a line of rain

“This house is not the refuge,” it says, “I am the refuge.”

That much has been clear.

That is to say, he has had some clear intimation of this before.

It is looking at him.

The house is wet.

It is not difficult to tell as there is water running down the windows.

“Well,” it continues, “make of that what you will.”

It is not obvious if it is referring to the water going down the house or what it has just said.

It occurs to him that that it is trying to help.

Make of that what you will.

His heart feels like it is going to burst.

It is painful, even.

Outside it is not stormy for once.

Indeed things are perfectly still.

Against this context the house has taken on a new patter of feeling.

Looking out at the sun and the way the light moves over things, at the objects it touches, he feels a huge and sudden loneliness.

He has something important to say.

“In the end,” he says.

It is not clear if he is starting a sentence or ending one.

In fact he is not sure what he intended to say in the first place.

Nonetheless it appears to have caught something of his intent.

“In the last,” it says, looking out, at the water going away.

He thinks about this.

“I don’t know,” he says, because this is true. “I don’t understand.”

“You knew that people would go,” it says.

It says this without malice, without condescension, without any gesture of counsel, perhaps with concern.

He fumbles with the latch on the window and it opens, letting in air.

“I was thinking,” he says, and stops.

It has appeared to become a sudden habit, this stopping.

It waits.

It is very good at that.

Unless he is misreading things, of course.

He used to worry about that possibility a lot but now it does not trouble him.

“I was thinking that this place can house more than two,” he decides, at last.

“Yes,” it says.

There might be something in how immediate the reply is.

In an absurd way, in an animal way, he feels sympathy for it.

That much cannot be denied.

It is grief-stricken.

What does one do in such a situation? What does one summon?

No rituals yet devised.

No rules that might speak clearly.

“I could open the door,” he says, “and see what comes in.”

It shakes its head.

Again he is at a loss.

Two crippled things.

“It is good,” he says finally, “to know that you are here. To know that you will abide.”

It is neither large or small.

It comes up to him and he puts a hand against its body, which is a fixed thing.

Its body is not warm or cold.

Instead it is like an extension of his own flesh, sharing an identical heat.

That is all that can be honestly said.

“I am with you,” it says, and it puts down its eyeless head.

He is silent.

“I am with you always,” it repeats. “Even unto the end of the world.”

It turns its head to him as if expecting some recognition.

“All worlds,” he says.

“Yes,” it says. “All worlds.”

He holds it.

This is not something he remembers doing.

Although maybe he has done this before.

That is only a passing thought.

He holds it and does not move.

Again a sudden sadness.

It is too much to demand that every lament have a cause and structure.

That thought occurs very clearly and brightly to him.

“You should know where my strength is,” it says.

The meaning of this is not entirely clear.

“You should know where my strength is,” it says.  “I should tell you so that you will know.”

He says nothing.

“Small things,” it says, “breakable things.”

He is beginning to understand, in a dim way.

“It is when others look in and say, see how weak this thing is, see how easily it can be destroyed.”

A quiver, a line of rain moving the light.

“And it is there that things change,” he says. “Are made known to be different.”

It looks at him.

“Because there is no weakness there. You cannot be destroyed.”

He stops and speaks again: “Deception.”

“Hiding,” it says.

“It is true then, what I say about you.”

It looks at him and the thought occurs to him that maybe it is the one that is uncomprehending.

It gets up and goes to the window and looks out.

There is no storm today.

In fact outside a glinting spreads unheeded.

It looks back in, twisting around to do so.

“The truth of it does not matter,” it says.

[Ref: Carrier; All That Air Outside]

Carrier

It is at the window, looking out. The window is open.

There is the question of its forelimbs, which are on the sill.

It puts its head out.

Water lashes its face.

He comes beside it and looks. “There is ship out there. Isn’t that a ship?” he says.

There is something with lights moving among the waves. It looks like an old one.

It does not reply. Then it says, “There is nothing wrong about that.”

It cranes its head out, all the way.

It likes the air outside, or so it seems.

In any case it does not talk about it.

“I have not seen a ship come this way,” he says. “I hope it makes it to shore.”

It is in fact true that the light is dim. This is the time of the evening when it goes fast.

“Is that in fact a ship?” it asks.

Water is running down its body into the house.

He says, “Look. All this water. Let’s close the window.”

It waits a moment and pulls itself in.

For a moment it is huge, but then it is small, and all of it inside the house.

It shakes itself although it is entirely dry.

It is dark.

Not outside, that is, at least not yet, but the other one speaking. It is entirely black.

That had escaped his notice.

Well, that would be inaccurate. It has never been entirely black before.

In fact it was something else.

He closes the window, and looks out. The ship is barely visible.

A dipping light out there. A little warmth.

“It is a ship, I think,” he says, and turns to go back to his room.

“No,” it says, “Not a ship.” It is still looking out through the glass like it is not there.

He goes back to the window.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Isn’t it a ship?”

It contemplates this.

How does one know if it is contemplating?

It is strange not to have an immediate answer.

In any case it thinks or perhaps it watches and then it says, “No, not a ship. The idea of one.  That is the idea of a ship, the things that make a ship a ship. An old friend.”

Water lashes its face.

But then again it is all dry inside.

He is very tired, impossibly so. He cannot bring to go into his room now. He sits in the chair and leans back and does not say anything.

Perhaps he should sleep here, head back, with his eyes closed.

“Should you go out to meet it?” he says.

“Always with these questions,” it says, “I don’t know. It’s been so long.”

There is also the issue of the rain but it does not mention the rain.

“Should I go out?” it says.

That might be a question, even.

He hasn’t taken his shoes off. That’s how tired he is.

“It’s not for me to say,” he says.

“I will take you outside. We will go together,” it says. “We have not gone out together.”

That is a bold claim. But it might be correct.

“It’s rough outside,” he says.

“Don’t worry,” it says.

And it picks him up and stands and puts him on its shoulders.

He is very small and very light.

It holds his legs.

It does this with hands, of course.

The door opens, perhaps because it opens it, and they are out in the wildness and the water.

He feels very safe.

Water lashes his face.

“This is something,” he says. “It’s really something.”

“Yes,” it says, holding him tight, bearing him, “Isn’t it really?”