He laughed, reached for the bathrobe, wiped the water from his face, while 70 years to the east, still carefree and world-hungry, he tugged at his parents’ tender care. Just like the balloons from Martin the Swift, who arrived punctually every year just before the start of summer holidays.

Out of nowhere, his yellow faire booth would suddenly appear in front of the school, with the blinds still shut, like a sleeping egg, sparkling in the morning light and exuding with a force more powerful than the knowledge behind the crumbling school walls, luring the children from their charted trajectories. Reverently, they approached, one by one. With shining eyes, they tasted the promise painted in swirling letters, “Magical Lick & Flight Goods,” and sighed silently to themselves, as undiscovered freedoms twitched in their limbs. P. was 12 this spring and had become city-worthy. Almost grown up, brave, strong—no longer a little child! The school bell rang. When he grew up, he wanted to be like Adam the Great of Trepphausen! To travel the world, solve its countless mysteries, to be admired by his comrades, oh—by all of Ux! The starting bell gave its last ring. A jolt went through the children, scattering them like autumn leaves.

What does the rushing falcon flight taste like? The wild pike’s leap? The children whispered. Martin the Swift pulled a fish covered in glittering sugar from a jar, held it wriggling under the noses of the girls and boys, then suddenly, with the other hand struck boldly at it with a falcon made of red gelatin. The children shivered. What would holidays be without far-reaching balloons? Come closer! Come nigh! The feverish faces drew nearer. The new model, developed by the cleverest engineers, flies with the trade winds! Adventures, just waiting for an invitation from you! With that, he released one of the balloons from the rod, tied a rolled-up letter to it, and let it rise into the sky amid the children’s cheers.

Who’s first? You, my girl?

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Father pulled him from the twittering throng. Father! Father! The balloon, yes? Please! He turned away. Mother. You know. The medicine.

Yes, he knew, only too well. Suddenly, he felt small and weak again. Adam of Trepphausen retracted his already extended hand and leapt like a hungry jaguar, in a smooth play of shadow and light, into the vibrating jungle underbrush. P. was left behind in the empty schoolyard. Then he clenched his fists, turned around, and ran after his father. It’s so unfair! Father! Not for the first time, he wished she was dead.

 

A Single Cricket

In the evening, the light only trickles dimly through the dense canopy of the chestnut grove; the young man begins to hum a song. Leaning against her trunk—how warm and soft he is—he sings of a tuber with tender fronds, which likes to drink sweet dew until it rises like a glittering star. It smells delicious. A rabbit sticks its nose out of the bushes, comes closer with a growling stomach. With a quick movement, the young man breaks its neck, skins it and lights a crackling fire. The rabbit, still amazed, gazes into the juicy glitter of the night sky, and impaled on a stick, listens to the young man’s stories of distant lands and beings. It doesn’t understand much, but the man’s voice smells good.

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The Aralay, on their wedding night, go to bed adorned with living snakes. Their venom is supposed to heighten the couple’s desire and bind them in ecstasy forever. Few blessed couples die. Or have you heard of Tipu? The priest living on the island of Mak Toh, whose god has dressed in the guise of a dog out of compassion, to warm his cold feet on stormy winter nights. Tipu knows that his god is with him and feeds him only the best delicacies from his abundantly filled begging bowl.

 

With his teeth, the young man bites off a piece of meat from a crispy roasted leg. Mia senses that he is not telling the stories to the rabbit. The needle and thread are still stuck in her trunk. She still cannot move. Except... Except in the direction of the red yarn. Her juices had been pulsing into it all this while. Almost as if a new branch had sprouted from her navel! Something tickles like a hatching butterfly, tugs and pulls on her trunk. With a sideways movement of her heart, she carefully grabs the thread and flows along it straight out of the hull of the chestnut tree.

 

She breathes cool night air, sees with unfamiliar eyes a world licked by the glow of the fire—how strangely quiet everything is! Thousands of eyes gaze back at her from the darkness and hold their breath. Then she hears it too. A heart beats—hers. It thumps against her chest, with every beat making the night roar until the whole world glows in sweet fever and moans as it breaks apart.

 

She lies next to the young man. Somewhere a single cricket chirps. Hungry, she places her mouth on his breath. It tastes of rabbit and the cold glitter of a star.

For a moment, the Flow is back again.

 

Her

After lunch, when she had lain down, and Father had gone back to the river to set traps, P. stole a coin from the family savings box, hid in the deepest thicket of the garden, lay motionless there, heart pounding, breathing heavily, waiting, while the afternoon hours dripped through his thoughts like elderberry syrup. As the sun neared evening, the clatter of pots from Mother in the kitchen resounded; he rushed through the house, stormed onto the sun-scorched street with a I’ll-just-quickly-fetch-Father, and caught up with Martin the Swift on the hill, breathless, to plead with childish eagerness to sell him a balloon—yes, now, right away, as otherwise he could not be happy! Martin listened to him seriously, then burst into loud laughter. Do you even have money? P. stretched out the burning coin towards him. It’s big, it’s heavy. Not enough! What else? P., who possessed nothing more than his threadbare clothes, felt hot tears rise in his eyes. Martin understood. Alright. Then trade something! With these words, he heaved himself out of the wagon andputting on his fairground face, strapped a fully stocked tray around his slender hips. In wild disarray, small and large bottles jostled—each seemingly empty, it appeared to P.—yet each meticulously labeled. The bottles clinked softly as Martin rolled the tray back and forth, enticingly. 

 

‘To Fos tou Psariou, Khan Rosenzweig, 1899’ reads P. On another label, ‘To Fos tou Lindvurm, Brielle Anakander, 2006.’

 

He is about to pose a question when Martin thrusts an uncorked vial under his nose, commanding him to exhale! Just once, that’s all he needs! Overcome by a strange dizziness, P. does as he’s told and immediately feels lighter, as if a burden has been lifted from his shoulders! Had Martin not grasped his arm at that moment, he would have floated upwards! Away with the wind, over the town and yes—perhaps even over the sea! Then the sensation passes. Martin corks the vial, labels it, and quickly, almost shamefully, slips it into his trouser pocket. He jingles the flasks again. Your turn! Choose wisely! P. reaches without hesitation for one of the flacons, in which he seems to discern a delicate flicker of light. Sparks that flare and fade, as if a fluttering heart were stoking the sleeping coals of a fire. Mother’s red geraniums burst into bloom, only to rain down like fizzled fireworks in the next moment, a tumultuous dance of blossoming and wilting. Through the worn fabric of time, a long-missed presence solemnly meets his gaze. Her.

 

Here, at this place, she bids him step into the circle—here is the long-sought passage—clothes him in a cloak of fresh wind chimes—listen, fool, they herald your name!—and then, audible to all creation, from the beginning to the other beginning, lets out a cry of triumph. Wounded, Defiant. A daughter had returned home. Against all odds.

When P. comes to, night has fallen. Moist coolness rises from the meadows, a few fireflies dart in playful chase at the forest’s edge. He’s standing in the street with a red balloon in one hand and the uncorked vial in the other. Alone. Ashamed. Martin the Swift and the yellow faire wagon are gone. The bottle drops into the dust, the balloon escapes from his grasp. He starts his way back. There are no more secrets! Not in Ux, not at the center of things. Martin had taken his life in a flask, leaving him a stranger’s in return. He would henceforth be homeless! A wanderer of countless worlds. An eternally falling one into the awaiting embrace of Her.

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Then it becomes clear. Gradually at first, afterwards with increasing brilliance. A laugh breaks free from his throat, alien and wild. He is—no, he would... he doesn’t quite remember. The image was gone. As if he had awoken in a dream by P.’s side, but he can no longer rouse him. What a relief! He must leave him lying here. There, by the wayside, among the rockfoil and poppy. Do you hear, the path calls, there’s no more time left now!

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With renewed vigor, he will strike out, aiming to reach his now alien home before dinner.

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The Slow.

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