Memoranda

by Jeffrey Ford

  I stood up and stretched in an attempt to disperse my anger. “I’ll clear my head,” I thought, and walked over to the window opening at the back of the room that gave a view of the field below and the boundary of the wood just beyond. I spent some time staring out at the peaceful, sunlit scene, and the sight of it relaxed me. Eventually, I turned away from the hypnotic tranquility of the view and took a seat at the table that stood just to my right.

  “Come on, Cley,” I admonished myself. “You must …” But I never finished the thought, because lying now on the table in front of me was a pack of Hundred-To-Ones, my brand of cigarettes from the days of the Well-Built City. Next to them was a box of matches and an ashtray. My hand shot out instinctually to the cigarettes, and I lifted them to make sure they were real. On the front of the green package was the usual red insignia of the wheel of fortune. I flipped it over and on the back was the expected image of Dame Destiny, wearing a blindfold. In her right hand she held a revolver, and in the left, a flower.

  I opened the pack, retrieved one of the cigarettes, and immediately lit it. That first blast of smoke against the back of my throat was a great relief. With this aid to concentration, I turned my attention again on the steel ball. As I stared at it now, from a distance, my mind wandered and I came up with a theory about the sudden materializations of food and cigarettes.

  These, it seemed to me, were incidentals. The mnemonic world was very convincing in its important detail, but one could never plan for all of the contingencies of logic, so things that weren’t really necessary were created extemporaneously, so to speak. The memory filled in the gaps when the reality of the island was found wanting. Food, cigarettes, probably alcohol were unimportant. That is why when I ate, it was not because I felt hungry. I realized then that since I had arrived on the island, I had yet to use a bathroom. There probably were no bathrooms, which was just as well, since I felt no urge in that direction at all. Hard, fast rules and definite limits abounded, pain and probably true death among them, but then there was a gray area where the memory created as fast as the need arose.

  With my second cigarette, I began laughing at myself, picturing my crude attempts to break through the shell of symbolic representation. While I was puffing away, an indescribable urge began to take hold of me. This feeling increased until, upon stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray, I rose and approached the shiny sphere of frustration. Then, I lifted my foot and brought the heel of my boot down on the thing with as much force as I could muster. To my surprise, the ball collapsed, splitting open in three places and crushing down into a flattened, ragged disk of steel. I stepped back and inspected my work. There had been a degree of satisfaction in the act, but in all I was no wiser than before.

  “What are you doing, Cley?” asked Anotine.

  The voice momentarily frightened me. I looked up to see her standing in the entrance, wearing a puzzled expression.

  “Looking for the moment,” I said, and forced a smile.

  She shook her head. “Leave the experiments to me.”

  I nodded and looked away, embarrassed at the thought of how I had gawked at her body through the night.

  “Come, we have work to do,” she said.

  Imagine my relief when instead of heading down the hallway to the laboratory, she turned and went back through the entrance into the sunlight. I hurried after her.

  She walked quickly, leading me up and down stairways, across terraces, through a labyrinth of winding alleys lined with flowering vines drooping down from planters situated high above. It was the first time I had been outside in the sunlight since arriving, and now I could see just how beautiful and complex the village was.

  I looked ahead to where Anotine waited for me at the bottom of a short set of steps. She wore a loosely fitted, white-muslin dress that the breeze had its way with and the sunlight had no difficulty penetrating. Her hair was tied back and woven together in an intricate braid.

  As I caught up to her, she said, “You had a difficult time with the experiment yesterday.”

  “I apologize for not being more help to you,” I said.

  “There was a period after I took you from the chair that I thought you might expire on me,” she said. “The other specimens never exhibited such a dire reaction to it.”

  “Why do you think that was?” I asked.

  She began walking again, and I could see that we were now heading for the field that lay between the wood and the terraced village.

  “There seems to be something quite different about you,” she said. “You are more like my colleagues and I than the other specimens that were sent. You are more … I suppose I would say substantial.”

  “Are you saying I am thick?”

  She laughed and placed her hand on my shoulder for a moment. “No. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but you have a kind of aura about you. You actually seem to have feelings.”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Yes. After having to lie with you last night in order to make sure your heart rate and breathing returned to normal, I determined that it would not be right to subject you to the chair again. I’m not looking to discover death, only the present.”

  I could not help but smile.

  “I dreamt about you after I fell asleep,” she said. “I’ll have you know I never dream. As long as I have known Doctor Hellman, he has always spoken to me about his dream theories. I understood the concepts, but I always doubted their validity because I had never had the experience. Quite startling, it is.”

  We reached the wood and entered it along a dirt path. I could see now what I had missed in the darkness the night I had arrived. The leaves that fell everywhere around us, twirling slowly in the breeze, covering the ground, were not brown and dead, heralding the approach of autumn. They came from the branches with the deepest green.

  Anotine saw me stop to watch their descent. I stooped over and picked one up. “They began falling only last week,” she said. “Something is seriously wrong with the island.”

  “Nunnly told me it was disintegrating,” I said.

  “I’d rather not think about it,” she told me, and began walking again.

  “Can you tell me what your dream was, then?” I asked.

  “I saw you wrestling a monster,” she said. “You were fighting for your life. It was very troubling.”

  “A monster?” I asked.

  “Yes, a creature with horns and fur, great flapping wings, and sharp teeth. It was much like the one that visited the island years ago.”

  “The creature had actually been here?” I asked.

  “A foul beast—it flew in from out of the clouds one afternoon. We were all quite frightened. Nunnly and Brisden threw rocks at it. The Fetch was beside itself, flying about it, biting at its back and arms.”

  “What came of it?” I asked.

  “They managed to chase it off, but for weeks afterward we lived in fear that it would return.”

  “And how did I fare in the dream?” I asked.

  “I think you lost,” she said quietly.

  It was obvious that the experience had upset her, so I did not ask for more details. After rounding a turn in the path, we came to a grassy clearing in the wood near the rim of the island. Doctor Hellman stood there, dressed in a black suit and coat, staring up as if studying the wispy clouds that moved slowly across the sun. His right hand rested on his beard, and in his left, he held the handle of a small leather bag the same color as his attire.

  Behind him stood an enormous wooden contraption, resembling a catapult of old, which at its base contained a large flywheel full of rope, like a giant’s fishing reel. This rope threaded through metal rings embedded sequentially along a thick beam that jutted up at a forty-five-degree angle and out over the edge. Attached to the end of the beam was a large pulley through which the rope was fitted. At the end of the rope was a wicker basket, like a gondola for a balloon, big enough to hold a horse. There was also a crank handle and gear train affixed to the far sid
e of the machine.

  “Good day,” he said to us when he noticed our approach.

  “Are you ready, Doctor?” asked Anotine.

  “The question is,” said Hellman, “is Mr. Cley ready?”

  I felt a seed of nausea begin to sprout in my stomach. “An experiment?” I asked.

  Anotine laughed.

  “Nothing to be afraid of, Cley,” said the doctor.

  “Will it cause irreparable damage?” I asked.

  “Only to your sense of self-importance,” he said.

  “Don’t worry,” said Anotine. “The doctor only needs you to help him with his instruments.”

  “Let’s go,” said Hellman. “Anotine, you will work the crank. Try not to drop us in the ocean.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said.

  “Your assurance is underwhelming,” he said as he stepped toward the basket, which dangled a foot off the edge. Leaning over carefully, he opened a small door in the side of the waist-high compartment. “You first, Cley,” he said, and swept his hand in front of him, motioning for me to climb into the basket.

  I stepped forward and then hesitated.

  “Don’t look,” called Anotine.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, my legs beginning to feel weak.

  “Where else,” he said, “but down, of course.”

  I closed my eyes and reached out to grab the edge of the basket. The doctor took my arm and guided me into the gondola. Once I was inside on the pliant, unsteady floor, I heard him step in and the door close behind him.

  “All right, my dear,” he said. “Off we go.”

  There was a high-pitched whine followed by the rhythmic metallic click of gears engaging. The basket lurched slightly forward, and, for a panicked moment, I thought I was going to be flung out. Still with eyes closed, I seized the doctor by the sleeve of his coat.

  “What are we doing?” I yelled.

  “A little daydreaming,” he said.

  12

  I could hear the timber shaft of the winch above us creaking with the strain of our weight. The pulley squealed and its cry traveled along the taut rope as we were slowly lowered in fits and starts. Increasing my grip on the doctor’s coat, I worked at trying to balance myself.

  “You can look now, Cley,” he said. “I’m afraid we’re still alive.”

  I slowly opened my eyes as we passed the bottom of the floating island. I don’t know exactly what I expected to see, but I never guessed that it would be a gigantic wedge of earth like the clump of dirt that trails the stem of a weed pulled from the ground. Tree roots jutted out the bottom and interlaced in a mesh that, though it was impossible, held the entire thing together. There was no rational explanation for how something so immense might stay aloft in midair. Only the imagination could so completely cancel the effects of gravity.

  “Quite a marvel,” said Doctor Hellman, smiling at the sight of the foundation as we descended beyond it.

  I nodded, but could not hide my terror of feeling like an ant on a string.

  “I am never more alive than when I am dangling out over nothing,” he said.

  “I can’t say I share the sentiment,” I told him.

  “It takes some getting used to,” he said. “If you can muster the courage to stare down over the edge of the basket, it will literally frighten the fear out of you, and I think you’ll feel much better.”

  I inched my way across the wicker compartment and grabbed the rim of the waist-high wall. Cautiously, I leaned out a few inches and stared down. A blast of wind came up from below and blew my hair back as I took in a view of the silver ocean, stretching out endlessly to all points of the compass. The sight was so awesome, I could feel my anxiety rapidly shrinking in the face of it.

  After a few minutes of this, I turned back to the doctor, feeling much better. “I think it worked,” I said.

  “Fear will always fall to wonder in those who are capable of it,” he said.

  “What should I do now?” I asked.

  “We have to wait until Anotine has finished lowering us close enough so that we can get a good look at the surface of the ocean.”

  He sat down on the floor of the compartment, and I did the same. I thought that he might question me as Nunnly had, but instead he closed his eyes and rested against the wall. I looked up to see how far we had descended from the island, and as I craned my head back, my vision was obscured by an airy white substance that seemed suddenly to be everywhere.

  “Doctor,” I shouted.

  Hellman never opened his eyes. He simply smiled, and said, “A cloud, Cley, a cloud.”

  The white vapor passed over us, leaving my clothes damp. When the last wisps of it had cleared, I looked up again and there was the island, flying at a great distance like a kite on a string. For some reason, I cannot say why, that sight made me reach up and touch the breast pocket of my coat. Since the beginning of my mnemonic journey, I had forgotten about the green veil. Never really expecting it to be there, I patted the pocket and, to my surprise, found a thickness to it. I reached in and pulled out the scrap of cloth. The feel of the material against my fingers offered some solace as though it were a kind of rope itself, connecting me to my own place and time.

  As the novelty of the adventure began to diminish, I realized that the thick, rolling sound of the ocean grew more distinct. The force of the wind also increased, causing the gondola to sway to and fro with a pleasant rhythm. Just as I was about to rise and check our progress, the basket came to a jarring halt. The doctor’s eyes opened; he reached up to get a hold on the edge of the basket and pulled himself to a standing position.

  “Cley,” he called over his shoulder, “you’ll never see anything like this in Wenau.”

  I stood up, adjusted my balance to the rocking of the basket, and inched my way across the wicker floor to stand next to him. The initial sight of it made me slightly dizzy, for as we moved, the sea had its own motion, and the whole world seemed, for a moment, a silver spinning top. We dangled no more than fifteen feet above the crests of the largest waves. I stared in awe at the lazy creation of thick, liquid mountains that curled at their peaks back into themselves and diminished. The swells in between were as deep as canyons, and the sight of them worked like a magnet, drawing my leaning body farther over the side.

  Hellman laughed and clutched me by my shirt. “This pool is closed to bathers,” he said, pulling me back. “How does it make you feel?”

  “Insignificant,” I said, “but not in a negative way.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said, shouting over a particularly fierce gale.

  “Why are we here?” I asked.

  “You’ve got to get over the majesty of it,” he said. “Only then will you notice the phenomenon. Keep staring for a minute or two and it will become clear to you. Look closely at the moment when the wave, in its descent, reaches a certain flatness.”

  I could not help but continue to stare. Then, slowly, my perception of the ocean began to change. I started to notice that everywhere, not only when it passed through an instant of flatness, there appeared to be designs that swirled across the surface of the mercury. I covered my eyes for a second and looked more intently, only to see that these were not merely designs but actual scenes involving people and places. When the scope of what I was witnessing struck me, I stepped back away from the edge of the basket. The entire ocean was an ever-changing collage of animated tableaux that mixed into each other, then separated out into fresh revelations.

  The doctor turned and looked at me. “Dreams,” he said. “The ocean is dreaming.”

  I moved back to the edge and looked down again to see a clear image of Below, sitting in his office back in the Well-Built City, injecting himself in the neck with a syringe of sheer beauty. The sight of this made me realize that the doctor had been close in his diagnosis. What we witnessed, though, was not an ocean of dreams, but instead, true memories from the Master’s life.

  “I am convinced there is meaning to
all of this,” said Hellman. “All I need do is interpret it. The same characters keep appearing as if it is a vast, continuous story that I, unfortunately, have come to in the middle of its telling.”

  “What do you think it means?” I asked.

  “All I can tell you is that I am certain it is a love story. Recently, something about it has been nagging me. It is as if there is a connection I am missing that lies right before my eyes, but I cannot put it together.”

  “When you have interpreted the entire thing, what do you hope to discover?” I asked.

  “It’s what we all want, Cley. I want to know why I am here,” he said.

  The doctor had somehow come very close to the truth, and I was torn between explaining to him what I knew and saving my secret knowledge as an advantage that might be useful later. I nearly spoke, but then I realized that he would never believe me, and if he did, what would my truths say to him about his existence?

  “Snap out of it, man,” he said.

  When I looked up, I saw that he had gone to the black bag he had brought with him. From within, he pulled a long glass cylinder with a glass jar attached to the end.

  “Nunnly designed this for me,” he said. “You see, it’s retractable.” He began pulling concentric cylindrical stems out of the main unit until he had an exceptionally long glass rod at the end of which was the jar. The contraption extended out over the sides of the basket on either end.

  “This process would be much easier if I could use wire or string, but the nature of the liquid mercury is such that it would eat right through them. I’ve discovered glass will hold the stuff. Not even Nunnly could spin thread from glass.”

  “I think you are going to be short a foot or two,” I said, seeing that the length of the long-handled jar was no more than ten or eleven feet.

  “Well, this is as big as he could make it without danger of it snapping under the weight of the sample I bring up.”

  “But what good is it?” I asked. “You will still be two or three feet short.”

  “That, Cley, is where you come in. You will hold me firmly by the ankles and lower me over the side of the basket, where I will scoop up a portion of the ocean.”