The Freedom Artist

by Ben Okri

  ‘There are writers left in the world!’

  Suddenly the girl leapt from behind the desk and ran to the door. She stuck her head outside and looked both ways. She came back in, shut the door, and bolted it.

  ‘You have made me say more than I should,’ she said, looking worried. ‘Why are you asking these questions? Who are you? What do you want?’

  The change in her manner alarmed Karnak. The girl had turned fierce. He felt in danger and soon realised why. Looking very determined, and very skilled, she was holding a knife to his heart.

  41

  Mirababa had been climbing a ladder in the darkness of his mind. He had been climbing for a long time. The stars were clearer than he had ever seen them. Soon the ladder vanished.

  He emerged in a strange world. It was a garden. There were children’s voices in the wind among the trees, but he couldn’t see them. An abundance of flowers met his eyes, lilies and roses and asphodels. Near the fountain there was a circle of lotuses. In the garden there were many stately trees and many beautiful birds.

  He followed the voices of the children till they vanished. In their place came a tinkling melody. The fragrance of honeysuckle filled the air, and then it was gone. The beautiful things were so fleeting. He followed the lightly sounding music of a flute and it led him deep into a row of tall beeches, and into a bank of yellow roses.

  Beyond the roses there was the river. It glimmered in the mysterious sunlight of that realm. It was only when he saw the river that he noticed the special quality of the light. It seemed to shine from all things.

  The river sparkled. The boy sat on the riverbank and wept with happiness.

  ☆

  Karnak remembered how much she loved children. She used to sit on a bench in the park and watch children play. She liked watching little girls as they made up new games for themselves. Children loved her too and were always confiding to her about their friends that no one else could see. Amalantis had wanted to be a teacher, but she refused to teach because she said that everything they were made to teach was designed to kill the souls of children, designed to render them stupid before they had begun to live.

  ‘It’s a shame that loving children as you do you don’t teach,’ Karnak said to her one day.

  ‘In our world,’ she said, ‘teaching does all the damage. I would like to unteach.’

  ‘Unteach?’

  ‘That is when you undo the damage that the system has done.’

  ‘You could get into trouble talking like that.’

  ‘We are all in trouble. It’s just that we don’t know it.’

  Every time she said something like that an object always fell in the room. If they were out and she said something like that, he would hear a sudden loud bang near them. For a long time he thought it was just coincidence.

  42

  Karnak allowed the girl to lead him into a dark room. The knife had left his heart and was now thrust into his ribcage. She commanded him to sit on a chair in the pitch blackness of the room. Out of the blackness she spoke.

  ‘Who did you say you were?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Karnak.’

  ‘What do you want here?’

  ‘I thought it was a bookshop.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I came seeking writers.’

  ‘Why? No one’s interested in books any more. Come to think of it, no one’s interested in writers any more. Except spies. Are you a spy?’

  ‘I’m not a spy. I’m only looking for clues.’

  ‘Clues to what?’

  ‘Clues that I think writers can give.’

  ‘You have too much faith in writers.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘They had no great wisdom or knowledge. They should have done, but they didn’t.’

  ‘Really? Surely they knew something.’

  ‘In the very distant past they did. Afterwards all they knew was how to write.’

  ‘Aren’t you being unfair?’

  ‘They were part of the reason that reading declined.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They lost their truth. They wrote for fame, for money. They did whatever it took to succeed in the changing times. They lost their integrity. They diluted the language of the race.’

  ‘How did they do that?’

  ‘They championed a downward trend and eliminated mystery from the world. They didn’t trust in beauty any more. Every word became only what the word meant. A tree was a tree, nothing more. Poetry died. People couldn’t think symbolically. They turned against myth. Realism became the only truth. The written word became poorer than conversation. It was no longer necessary to read because books no longer nourished, they only informed. But technology could do that more easily.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘I researched it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m asking the questions. What clues are you looking for?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I need help.’

  ‘And you think writers can help?’

  ‘I hope so. I’ve tried artists. But they’re interested in other things.’

  ‘You’ll be disappointed.’

  ‘Let me take the risk.’

  The girl had lowered the knife. She looked at him for a long time.

  ‘Okay. Wait here.’ She spoke in a new voice.

  With the faint sound of a sliding door, she was gone.

  43

  It was a happiness that could not last long.

  Three shadows drifted over the river. Mirababa watched their approach with dread. They were the shadows of something strange and they were coming towards the garden. Alarmed, he opened his mouth and began to scream but didn’t. They were just shadows drifting across the water.

  For a moment the birds were quiet. The children’s voices among the flowers became cries of distress. Then they were silent.

  Mirababa saw the shadows drift towards him. They were the shadows of giants. Two of the shadows drifted past him, spreading darkness.

  The last of them was a colossus. It came and sat beside him on the banks of the river. Its feet reached to the depths of the river and its head was just below the sky. It lowered its head and looked at Mirababa. Its eyes were bigger than the boy. They were like two large moons.

  ‘Who are you?’ Mirababa asked.

  The colossus laughed. Its laughter shook the earth and sent high waves rolling on the face of the lake.

  ‘You ask the right question at last,’ the colossus boomed.

  44

  Karnak sat in silence in the dark room for a long time. He heard nothing and could see nothing. He wondered how long he should wait. He was beginning to think of getting up when he heard the faint sound of the door sliding open. Then a warm touch on his hand led him out of the darkness.

  He entered a dazzling room. There was a bank of candles at an altar, flowers in a silver goblet, and a sword on the wall. He glimpsed a word on the ceiling, written in an elliptical script. He didn’t know what the word was, but it awoke in him a feeling of expansion.

  When his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he saw three skeletal figures hunched over desks. They had quills in their hands which they dipped into inkwells of gold. Their eyes were hollow and their fingers long and thin. One of them, he noticed with surprise, was a woman.

  They scratched away on what may have been papyrus, dipping their quills regularly into the ink, working rapidly without pause and without stopping to think. They did not notice anything around them. They were mantled in flowing blue robes, not in any way identical, but uniform in the serious air they imparted. With thin wisps of hair, their skin unhealthy and pallid, they worked at their desks in complete silence, scratching away at the papyrus, never looking up and never pausing. It was as if the scratching away and the dipping were the sole function and meaning of their lives.

  Karnak moved towards them, but the girl motioned him to stop. She led him t
o an adjacent room.

  ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘They’re writing.’

  ‘What are they writing?’

  ‘They’re writing about everything. They’re the recorders. Everything that happens finds its way onto the page. They record every dream, every death, every disappearance, every laughter. Nothing escapes them. They capture every footstep, every door that opens, every leaf that falls, every scream uttered, every story told, every joke recounted, every moment that passes, every meeting between people. They fix it all in golden ink.’

  ‘But how can they know these things?’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘How long do they work like that? I never saw them pause.’

  ‘They never pause. They write all the hours of the day and night. There are not enough hours in the day for them to write in. They write about all that happens. They write in their sleep, they write while they eat, they write through all their functions. They are chasing the impossible. They must do what they do or…’

  She paused. A shadow passed across her face.

  ‘But we’ve got machines that do that. We’ve had them for hundreds of years. Every single moment of our lives is recorded in one form or other, isn’t it? Why do they have to do it?’

  She looked at him with compassion.

  ‘They’re the last writers left,’ she said. ‘Their tribe has almost entirely perished. They write with all the passion of their lost tribe. They capture what technology cannot see, record what technology cannot feel. They are the last dreamers. Since writers vanished we’ve only known how to exist. But we’ve forgotten what living is for. Our myths have been changed – we don’t know our origins any more. We’ve lost our past. It was in our myths. So was our future. Do you sleep well at night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nobody does. Do you know why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because sleep has become nightmare.’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘Too many questions. Why do you ask so many questions?’

  ‘I never used to ask questions. We were taught not to ask questions. Then one day, not long ago, I realised that what I thought was happiness was actually hell.’

  ‘How did you realise that?’

  ‘I can’t say. I just came into your shop searching for clues, that’s all.’

  ‘Have you found any?’

  The young lover looked at her.

  ‘Who are you really?’ he asked. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ruslana. But I’m not sure I can help you,’ she said.

  ‘Then why are you so interested in the lost art of reading?’

  ‘Because my father was the last guardian of the tribe of writers.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He worked for the Hierarchy, in order to raise me. It was against his conscience, of course, but times were hard. He had no choice. Then he learnt things which were terrible. He began telling stories that he shouldn’t have told and he talked to people he shouldn’t have spoken to and he began to babble things in his sleep that he shouldn’t have babbled. Then one morning, at the height of his success as the guardian of the word, there was a knock on the door. I haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘You’re very brave,’ he said.

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m just continuing my father’s work. It’s doomed work. You’re talking to a dead person. Every day I expect a knock at the door. Today the knock brought you. Tomorrow, I may be dancing with my father in the great darkness. Who knows?’

  45

  The colossus lifted Mirababa onto his shoulder and with great strides took him round the world. His head floated among the clouds. From that great height, he saw towns and villages, hills and highways, pyramids and temples, mountains and deserts, farms and factories, slums and office blocks. He saw wars being fought and cities being devastated. He saw countries with great walls surrounding them. He saw continents and oceans and landlocked nations. He saw cities made up only of high-rise buildings. He saw the receding forests and the narrowing rivers. He heard cries everywhere and he didn’t know what the cries were about. He heard people wailing in their sleep all over the earth and he did not know why they were wailing.

  At the edge of the world he saw nothing but horizon. The earth was bounded by light in the day, and by darkness at night. The earth was alone in its space. The earth rested on air, on nothing. He saw the stars and the moon and the galaxies. Beyond them he saw only horizons. He noticed that there was always more to be seen.

  ‘Is it possible to see beyond the limits, beyond the furthest stars?’ he asked the colossus.

  Gentle tremors shook the earth. The colossus was laughing.

  ‘My realm is the earth. You need someone else to take you beyond the stars,’ said the colossus, amused by the simplicity of the request.

  46

  ‘I think it’s time for you to go now,’ Ruslana said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your quest is not here. Besides, if you stay here too long you might get into trouble without finding what it is you seek.’

  Karnak was reluctant to leave.

  ‘But can’t I…’

  ‘You have to leave now. I’ve got my own work to do. Every minute brings danger nearer.’

  Still he didn’t move.

  ‘You really have to go now.’

  When he didn’t move, Ruslana pushed him towards the door.

  ‘Can I come and see you again when I discover something?’

  ‘What for?’ she said, shutting the door in his face. He heard the lock turn twice and then the shutters came down.

  Karnak stood outside the shop for a long time, at a loss. Where was there for him to go? The artists hadn’t been helpful, and the last remaining writers were engaged in tasks of monumental futility. Pondering what he had learnt so far, he wandered the endless streets. The sun was going down behind the houses.

  He walked for a long time, unaware of what he was seeing, lost in his thoughts. Then he heard noises in the air. He paid them no attention. Then he heard noises in the street. He thought someone was trying to attract his attention. But when he looked round he saw a great crowd of people gathered in a nearby square. A man in a white suit was addressing them from a platform. Karnak went closer. He asked a few people what was going on and they said the speaker was a politician. Perhaps a politician could help him with his quest?

  He squeezed through a gap in the crowd till he could hear what the man was saying.

  ‘Follow me and my party and we will fulfil the dreams of our fathers,’ the politician cried, pointing his forefinger skywards. ‘We will have more gardens for your children. We will destroy the dangerous people who poison our minds with words. We will eliminate the enemies of the state. Our economy is good, but we can make it better. We are protected by the Hierarchy. Our job is to make sure that no one is better than another. We must all be prosperous. Our founding fathers gave us a great myth and every day we must work harder to fulfil it. With our party in government you will sleep better at night. Those who challenge our dreams will perish in the great darkness. I call upon you to be more vigilant than ever. Enemies are among us. Spy on your neighbours. If you see anyone happier than you, report them to the authorities. If you see anyone happier than they ought to be, report them.’

  The politician swept the faces of the crowd with his eyes while he spoke. He waved his hands more vigorously as his voice rose. The crowd listened to him impassively, only leaning forward slightly.

  ‘Watch the faces of your neighbours,’ he continued, after a brief pause. ‘Anyone seen wandering about at night, with no clear purpose, might be a dangerous person. Report them immediately. These are good times. We have never been better. Our children are healthy, the state is strong, and there is more equality than ever. But we can be even better. There is no hunger, but there are still dangers. Our party will keep us strong. We will work hard for your good sleep…’

  A sudden swell of applause drowned ou
t the speaker. He left the platform and then another speaker came on and said generally the same things. Three other speakers mounted the platform and made almost identical speeches.

  Karnak listened to it all in amazement. All the faces around him seemed to be listening intently, though he could not say for sure. Their eyes were open but they could have been asleep. There was no animation in their faces, even when they burst into loud applause.

  When the last speaker finished the crowd mysteriously dematerialised. So quickly did the people leave the square that Karnak found he was virtually the only one left there. The sky darkened, and evening fell swiftly.

  A little perplexed, the young lover hurried back home. He stuck to side roads, keeping his head down, so as not to be noticed.

  47

  As the colossus was returning to the banks of the river, Mirababa noticed something in the distance. Darkness formed and unformed in a consistent pattern round the edges of things. Beyond the dark patterns he saw glimmerings of unearthly lights. The lights trembled beyond the horizons that had no end.

  ‘What is that blur round the edges of things?’ the boy asked the colossus.

  ‘You’re not supposed to have seen that. I’m not supposed to tell you about it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You are not supposed to see it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Is it death?’

  ‘It may or it may not be.’

  ‘Has anybody seen it before?’

  ‘Only once in a thousand years.’

  ‘Can I get closer?’

  ‘If you get any closer you will not be able to return.’

  ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘If you knew that you’d know everything.

  ‘Is it powerful?’

  ‘More powerful than fate.’

  ‘Who guards it?’

  ‘No one guards it.’

  ‘Who put it there?’

  ‘No one put it there.’

  ‘Is it the edge of the world?’