…
Discontent continues to mount. Rollo feels he would have finished the baby by now. Confining himself to the Occipital Chamber he continues his vigil. Clarity refuses. There is nothing he can see but a shape representing Ingrid. The dominant feeling is exclusion, of which the baby has become a symbol. A baby that exists as little more than concept. His resentment struggles to find a comfortable destination. At one moment it sits with Ingrid and another, with the baby. Anything resembling the life he had enjoyed prior to the baby concept has lost strength and fallen victim to replacement thoughts wearing dread. Rollo no longer feels the significance of insignificance the daily patterns once instilled. Without the meditation of pattern, Rollo has nothing.
…
“What gender will the baby be?”
Rollo has been building to this question. Of all the questions left unasked, this one fought hardest for his voice. The affectless delivery belies its importance. A gender cannot be attributed without his influence. He cannot allow it.
“I don’t know.”
Ingrid shifts in her seat, placing a protective hand on the bureau. Asking the question introduces a sense of danger.
“You must know. You are building it.”
Rollo pushes the point, elevating the danger. Ingrid moves her chair, obscuring the bureau completely, denying Rollo a potential line of sight.
“I really do not know. It is not up to you or I to decide the gender of our baby.”
It does not make sense. Rollo’s belly rumbles in response to the inexplicable answer. Ingrid is denying the existence of her agency. Suggesting something beyond her influence will determine gender.
“I want a girl,” says Rollo.
Ingrid assaults Rollo with her gaze, flooding him with violent mentality. She pours her will into it. Giving everything she has to the task. Rollo acts in direct opposition, tempting her focus to falter. Manipulating her away from the bureau and taking the baby. Finishing the baby. Forcing a gender of his choosing upon it.
“We might have a girl. We might have a boy. It is not up to you or I to decide.”
The whistling sound of Rollo’s thought increases in pitch and volume. Ingrid counters, attacking him with psychic babble.
…
The entrance to the Prefrontal Chamber has been sewn shut. Until Ingrid has finished the baby, Rollo is not permitted access, even to eat and sleep. She has covered the mirror that allows visual access from the Occipital Chamber. He has been told access will be reinstated when the baby is ready. Time, an ambiguous notion at best in the context of the fort, seems to cease its passage. Rollo’s exclusion finds stasis.
Ingrid keeps one eye on the entrance and the other eye on her work. The baby now exists as several components. Two legs of slightly differing lengths sit plump with stuffing. Two arms are about to undergo the same process. The torso awaits its limbs. Off to the side sits their child’s head. Rudimentary features illustrate its face. A line of black yarn for the mouth. Straight. No applicable emotion. Two red circles of yarn for eyes. Subtly raised eyebrows suggesting the moment prior to surprise. Another straight line. Vertical. A slight curve at the base. This is the nose. Clustered yellow strands have become hair. The head will wait until all other elements have become one.
She would like to dedicate more time to the assembly, but fears Rollo will not allow this. She knows something about the baby Rollo does not and feels it will displease him. Contrary to Rollo’s desires, the baby is a boy. He will think Ingrid is responsible. It is only by virtue of her hands this is true. Cognition played no role in the gender. She is convinced of it. There was no awareness of the developing male characteristics until after the characteristics emerged.
Ingrid senses, at some level, she knew their child would be a boy. She feels greater kinship with the male experience, but does not know why. Some things are just known as so. If forces beyond her deigned it appropriate she should influence its gender somehow, in what way could she be blamed? The wool in Ingrid’s hands is more than wool. The baby exists beyond a collection of sewn shapes. The baby existed before Ingrid existed. The determination of what has become is of a chain extending further back and farther forward than time conceives.
This, like anything, can be calculated as so. This is more than Rollo. This is more than Ingrid. This is more than the fort.
8.
The readings suggest universal change in atmosphere. Numbers congress in unfamiliar order. Rollo examines readings past, searching for precedents. It becomes apparent the numbers have found a new order. One beyond Rollo’s capacity to calculate and comprehend. It cannot be determined whether such an order represents jeopardy. Rollo is unable to dismiss the notion of the baby as pathogen, infecting the fort’s bloodstream. A movement toward slow death. His journey through past readings stretches back, detailing the evolution of understanding. Early readings are incomplete. Tentative in penmanship. Rollo conjures an earlier version of himself, overwhelmed by data. Unsure how to document the deluge. At a loss to decipher what they wish to convey. Numbers are crossed out. Re-written. Doubled over. At want for comprehension. Wilting beneath the power of his ignorance.
The development of aptitude often defies perception. It exists in steps, the ascent of which can only be viewed from a detached distance. The transition from step-to-step rarely feels like transition at all; it is like a rectilinear continuation. One assumed trapped within shiftless stagnation. It is here most will forfeit a pursuit. Too many incorrect notes distract from the increased instance of correct notes. It is only when one is prepared to experience failure, to bury themselves in the heart of its heart, that achievement can be found. It is only with the detachment of time’s passage that ascent reveals itself.
In the history of his readings, Rollo becomes aware of aptitude’s path. The rise of true confidence unattached to the façades erected by ego. He taught himself to understand numbers by force of will. These new numbers seem to mock his aptitude. Any translation appears lost as those attempted in his early records. Nothing he already knows is applicable to now. Ingrid and the baby have knocked his focus off-balance, rendering the required will impossible.
Rollo is immured in the non-Prefrontal Chambers, forbidden access to that which he wants most. This is the reality in which he broods. He remains with the indecipherable readings in the Cerebellum Chamber, forgoing food and water as though this forced decrepitude will punish Ingrid. The slowly ticking numbers are obsessed over. As obsession increases and ignorance screams, the less the numbers mean. Inquiry is replaced with projected outcomes of foreboding. Lack of understanding is a blank canvas on which to paint paranoia. Everything unknown is danger and harm.
He vacillates between directing his resentment toward Ingrid, then the baby. As the pendulum directs blame at one, he feels great sympathy for the other, until the swing shifts and attitudes are reversed. In one reality the baby is an innocent tool used by Ingrid to manipulate the fort’s dynamic. In another, Ingrid is the tool, being used as a conduit for an external malevolence in the baby’s form.
Logic attempts to steer Rollo toward reason and probability. Probability suggests neither Ingrid nor the baby intend harm upon him or the fort. It is natural for one to seek the continuation of life, the advent of legacy. Were it not for the drive exemplified by Ingrid, life could not continue. How can one place blame on a baby for existing? These logical tangents only add guilt to Rollo’s mounting paranoia. The logic is not powerful enough to vanquish the paranoia. The two dance about Rollo’s skull, one gaining the upper hand before losing it to the other.
He stares at the numbers. Through the numbers. Waiting and conflict define him.
…
Ingrid need only attach the head and her baby is complete. A sense of peace prevents the execution of this final step. When the head is sewn into place, the baby is born and Rollo must be permitted access. Ingrid feels compelled to protect the baby from all potential harm, which, to her horror, includes Rollo. She assumes this i
s maternal instinct, which is a reasonable protective mechanism, but the guilt refuses to diminish. Rollo would never cause her baby harm. She knows this. It is his baby too. Any involvement he enforces upon the process is the result of love. Of excitement.
Her hands glow with the vitality of creation. The nearly formed expression of life exists as a testament to what she is capable of. Who she is. What she can achieve beyond Rollo’s intervention.
She holds the unattached head aloft, rotating it slowly in her hand. Experiencing its existence. Her eyes drink in the details to ensure an intimate understanding unlike any other. This is Ingrid’s son. A manifestation of her. She brings the woolen head toward her face and rubs it against her beard. The head longs for attachment to its body. Ingrid longs for this attachment too and knows it cannot be delayed. Life wants what it wants and she is in no position to control that.
Thread pinched between excited fingers. Needle accepts thread without complaint. Thread tied to needle. Body in wait. Head in wait. Ingrid in wait. Head positioned above body in ghostly detachment. Brought closer. Head kisses body. Body kisses head. Ingrid bows and kisses both. The weaving needle trails the thread, binding via its passage. Ingrid sews tight stitches. Stitch sitting against stitch sitting against stitch. The crowd of ordered stitches form a strengthening bond. Space between each stitch must be eradicated. Thread is pulled. Head tightens. Straightens. Joining the body in greater unity with each needle weave. Her breath trails thin wisps of carbon dioxide from pursed lips lost in concentration. A circle of stitches destined to meet, heralding new life. Circle formed. Thread sits against thread. Between the kiss of Ingrid’s thumb and pointer emerges the needle. The trail of thread is severed with Ingrid’s gentle teeth. Two lengths of thread now exist. One length encircles the spool. The other is frozen in the stitching’s complex path. The spool is placed aside. The thread sprouting from the stitching’s complexity is tied off. Baby is born.
Joyful tears climb Ingrid. Each seeks their passage out. Manifesting as irritation in the eyes before finding their escape and traveling downward. Exploring the length of her nose and dripping like kisses upon the newborn. Ingrid shakes with emotion. Desperate to cradle the baby in crossed arms, but terrified of causing harm. Instead she brushes her fingers over its innocent face. The texture of the wool in this moment will never be forgotten. Lowered lips press down on its belly. Her ear replaces the lips and listens to imagined heartbeats. Through jittering seizures of excitement, Ingrid’s hands lift the new life.
Ingrid supports the baby’s weight and draws it toward her, pressing it into her chest, feeding it with her heartbeat. Understanding her life is bound by this new addition, too overwhelming to describe. This moment exists for no one but the two. Rollo cannot be introduced yet. He must remain outside of this experience until the baby understands Ingrid as his mother. There is too much Ingrid wants to feel before outsiders are permitted to interfere. Since the idea of the baby found form within her, the moment of birth is one Ingrid has afforded a great deal of importance to. Significance can be difficult to experience, and when one does, it must be held in place and experienced fully.
…
The numbers are ticking in frenzied insect clicks. Rollo snaps away from his abjection and watches the display. His heart quickens to match the barrage of clicks and feeds his body with panic. A final change has occurred. A change too powerful for the numbers to translate. Rollo knows the chaos of these numbers means the baby has arrived. Why has he not been told? What properties of the fort have altered to accommodate this new addition? How does it know?
…
The darkness of this night belongs to Ingrid and her child. In the limbo between wake and sleep, she melts into the bed. The baby rests facedown on her chest, moving up and down in tandem with the slow breath of contentment. Sleep does not have a place in this moment. Not for Ingrid. This is the first night between the two and it must be experienced. Remembered. Drawn out in caramel trails that refuse to break.
“I am your mother. You are my child. We are separate but we are one. I beat the heart you cannot. I see that which your eyes cannot. I hear your voice where no sound exists. I hear what you long to hear. I pass what you need through my body and give it to you in untold abundance. You are the enormity of me. The enormity that alone, I cannot be. Thank you for being. Thank you for allowing my hand to guide yours.”
She fights the sleep that arrives, understanding the fight cannot last. Understanding she is now sleeping for him.
Rollo can hear the shifting texture of Ingrid’s thoughts. New characteristics and shapes. He focuses his attention toward them. Wishing he could comprehend them. Shake them from their wordlessness. Isolation knows its own character as such, and reminds the isolated of that character with every movement of mind.
“The baby does not belong to you. The baby belongs to the baby. We are here to protect the baby. Guide the baby. Do not keep it from me. Allow me to feel what you feel in this moment. Allow the baby to know me. To understand I mean it no harm. Please let me in. Please let me in. You cannot do this.”
9.
“There is someone you need to meet.”
Ingrid appears calm, standing over Rollo slumped before the numbers. Sleep has remained outside of possibility, floating in a mass everywhere but inside. His glazed eyes consider Ingrid’s presence, working to process the visual information and feed it toward floundering comprehension. Her persistent form feeds neurons, assembling sense data.
Rollo’s awareness of Ingrid in the flesh disassembles elements of paranoia that have been attacking him. He knows why she stands before him.
“The baby?”
“Yes. He is ready.”
The ‘he’ pronoun is absorbed. Gender has been decided in direct opposition to Rollo’s desire. Their baby should be a she. A son makes very little sense, contradicting a natural inclination he cannot parse. He feels compelled to label it a ‘she.’ He wonders if such an act may confuse the child’s identity. Blame forms in a growing stockpile he will direct at Ingrid when its power is sufficient.
“Take me to it.”
Ingrid turns to leave, waiting for Rollo to stand. The asymmetric position of his body draped before the computer’s numbers have stretched his ligaments and tendons to match the position. The nerves in Rollo’s back send pain signals throughout his body, stiffening the muscles, slowing movement. Joints crack as he moves toward Ingrid who, without looking, begins the journey toward the Prefrontal Chamber. Each of Rollo’s steps produces a pop, audible enough for Ingrid to hear. She turns and commands quiet with a finger against her lips.
“He is sleeping.”
Rollo sends signals to the pain, imploring it to lose its volume. It shifts in response and floods the joints with heat, loosening and soothing. His introduction to the baby cannot disturb it. Ingrid has already formed an initial bond. A bond deprived of Rollo, who is nothing more than a stranger. An interloper seeking to disrupt a recently born dynamic.
…
The Prefrontal Chamber is caliginous, searching for illumination it cannot find. Waning moss glow is fading. Silhouettes are dying.
“I cannot see. Why is there no light?”
Rollo shuffles forward with outstretched arms searching for obstructions to avoid.
“The baby is sleeping. It needs the dark to sleep.”
He stumbles into a chair and lowers himself down to escape the directionless sense of falling.
“I want to see the baby.”
The sound of Ingrid’s movements suggest ease. Her feet move forward without hesitation somewhere toward the middle of the chamber.
“Follow my voice. I am with the baby.”
Her voice is a malicious whisper trying to set the example she wishes Rollo’s voice to follow. Rollo falls forward, his knees finding the ground. He crawls toward the whisper.
“Where are you?”
“Over here.”
His direction alters slightly and he continues to crawl. It
seems he should have reached her by now. Distance is mocking him. Before he opens his mouth again to seek guidance, he feels a warm hand clasp his wrist. The sensation startles him. He inhales breaths intended to calm, but cannot find the volume of oxygen his lungs require.
“Stay still. He is right here.”
Rollo motions to reach toward the ‘here,’ but Ingrid’s hand prevents this desire finding form.
“I want to feel the baby.”
“You cannot see. You might hurt it. Wait until later.”
Being denied access to something sitting so close troubles Rollo. He is being asked to accept the baby’s existence on faith. Faith is anathema in his world of numbers and precaution. No empirical evidence pertaining to the baby has been brought forward. There is nothing to scrutinize, therefore there may be nothing. This possibility is considered until nothing suggests nothing. If their baby is nonexistent, what has Ingrid been doing here?
“You must allow me to verify the baby.”
Ingrid’s hand applies more pressure to Rollo’s wrist.
“When it has finished sleeping you may see it. You may hold it. Until then you must trust that it is here sleeping. Just as I have said.”
“Can I talk to it? Will you permit it access to my voice?”
In the silence that follows, Rollo’s ears search for sounds signaling the presence of another. His ears are not trained to hear what he needs them to hear. Beyond the escalating chatter of Ingrid’s tumbling thoughts, he hears nothing.
“You may talk to him, but you must whisper.”
…
Ingrid is hiding the truth. In the time before collecting Rollo, she hid the baby in the Frontal Chamber. A place she knows Rollo will not visit. Following their first night together as mother and son, a protective urgency instilled itself. Until Rollo’s attitude and demeanor around the baby is understood, he poses a risk to the child’s safety. Whether this risk is deliberate or the result of inexperience she cannot say. She hopes for the latter but lives in fear of the former. The child exists through her and she through it. Harm to one is harm to the other. Too much is at stake to allow precaution not to take precedence. In Rollo she lacks knowledge. He exists in the form of something recognizable, but nothing understood.
Basal Ganglia Page 5
