The Blind Eye

by Georgia Blain

Do not presume to think you know what our life is like. You have come here for some unfathomable reason that has nothing to do with us and you are simply seeing what you want to see.

  Silas did not know what to say. He ran his foot through the soil, wishing he could win her trust, but each time he tried, it seemed to go wrong. I am not what yon think I am, he said.

  I have no idea who you are, she told him. I can’t see you.

  No, he protested. You’ve made up your mind. You won’t give me a chance. But I keep coming back because I really do want to know. I want to know you.

  She was rolling up her sleeves so that she could return to her work. He just looked at her in silence, but her face gave nothing away.

  How’s your nose? she eventually asked, and he watched as she felt across the dirt, her fingers tapping lightly as she searched for the trowel she had been using before she had let him in.

  He touched his face. Better, and at the risk of causing yet another rift, he asked her how she had known.

  To use the periwinkle?

  No, that I was bleeding.

  She grasped the trowel and dug into the soil, her hair falling across her face as she turned towards him.

  My powers, she told him.

  With the darkness of her hair hiding her expression, he was uncertain as to whether she was smiling.

  My very strange powers.

  And as he reached across to help her stake the seedlings at their feet, he realised he had no idea whether she was joking or not.

  2

  When Silas asked me to explain how the remedy I had given him could work, I told him he needed to throw away notions he held as truths; he needed to see the world in a different way.

  He tried. I know. When he sat in the library, with his eyes half closed, he was not only wanting to capture the way in which Constance saw, he was also reaching for a broader understanding, he was trying to bring a new vision of the world within his own reach.

  When I ask you questions, I once tried to explain, I am attempting to draw out the inner expression of the defence mechanism. I need to see both the totality of the symptoms and those that are rare or peculiar in order to form a complete picture. The remedy we pick will have the same essence or nature as this expression.

  Silas could not understand how you could see such a thing, unless of course you had the vision supposedly possessed by Constance, the capacity to see the field, the extraordinary dancing charge that surrounds everything.

  In his articles, Rudi would always talk about the soul of a remedy. This was, in fact, the phrase he used in several of his conversations with Silas.

  It is a question of knowing, and Rudi would turn excitedly to where Constance worked, silently, at the other end of the shack.

  It is extraordinary, and he would lean forward, unable to suppress his amazement, her ability to actually see the essence of it all. Everything.

  Once, Silas told me, Rudi had knocked his tea over in his enthusiasm, the liquid spreading, pale brown, across his notes. She can look at you and she can know what remedy it is that you need – just like that. The click of his fingers had made Constance start. Silas saw it, the slight jerk in her shoulders as she had continued working.

  I cannot tell you what that means, and Rudi had sighed. I cannot tell you what I would give, just to know what she sees, and from the other end of the room, Silas had heard the grinding of the pestle against the mortar, the slight break in the rhythm as Constance had listened to her father’s words.

  The essential nature. A flower, a tree, a stone, a piece of grass, a venom; the list of potential substances with therapeutic properties is infinite. We just have to know them, we just have to be able to see, and without Constance’s vision, we are left with a need to conduct provings such as this one.

  When Larissa and Matthew commence taking the remedy we are examining, I will be overseeing their case on a the daily basis and I must be observant of all alterations that occur; I cannot rely on what they tell me alone. From the little I know of this process (I have only ever participated in informal provings in the past, occasionally trying remedies on myself), the provers can become the proving and therefore may not know that they are experiencing change. If we were testing Scorpion they would become the Scorpion, right there in the centre of their beings. They would feel that all they were experiencing was perfectly normal, they would tell me that there had been no change (unless, of course, the symptoms were particularly blatant or physical), because the part of them that observes would also be Scorpion, blind to its own nature.

  What interests me, and it is a phenomenon that Rudi wrote about extensively, is to do with the notion of a collective unconsciousness. Because we are talking about energy here, and we are therefore discarding boundaries as we have been taught to construct them, it would not be surprising to find that those of us who are participating in this proving without taking the remedy experience related symptoms. I, for example, may have similar physical, mental and emotional sensations to those experienced by the provers in our group. So, too, may the other supervisors, perhaps even the director, despite her not being here with us.

  When he wrote about this, Rudi always took it one step further. There have been others who have written similar articles, who have described related phenomena occurring on a larger world scale during a proving process. For example, during the proving of hydrogen, two scientists with no knowledge of the testing being conducted announced that they had achieved nuclear fusion at room temperature. Three months later, as the proving neared completion, the claim was announced to be false, but three years later, when the results of the proving were published, a similar claim was again made. A colleague of mine was once involved in the proving of a particular bark. As the proving commenced, a blockade was announced to prevent woodchipping of those trees. I have heard of various diseased tissues being tested at the same time as supposed breakthroughs in the treatment of the particular diseases were announced; they are all random stories and when I hear them, I am torn between dismissing them as pure coincidence and feeling a strange excitement at the possibilities they open up.

  I told Silas to throw away notions he held as truths, and he tried. There are times when I have to tell myself this as well. It is something we all need to do. Because it is only then that whole new worlds begin to unfold in front of us, sometimes beautiful, sometimes terrifying, sometimes both at once, depending on how far we are prepared to let go, how willingly we take the leap.

  3

  Sometimes, in the peace of the library, Silas tried to write a list. He would open his notebook, a blank page, smooth and white on the desk in front of him, wanting to itemise what it was that had led him to become obsessed with Constance in the way he had. There were distinct circumstances he could write down: Pearl’s stories; the amount he had smoked; his isolation in that town; the very strangeness of the garden and the lives Rudi and Constance led; his mother’s death ... He could list them all, maybe more if he thought for longer, but it was never going to be enough.

  Greta told me she had seen some of his lists.

  But as I got to know him better, I stopped doing it. Prying, that is, and she looked away in embarrassment, both of us realising that we were circling a discussion neither of us was sure about commencing, even though we knew that it was the real reason for meeting up again, despite the fact that we had spent most of the morning talking about Silas.

  You know I am sorry, Greta said.

  Don’t, I interrupted her.

  Do you know, Greta asked me, what he wrote, at the end of each of those lists?

  I thought for a moment that we had gone back to the safe topic, the one on which we had been lingering, the topic of Silas, and I was relieved. I shook my head.

  ‘Myself, and Greta looked at me. He would cross everything else out and that was all that would be left.

  There’s no need, I told her.

  For what?

  For you to say that it was all your fault.

&nbs
p; But it was, and she just looked at me, squarely, directly, as I attempted to meet her gaze.

  4

  Silas told me that if he could have got to a doctor, he would have. If there had been someone who would have driven him up to the tip of the gulf and then down to the town on the other side where the leaden smoke belches out of the stacks by the wharves, he would have asked to be taken there, the words dry on his cracked lips. But in the rare moments of lucidity that came in between the hours of being rocked mercilessly by a fever of extraordinary intensity, he knew he had little hope of finding outside help.

  It had begun as a dizziness, a sensation almost sparkling, dazzling, in its purity. He had stopped and leant against the trunk of the soap mallee that grew at the end of the dirt track leading into town, the illness now rolling in, great waves washing through him. Five minutes later, as he stumbled across the road towards Thai’s, his teeth were chattering and his vision was blurred. He was freezing cold, the sweat on his forehead was like ice melting, and in his mouth was the taste of the flower Constance had given him, peppery and dry.

  Can you help me? he called out to the older girl, Jade, who was digging graves for all her dolls beneath his window, but either no words came out or she didn’t hear him. She had used Paddle-pop sticks for each of the crosses, and as he tried to make a feeble joke about the number of ice-creams she must have eaten, he passed out, his legs folding beneath him, his body crumpling onto the floor.

  It was three days before he made it out of his bed. Leaning against the door, he could only just see Thai, her outline fuzzy as he looked out into the brilliance of the day.

  Jesus, mate, you had us worried, and as she shook her head, Silas tried to recollect any moments during his illness when she had exhibited concern. It had been Lucas who had brought in the cracked cups filled with water, still there by his bed, and the two bowls of tinned spaghetti, also still there, the pasta dried to the edge of the plate.

  He was surprised at how weak he was and how he had to lean on Thai’s shoulder, her bones sharp and hard against his arm, when he attempted to walk. She led him out of his room and across the dirt to her place, Steve bending down and hoisting him up onto the verandah.

  Back in the land of the living?

  Silas pulled back from the sweet staleness of Steve’s breath, wet smoky grass, pungent as he leant a little closer to pass Silas the joint he had been smoking, the tip soggy to the touch.

  Deal finally came through, and he patted the bag next to him, half of which he had already smoked with Shelley.

  Thai let out a thin exhalation of smoke, her chin tilted upwards, her eyes narrowed. She glanced across at Silas briefly, her words muttered just loud enough for him to hear — and a certain someone has gone back to her bloke — as she tossed the dead match across the yard.

  If Steve heard, he did not show it. He just pushed the bag over and asked her to roll them another.

  With his back against the wall, Silas closed his eyes. Splinters of dry wood were pricking through his T-shirt, but he did not move. He could feel the warmth of the sun creeping along his legs and he hoped that somehow it was instilling enough strength into his limbs for him to eventually pull himself up and head back out along the track to Rudi’s. He could hear Steve drawing in the last of the joint with a sharp intake of breath, and letting it out again with a slight whistle. Steve was watching Silas or, at least, that was what Silas presumed, because when he opened his eyes, the sunlight dazzling, he saw that Steve had turned in his direction, his expression unreadable behind the black wrap around glasses he always wore.

  Want a word of advice, mate? He was going to give it whether Silas wanted it or not. Hanging around up there — it’s what they call a health hazard.

  He nodded in what Silas could only guess was the direction of Rudi’s, and because he could feel the joint that Steve had handed him starting to burn between his fingers, he held it up to his lips, the paper hot on the end of his tongue. He looked at them both and then beyond them to the dirt, the few scrappy sand mallees out on the road, and out to the ranges, burnt orange under the clear blue sky.

  Steve’s comment had not surprised him. It was a thought that had crossed his own mind. There had been moments during his fever when he had wondered whether she had wanted to make him ill, and he had tossed around in his bed, his dreams punctuated by images of Constance and the flower she had given him. He smiled to himself. It was a ludicrous notion, but there was a drama to it, an intensity that matched the passion with which she had countered any of the comments he had made concerning the way in which she lived, and he smiled to himself because there was, in his exhausted state, something almost appealing about the idea. He shook his head.

  Here we are again. He was surprised at the sound of his own voice; it was remarkably unchanged, despite every part of his being feeling as though it had been through a fire and back again.

  Yep indeed, and Thai held up the joint she had just rolled, admiring its perfection for a few moments before handing it over to Steve.

  Yep, Silas repeated sometime later, uncertain as to how much time had actually passed since anyone had spoken. Ever been out there? He turned towards Steve, his words so slurred that he wasn’t sure whether they were intelligible.

  When Steve finally responded about five minutes later, Silas had forgotten what he had asked. Tried to shoot me once. He scratched at his beard. Thought I was after his daughter, and he shook his head in amazement. Went there with Mick, shooting cans. He grinned. I was just talking to her, passin’ the time of day, andjuck me dead if he wasn’t out there with a gun pointed at me.

  Silas closed his eyes again, the dope curling down the back of his throat, creeping through his limbs. He wanted to pull himself up, jump off the verandah, the chickens squawking at his feet as he crossed the yard, and for a moment he could see himself, swinging each leg over the gate, the dirt on the road a dusty yellow cloud behind him. But he couldn’t move.

  Steve took a long swig of beer and then kicked the empty bottle onto the pile. Any more, darl? He looked across at Thai, her sharp face turned up towards the sun, her eyes closed.

  Try the fridge, she told him, without looking in his direction.

  The screen door slammed shut behind him when he returned. The boards shuddered beneath his weight as he settled back into his seat.

  Jase reckons she threatened him with a snake one time. Told him she kept them as pets. Steve flicked the ring pull at Thai, thinking it would get her attention. A fine spray of beer sparkled across the verandah, but she did not move.

  Silas had his hands pressed down, the wood dry beneath his skin, in an attempt to push himself up. It was extraordinary, there was no power in his body. He grinned to himself, staring at the feebleness of his arms, and he wondered, idly, whether this was in fact himself, or someone else, the real Silas far away from here. All he could do was close his eyes, a faint smile disturbing the stillness of his face, Steve’s words floating out there around him.

  I mean, mate, you’re hanging around there, you’re sick as a dog; it all adds up.

  Silas just nodded, not sure what added up anymore.

  Friendly advice, that’s all it is.

  If he tried hard, Silas could see her, the paleness of her skin, the thick cloud of dark hair.

  She knows everything, he said dreamily, uncertain as to whether he had, in fact, spoken out loud.

  They were just a type of belladonna, she had told him, the flowers she loved the most. The atropine was used by women to dilate their pupils. To make them more attractive, and a smile had curved at the corners of her lips.

  Her long white fingers had scrabbled in the soil. Mandragora.

  He had kept pointing to them all, wanting to know what they were, but also just wanting to keep her there with him. A cluster of creamy-yellow cup-shaped flowers, heavily veined with purple, and he had bent down to touch the yellow fruit that lay on the ground. It was pulpy, rotting into the earth, moist beneath his hands.


  It’s the roots that we use, and she had shown him. They were human in shape, a male figure, there in her hold.

  She had smiled at him then, a full smile, alive with mischief, as she had stepped back from the hole she had dug, both hands clasped over her ears. The shriek.

  He had no idea what she meant.

  If you pull them from the ground they shriek.

  All he had wanted was to kiss her.

  Anyone who hears the shriek of a mandrake root dies. That’s what they used to believe. They used to dig all around the root and then tie a dog to it by a string. When the master called the dog, the dog would run towards him and pull the root out. Then it would die. Just like that, and she had clapped her hands, the sound harsh in the quiet.

  He wanted to get back to her.

  He opened his eyes and saw the ash on his skin from where the joint had burnt down, the last of the paper, grey and sodden, between his middle and forefinger.

  Mate, and Thai handed him another.

  He just shook his head. Think I might go for a walk, and as he pressed his hand down onto the verandah, a fly settled on his mouth. He swiped at it, his whole body slumping again. Later, he thought, and he closed his eyes, hoping she was still there; Constance, right inside his head, exactly where he had left her.

  5

  Shortly after Silas first mentioned that he had been in love with Constance, he tried to qualify what he meant. He told me that even then he knew it was ridiculous to talk of love when he did not know her, when he had rarely talked to her alone; not that love was a word anyone was using, not even Pearl, and she was the only one who had begun to guess at the true extent of his feelings, she was the only one to whom he really talked.

  In the dusty gloom of her shop, she said she’d heard that Constance had got her hooks into him, that he’d been spending all his time mooning around up there, she nodded in the direction of Rudi’s place, and look where it’s got you. Hardly a picture of health.