Like Sand

Like Sand

Of decades expired, I can't recall, and my memory is not coerced by their ticking. I heard a name so familiar to me I wanted to kill it, and that is why I can tell you this story. It was my brother's name. I think of it, and I remember.

The memory is incomplete. What I'll say is what I recall, as I recall it. The images move fast and there are shadows all around, filled with muted voices and shouts and words I can't understand. When I'm done with the telling, it will have vanished again.

It starts with my first moments, but these are nothing important. My first pleasure was the taste of blood and I took it to heart not moments after my first breath. From there I grew to be strong and thin and sharp, a razor-backed blade of a juvenile beast. I was dark and dappled like moldy old wood and my brother told me I smelled just as bad. I don't remember the scent, but I don't smell like rot, now, so I suppose he was teasing me.

Everything changed after some mishappening with a clever people whose weapons were feared by my parents. My shell was crushed by my father into an alien body I did not know. It was horrible and confusing. It was to save me...so, I have learned how hurtful salvation can be.

I was put in the care of my brother as we fled, and he dragged me through the burning woods. He betrayed me there, but was not allowed to finish killing me, as our enemies gave chase. He left me to die at their hands, but I was forgotten, instead.

Small and sick, I crawled like the dead, lost in nightmares. The monster who shared my geode with me before my birth now so tortured my mind that my sanity abandoned me too, in that forest. It took some part of me with it, a part that still exists there; I still see those dark trees when I close my eyes, or when I look into a flame.

As trapped in this shape as in that hollow stone, I was perfect prey for my demon, and quickly came to live simply to be consumed; I made it my purpose to feed the creature. All in my mind, the teeth and fever and abusive whispers. I was blind and nerveless to this world and still moving through it, for I could do nothing else. To stop would be to surrender, to surrender would mean my end, and I was not done, yet. I learned to walk on two legs, and I kept functioning.

Someone found me. I remember his white eyes and the way his touch broke my dream in pieces. He lifted me up and carried me away. It didn't occur to me to resist, and if it had, I would still have trusted him. He did not move like a predator, or a parent protecting its own. He moved like an unconcerned gatherer, a whale. Creatures such as these have no malice by themselves, and if they have concern for you, it is curiosity.

I was handled a great deal by this man. I was cleaned, and the cleaning made me aware of what injuries I'd collected, dragging myself through thorns and wood. I was dressed and I was tended, laid to rest and guarded well.

When my weakness went away and I could move again, I kept to my small room and I acknowledged only the whale. Eventually I wandered out, into his home, but only after him, a shark in his wake exploring these strange waters; I could not work my voice, I could not focus my eyes, and I had no way of understanding my caretaker. I could do nothing but follow, and was content to, even curious. I watched and was silent, and I was unafraid.

My surrogate taught me to walk properly, and he taught me to look in his eyes and follow them. I became used to my dull and hazy sight. I found my voice, and he taught me to speak his sounds. I could not eat his food at first, for it made me sick. Slowly, though, I came to tolerate it. I don't know how long it all took. I think it was years, but it may as well have been weeks, so much of it is missing.

He had a family, but I kept my distance from them. I imagined I was a pet, and the idea pleased me. They all had their pet names for me, and I had my pet place in their house. It wasn't until I had learned a few hundred words that the whale man could finally ask me my name.

I tried to say it with these lips, but my throat wouldn't pronounce it. "Den-l," was the best I could do, and so he named me Daniel.

His name was Atticus. A shelter of a man, he thought he was a tradesman and a woodworker, plus a father, but his role in life was that of a structure; he was foundation, walls and roof to everything he cherished, and if it could not fit inside his fortress, it had nothing to do with him.

He kept me in the cellar of his heart. Not as a prisoner, but a vice and a treasure. He spoke to me alone, he spoke to me when he spoke to no one. I understood little of it, and I never answered his questions. I think he appreciated that.

I began to grow, slowly, becoming less and less of a pet, more and more of a child. Atticus's son tried to treat me like a brother, but I wanted nothing of him.

Atticus's wife gave birth to a second child, and the bearing almost killed her. Her infant was the most fragile thing I had ever seen, and it fascinated me. I could not touch it, for the mother said I looked at it strangely. One day it learned to walk, and during a moment's negligence on the parents' part, it came to me and touched me. The mother saw this and was frightened, but Atticus stopped her, and without interference I met his daughter, a perfect girl named Lynn.

She was soft and small and blonde, and she wanted to touch my face. I did not let anyone do that, but I was still for her; I sat on the floor where she found me and she put her tiny hands on my head, one covering my eyes. It made me feel something warm and wonderful, but so powerful that after a while I could not stand it. I didn't know what to do, so I captured her with my arms. She began to scream, and Atticus came forward to take her from me. I tried not to let go, but it was the only time Atticus ever hurt me. I was forbidden again to be near her. I never saw Atticus so saddened as when he handed me this law.

Lynn suffered from nightmares after that. I wondered if it was my doing, if somehow my monsters now stalked her. She would awaken with a screech, and then she would be silent. Very rarely did she cry.

We watched each other across the room for three years. I had my own nightmares, but I felt differently about them than Lynn. I awakened from those dreams feeling strong as often as weak, and I held in my gut a great defiance and pity for the creature I contained. It was not real, but it wanted to be, and I can't conceive of a more wretched sorrow.

One night, Lynn came to my room as I was sleeping. I was having a nightmare. I don't remember it, but I remember waking from it and finding her there, beside me. She said I sounded like I was somewhere scary. I didn't know what to say. I told her I was. I took her back to her room, but I did not leave her there. I watched her sleep, and she did not seem to dream. I left in the morning before her mother came in.

I did this several times, and each time, Lynn did not dream. But once, I fell asleep against her bedside, and her mother found me. She was angry, though Atticus stilled her and asked me why I was there. I told him that when I stayed, Lynn would not scream at night. He understood I was guarding her, and at once it made him happy with me.

Lynn was allowed near me again, but I was to be gentle with her. I had no difficulty with this new law, and would have followed it anyway. The day I'd grabbed her and made Atticus strike me made sense at last. She made me want to hold her, and I felt some truth in doing so...I felt she belonged to me, and I felt responsible for her. I kept her from the bad things, and in realizing this role, at last thought of her home with Atticus, and the name he had given me, as my own. I became her brother, Daniel.

This is all that remains of the memory. I know what happens after, but it isn't the same as what I've told you. Everything from that moment on is clear and solid as now, to me. Everything before it vanishes from me, moments after I remember it. It's kept within a piece of me that is broken in some way. It takes my brother's name to bring it back, and only for a brief time. When it's gone, I have to let it go. It won't come back to me unless I do. I must even forget the name that brings it to me, until it is mentioned again.

But, perhaps things will change. Maybe it won't disappear, now that I've told you.

(c)2008 Luna Manar