He'd lost his shadow now, was small, not even thin, leaning over the fire.
Oh?
Indifferent as a stick, Mat rested against the jamb. His rudeness was complete, and though Furber struggled against it, he found that rage had swept him away. There were ancient cities. Think. Palmyra. Nineveh. Corinth. Mat's indifference was a pose. Acre. Tyre. A performance for my performance. Issus. Damascus. Gaza. Rhodes. Now gone. All lost. He's simply afraid. Persepolis. Nor do I appear angry, though I'm burning like this hill of coals. Even the sleeves of my coat are calm. Merv. Nevertheless Furber clapped his hands so sharply and so suddenly, Mat jumped.
I've had inquiries, he said, concerning Omensetter's signs. I meant to ask you before but I saw you weren't receptive.
Oh?
Mat's eyelids drooped; they seemed to close.
What makes you think I'm receptive now?
Signs of another kind, Matthew, said Furber, smiling mildly.
Oh?
All those cities, those hollow houses, all those lives, those graves, the graves of hope… With a madness like the madness to bury that seizes men, a craze to cover that overcomes all of them, the cities covered themselves with sand and mud, vines, grass, lava, with noisier cities, com- pleter ruins, further graves and further grasses. I am their proper lordship, Furber thought. My credentials make me master of the resting places. That was the way — burial to burial, shame to shame — it had always been since Adam's fig had hidden him, his sex and death together and the same, and surely that was the way it would continue. He — Furber — would be lost in a swallow of persons. The stone in the corner of his garden would not truly speak of him, the great Leviathan would have him, he'd be buried in their bodies — cover after cover coming — for that was the whole of life on the earth, our bodies for a time athwart another's middle, our lives like leaves, generation after generation lifting the level of the land, the aim of each new layer the efficient smother of the last.
Rubbing his chin, Mat alters the closure of his eyes. He also pulls thoughtfully at his nose. Like an actor. Yes. Deep in meditation. Oh yes. But in fact he has the fidgets. May his thoughts be pitch and smoke his wits out.
It seems to me, if I remember rightly, we've—
Been over this before? Yes, in a manner of speaking, we have, but I'm afraid that we must go over it again, though more carefully this time, more thoroughly you know, more thoughtfully.
Oh?
An enormous yawn burst into flower on Mat's face.
So I'm to be the grave of my father and mother. In an agony of embarrassment, Furber covered his mouth. These damnable fancies were the curse of his life. Besides, he merely wished to be Philly Kinsman, an imaginary friend, orphaned for convenience, though no doubt a ducal heir. But they aren't dead yet, they live in the South. He pushed his fingers between his teeth. He'd be their marker, nevertheless; his speech was their inscription. HERE LIES. How could he have known he'd rattle so? MEMENTO. I had a letter last week. Friendly. Complete. The usual sort of news. No concern. No cause. MEMORIAE SACRUM. Scum. Pee bottles. But both are really quite well, and very active in the church. MEMO. With his tongue he'd wet his fingers. MENDACEM MEMOREM ESSE OPORTET. What was passing through Matthew's head? Wind shadows? the language of the dead? Not the specters of his parents, certainly. Well damn them, if I've got to have them, they deserve me. MORS JANUA VITAE. Then the memory of his mother's enclosing arms and fragrant garments overwhelmed him. Flowers bloomed along her like a fence. His eyes were smarting. I've been waiting for Mat, here, too long. It's the shade the weather's taken, and the time of day. MEMORIA IN AETERNA. I've lost my nerve. My god, I don't think of them once in a month, and here I'm bundled in blue and fluffy flannel like a child in a crib. He started to chuckle but coughed instead. You'll be the death of me, she'd often said; what am I going to do with you? what will you turn into? what will you be? Spittle flew through his father's teeth. All right, all right, die down, die down, but you'll find no rest in me. MORS OMNIA SOLVIT. A lie.
Furber groaned, securing Mat's attention, and then he said: perhaps you remember the occasion—
I remember it.
— but you seem to have forgotten what was said.
I don't remember I said much.
All right — what I said. You do remember? You haven't forgotten?
No.
But you didn't understand it?
No, I understood it well enough, I think.
You refused to believe it?
No, that wouldn't be exactly right.
Yet you did nothing.
What was there to do?
Watch!
Furber drew back, collecting himself, silent, noting that his rush had not made Watson budge. He hardly needed the forge now. His chill had been followed by a fever. Camels. That was an idea. Camels.
Circumstances compel me, he said; circumstances, you know — circles surrounding — they make it necessary to — these things which lie — which are so circumambient — to take the matter up again. I wasn't clear. Am I clear now? I fear not — no. Alas. Ah, but in a moment. I shall be then. Well… these cincturing affairs, eh? they force me, you see, they make me, as a… missionary — for apparently I wasn't clear before, and—
Oh you were clear enough.
I was? I'm surprised. I can't believe I was. Constrained as by a cingulum… Was I really?
Yes, you were clear enough, though I don't follow now.
Look Jethro — please — we're both tired and it's the end of the—
Yes, yes. Agreed. The—
Look — it's a difficult time. It's been a long day. I'm tired. Done in.
A tired body makes a ready mind.
Mat began to protest but Furber cut him off. He had thrust both palms forward, and Mat's veiled eyes had seen them. If one person is the grave of another, he wondered, what part is in the arm, for instance? There could be a correspondence, I suppose, of arm to arm and nose to nose, but what if the deceased is a much larger fellow? And justice would be better served in many cases, I should think, if the head of the dead one were hung down in the buttocks of the other, or if the heart of the corpse could be seen through the eyes — that would tell you something. Camel. Hump where the head is. That's why. Two humps: two heads. The heads of infants — several. Or embracing lovers. A camel's good dry ground and thus to be preferred for lying at any length in. Creatures of that kind will come high, likely, once it's known. On such a chance, though, it would be wise to reserve one now. Of course cash in hand in a case like this is certainly essential. Also you could specify the place the camel, when it dies, should be laid to rest. It's the sort of transmigration which might have pleased Pythagoras had anyone had the wit within his time to think of it.
Clodhopper. Pee bottle.
My name is Philly Kinsman.
I am a famous bandsman.
My fife's my wife,
but on my life,
when I unease my trumpet,
all the ladies…
(in these parts)
all the ladies. .
(bless their hearts)
all the ladies hump it.
Hell you say — What was wavering? Darkness spinning like the seed of a maple.
My name is Philly Kinsman.
I am a famous bandsman.
Though my trombone
gives quite a tone
whene'er the ladies pump it,
it's very sore
from playing more
music than
it bargained for,
and still the ladies pump it.
Mat sniffed, lifting his arm to his face. Light spread over the floor.
You spent the day hunting Henry, I suppose, Furber said, his voice light and quiet, calm and low, scarcely in motion while he searched Mat's face, alert as an animal for any change. How'd it go? a day of stubby fields, eh? They twist your ankles. I know how that is. It's wearing when it's all for nothing. Weeds and burrs — they're everywhere this time of year and very trying too, as sighting endlessly down rows of corn is, and poking in the little caves along the river — you looked there? — depressing when it's all for nothing; and along the fences, the shocks and hayhills-you investigated them? for nothing? Well your clothes look picked and there's a mean scratch on your chin — has it been stinging? Hawthorn thickets would account for it, I'll bet, and berry tangles — damnable things — and that marsh ground, too; did it wet through your shoes and wash your ankles? a bit chilling, eh? Well a nasty business all around — so very tiring when it's all for nothing. Sure. It makes a long day.