Into the Library Without Doors

[For Sound and Silence]

My window is open to crisp night air. Below, the watchman makes his rounds. I listen to his footsteps against the pavement, and I let the muffled thump of his staff take me away. Away, into reverie; away, until I am home again.





We take our lessons in one of a hundred gardens. The words pour as easily as the wine, spilled from decanters to waiting goblets. The flowers are in bloom--but then, they are always in bloom. I watch their petals sway as we heed a story of the Three-Winged Morike.

"At the end of their journey she gathered her followers upon the peak, and witnessed the moon set and the sun rise in silence."

The others are whispering in their little covens. I am left alone, but for all their voices.

"With every hour that passed, the crowd grew more agitated. Some became impatient, and shouted for Morike to speak the reason of why they stopped."

I do not mind. I enjoy the solitude for what it is.

"But for every harsh word said unto her, Morike held her silence. For three days she watched the sky, and for three nights she waited."

A tittering laugh erupts from one of the student gaggles. Loose feathers drift across the grounds.

Their attention is elsewhere. I know not to stare.

"Uncertain and dissatisfied, the most unhappy of her followers took flight--away, and back where each of them came."

The laughter grows infectious, leaping from one nested group to the next. The lesson does not pause. This is a common occurrence when the sun shines through the glassteel dome: focus wears horribly, terribly, incorrigibly thin.

"When the last of the dissenters left, Morike turned to the five who remained. She rose her hands to them, speaking: 'be at peace and know: the eye of the Queen-Mother is upon those with faith, even through Her silence.' Thus Morike took flight with those who would be her disciples," the professor intones, drawing to a dutiful end, "and sailed once more towards the unknown."

I do not know if the others in the garden hear him--but I do. Every last word.

[For Sound and Silence]

Tonight, I close my eyes three times before reverie takes me. I open them to the sun on my face.





We stop at the first village we find. It is quieter than the cities we soared near before it. The landwalkers tote bags of grain and usher along their sheep. My companion is somewhere nearby--though whether he is asking for directions as intended or asking questions of the world is to be discovered.

I am happy, though, to observe. These are not the children of a savage ancestry. These are a calm people. A kind people. They stare with wide eyes, but they will not trouble us.

I watch two boys play at knighthood with smooth sticks and pot lids. It is the most exciting thing we will see in this place.

[For Sound and Silence]

A moth beats its wings senselessly against the glass. It sees my lantern light, and wants only to join the beloved fire. It does not know I am protecting it tonight. It does not understand the separation.

I drift into reverie on the back of its violent desire.





"I'm sorry. It's been fun! But with you exchanging out for good, our schedules..."

I land in a memory full of discomfort. It isn't where I intend to be. Who I am tonight tries to claw out of the moment.

Who I am then only struggles to swallow.

My mouth's too dry and full of unsaid words. I smile wide to deter us both.

"No need to explain," I assure him. "I understand!"

That's all he needs to shine bright as the sun again. I remember, now: it's why I chased him.

We had only just begun to know each other; a year spent and sent on its way. I know I will still spend a month wishing I did not change. I know he will move on within the day, the same as ever. But that is what I loved at the time: his unwavering, wishful, winsome heart. Always certain of who he is. Always aware of what is best for him.

I watch him leave, and spend the rest of that night reorganizing my books. We never truly speak again.

[For Sound and Silence]

The watchman stops a drunkard below my window. I can scarcely make out their voices, arguing vehemence into this late hour. I close my eyes and search for a gentle day to land in.





The gray static clings to my eyelids.

The debate in the street wages on.

I hear crickets, come mistakenly in from the hillside.

Nothing is waiting for me.

Above. Below. Outside. Within.

This is not a memory.

It explores the valleys of my spine.

Talons spread and feathers fly.

Every cricket chirp will guide me.

The watchman announces a hefty fine.

The gray static clings to my eyelids.





Nothing but a long blink. The book reflects the sky, and I count every star I can find in its face. Sometimes, I remember to look up.

[For Sound and Silence]

The book is always empty, and I pore over every page. Some nights, it tells more than others--and most days, it spills each secret back into my inkwell. I wish that I could remember where I found it. When I am done reading nothing I latch it shut, check its bindings, and close my eyes.





I wade through the leaves and into the Mother's temple. Feathery gore slices the underside of my wing, and the hot blood sticks to the back of my arm.

It is the first time I feel this kind of pain: weeping, sobbing, seething misery. It makes a nest in my lungs and quickly outgrows all of the breath I can give it.

I catch the priestess' worried glance, and she catches the rest of me.

The next hour is a blur of salves and airy prayer. When she's through, it's nothing but a bald, bare strip amid the feathers. Soon it will heal in full. It will not leave a scar.

She asks, of course, and I tell her the truth: even with my new life I thought I might still practice old lessons. I enchanted a sword to float and swing and cut. I provided it a set of basic commands.

It excelled, until it didn't. When I lost balance in my strike it had no mind to stop, as a sparring partner would. It only had its orders.

She looks at me with equal parts pity and understanding. I smile and thank her for her care.

[For Sound and Silence]

I lie down beside my hearth, facing the fire. There's nothing watching from within burning wood. I blink, and it's gone.

The book is never far, and yet in this moment it feels miles apart. I let it dance beneath my palm, and close my eyes.





Drifting. This is not a memory.





Nothing is waiting for me. I know their faces.





The dreams begin.I will not remember them come morning.

[For Sound and Silence]

I have done away with the lantern cage, but the candle remains intact. I watch its light sputter, turning a stone wren between my talons. I am restless and rested. The watchman is neither: he's fallen asleep against the wall. His snores float up to my window, knocking upon the frame. I set down the little earth bird, spanning my fingers against the book instead.

I do not remember the dreams that visit me, but tonight they leave behind a word. Inkless, silvery letters dance upon the first page. It runs as if it's still freshly-written, though it has nowhere else to go.

Unasked.

I turn the book around to catch the sky, as if the moon might have a better answer for the mystery. But she doesn't. I sigh, pushing it away.

The watchman has the right idea. I close my eyes.





I walk one of a hundred gardens with my grandmother. Her feathers are gray in her age, and her spine is bent with time. We go slowly, for the sake of her broken gait.

Rarely do we talk. Today, then, must not be rare.

"Are you sure about your choice?" she breathes out. She always speaks nasally, as if she suffers a perpetual cold. I smile at her, patting her hand in mine.

"I am! What better way to expand my education than this?"

Her disagreement is plain in her eyes--though I find it ill-suited for her to judge. After all, she never left Home.

"You should return to the war hall first. Spend a few more years, sharpen your battle-wit..."

Stay, she's urging me; stay long enough for me to convince you otherwise.

It won't work. I know my path, and I leave come the new season.

I respect her, though--respect enough to lie to her face. "I'll think about it. Look ahead: everyone else is already here..."

[For Sound and Silence]

I moved last night. I will miss the watchman, though he will never know me.

There are three windows now on the upper floor. I can see the square, the port, and the garden. I open all of them to let in the wind. The light helps itself, uncontested, to entry.

If it can be helped, they will not close again.