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[And now for something completely different — in an effort to get back in the writing groove (and jumpstart this blog), I have signed up to take part in National Novel Writing Month. The goal: write a 50,000-word novel by the end of November 2006. Having just started this project (and never having done something like this before), I can say that so far it’s been a strangely liberating and hallucinatory experience, like stir-frying something for the length of a marathon race. Since there’s no time for editing or constant revision, it’s like a vein to some dangerous, loopy part of my mind has been opened up — you can see the damage for yourself, as I’ll post chapters here as they are completed. Enjoy …]
Last Kingdom, Lost Kingdom
Prelude
Chen died when he said he would – he knew the day and time from the start. He had no use for clocks and chronometers. That was his talent. Ask him about a particular scheduled happening, and with a single blink of his eyes, as if a tiny counter was clicking inside his head, he could tell you. Ask him about any event at all in this world and he would answer happily. But ask him about himself, and his left cheek would balloon with breath, and he would tap it with his forefinger. He was far too polite to say no or shift to a less delicate topic of conversation, none of the “well you know” and the “I’d rather not talk about that.” He would simply wait you out in silence.
So when he told me of his death, moments before it happened, it was a bit of a shock, but completely in character. Only now at this extremity would he say anything about himself, and of course it would be something this important, but even so, he would not allow anyone to alter the course of this event. He delayed his revelation just so I would be safe, just so I wouldn’t try to help him.
A week before he died, he visited my apartment. Visually, I recall the scene with clarity: one of the tiles in my entryway had come loose, and as I walked to the door, the tip of my slipper clinked against it, a lazy bit of caulk executing a little backflip. Chen’s stringy hair had been combed somewhat, but several iron strands had fallen down his famed left cheek. I could tell you the length of some of those strands – 13.5 centimeters for the one that ended just east of his eyes, 16.8 centimeters for the one that culminated in a little girl’s curl by his ear. At his side was a satchel that must have contained something heavy, for the weight of it was causing his body to list about 10 degrees.
Evening, he murmured, holding a hand to his head, tipping an imaginary cap. Are we blind?
We can be, I said. One minute. Inwardly, I counted off the seconds, because I knew that being inexact with time with Chen would be analogous to running one’s fingers across a blackboard. Or at least that’s how Ming would describe it, for I have never seen a blackboard.
I ushered Chen into the familiar padded room and without a word on my part, he took his seat in his favorite chair. Nothing about the chair was remarkable, but it did hold a cushion with a colorful emblem of a dragon, one of the old Asian dragons with bulging eyes and whiskers like whips. He would always position the dragon so that it was facing him, breathing fire into his back, and then he would sink into it with a deep breath of satisfaction. When I confirmed that he was comfortable, I handed him the specs, and he positioned them over his eyes, the lenses conforming to the contours of his cheekbones. I then sat myself, directly across from him, and pushed the button that disengaged every light source and closed the door to the outside.
We’re good, I said.
In the pitch blackness, I heard Chen cough. Fifty-three seconds, he said.
Sorry, I replied.
No, it’s nothing, just noting it, he said. How are you?
I shrugged. The usual. Knowing he would never respond to the usual chit-chat, I pressed on in my most professional manner: So what business brings you here?
It’s unusual, Chen said. For me, personally. It’s been an unusual time. I’d like to talk about it.
The statement and intent were so out of character for him that it was all I could do to nod, and hope that Chen’s specs would register the movement of my chin.
It’s been a long time, he murmured. In fact, so long that I can’t even measure it, and that continues to astound me. Maybe since I was two years old? But even then, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment. No … He took another deep breath, but this one was cavernous, as if he was becoming the dragon in the seat cushion, drawing in oxygen to fuel one long belch of flame.
I’m not Kellen, you understand, I said. I don’t usually, uh, ask people to come to the point directly. But I’m not sure what you’re …
Of course. Of course. From his side of the room, I could smell something mentholated. The odor hung thick in the air, like camouflage. I could hear a rustling at his feet as he unwrapped the satchel.
Everything has a duration, he said. There’s always an element of chance, but variances are small, and there are certain acceptable ranges. You know how long it takes to cook a food item. You plan your day by a train schedule. Even the act of procreation has a definite, um, time parameter that can be determined by state of arousal, physical health –
Yes, I said, not unkindly.
And yet I was recently at a loss for time. Not for the first time, but perhaps the last. And it was an … interesting sensation.
I heard him lay on object on the floor – the sound it made came in two parts, like ker-thunk. Sound is not my line, so I would not be able to do the description justice.
Has that ever happened to you? Chen asked me. Have you seen something that was simply beyond your purview or understanding?
I’ve seen – momentary mysteries, a few unexplained phenomena. But explanations are always provided. Eventually.
From Central, you mean.
Yes. Despite myself, my jaw hardened. What’s going on?
I’m going to put something on your lap, Chen said. I could hear his feet ply the soft carpet as he stood, and a soft little grunt as he lifted the object from the floor. No need to worry, it’s not too heavy, it’s not dangerous.
The thing was rectangular in shape, with a sloping top, and most of its weight on one end. I had to keep it balanced on my lap with my left hand even as my right glided over its surface. It had a fine-grained, metallic texture, with two plastic knobs on both ends. Stranger were the little nubs or buttons that seemed to dominate the top of the object. Most were of equal size, but some seemed more elongated, or fatter. I pushed at some of the nubs, and they had a bit of play in them, but they soundlessly snapped back into place when I removed the pressure.
I found this three days ago, Chen said. A legacy from a person who I can’t name. The person is dead. That’s all I can say.
What is it?
I asked for you to be blind because you need to be safe. If someone asks you about tonight, you won’t have any data. Only what your hands say, and they aren’t marked. If you decide later on that you want to be involved, well, it’s your decision.
Involved in what? What is it?
The thing was gone, and I could hear the swish of fabric as Chen enclosed it within the satchel again. I may contact you soon, he said. If I do, I’ll tell you where this thing is. The rest is up to you.
Dammit, Chen – I slammed my hand down on the panel, and the room waxed to life with light. He was already at the doorway, the mystery object bundled at his side.
How long has it been since you’ve been out of the city? he murmured. For myself, it’s been fifty-four years, ten months, six days. Approximately. It’s not something I ever considered before.
Old man, what have you gotten yourself into?
He smiled and tipped his imaginary cap. Now I could see that the furrows around his eyes were incrementally deeper than they had been the last time I had seen him, two months before.
You’re not that old, he said. You’re just a bit literal. Nothing unusual about that. In fact, it’s the current condition around here. I’ve been just as guilty. I’ll be in touch.
What is that thing?
The front door squeaked open, and I could hear the late-night downtown train and its great whoosh in the distance, sucking all the sound and gravity into its high-speed cone of motion. Chen sighed.
It’s called a typewriter, he said.
[1450 words so far]
