In actuality, of course, it was hard to tell the bird’s expression during all of this due to the more or less solid nature of its beak, which was a deep, though not bright, yellow, and which prevented it from giving off human-based emotion-indicators such as a smile, or frown, or a grimace. But there was something encouraging in the way the bird would tilt its head one way and then tilt it in another, a completely different direction — something jaunty, jocular, and even curiously intimate. It gave Parsifal a good feeling. Also, the bird seemed to be patient as well, and not at all as restless as a human might be under such circumstances. Nor was it lifting first one foot and then the other as he had seen parrots in cages do.
Parsifal looked to see if, by any chance, there might be a tiny camera mounted on one of its legs or maybe between its wings, so that someone might be looking at him right then, writing down the coordinates and calling up a Search and Rescue team, but his eyes seemed to have gotten even worse, and he was having real trouble seeing.
Parsifal listened for voices, but all he could hear was his own heart beating in his ears.
After a lifetime, what fragments remain? Pearl, Conrad, Parsifal.
Make sure that all fires are dead out.
The silence of a falling star
Lights up a purple sky
A pen is.
All pens the same pen.
And as I wonder where you are
It was getting cold, and Parsifal remembered his early lessons in woodcraft: If a person is caught in the woods at night and there’s not a cliff to hide behind to stop the wind and no cave to crawl into (and at that moment there was neither), the best thing to do to keep warm is to scoop a shallow cup out of the earth — not so deep that the ground beneath a person is cold or wet, and not so large as not to contain the heat. Then lie down in it and wait for the morning.
I’m so lonesome
Make sure that all fires are dead out.
I’m so lonesome
Parsifal looked in his backpack once again to see if by any chance he had overlooked any energy bars or packs of matches. He hadn’t.
Cody. Joe. Geronimo. George Armstrong Custer. Fenjewla. Misty.
I could cry
All names the same name.
Cuplike.
All cups the same cup.
And where was that shovel, anyway?
Using his hands Parsifal dug out a shallow circle, shoveled leaves down into the bottom, and then put his sleeping bag on top. He unzipped the bag and dragged his legs inside, then zipped it shut again to make the coldness go away. He was hungry, but eating would have to wait, and he was thirsty, too, his mouth dry, uncomfortable. He remembered from his woodcraft book that if this sort of situation should arise, the best thing was to find a small stone or a pebble and to hold it in one’s mouth.
All time the same time.
Blindness the same blindness.
Parsifal shut his eyes and reached into his pocket, where he found Black Dog’s pebble. He put it in his mouth and felt better. He closed his eyes and pulled the bag up to his chin. Both his legs were completely numb, so at least the pain had finally disappeared. Not bad, he thought. Not bad at all. Maybe he would dream, and maybe he wouldn’t; he didn’t know what would happen next. Above him was the sky; below him was the earth.
Fenjewla.
All doors the same door.
And so, he thought, tomorrow was another day — or something.
Acknowledgments
My thanks as always to all the people at Tin House Books, and especially Lee Montgomery, whose generous and perceptive editing vastly improved this book. Thanks as well to Janice Shapiro, whose early reading shaped the manuscript’s form, and to Monana Wali, who helped refine it. As always, this book could not have been finished without the support of my wife, Jenny.