What a wonder, the man thought…
…and was returned to the sands of the desert, with no remembrance of having slept with, loved, enjoyed the body of his natural mother.
They camped at the base of the mountain, in a green-glass cave; not deep but angled sharply so the blown pumice could not reach them. They put Nathan Stack’s stone in a fault in the cave’s floor, and the heat spread quickly, warming them. The shadow thing with its triangular head sank back in shadow and closed its eye and sent its hunting instinct out for food. A shriek came back on the wind.
Much later, when Nathan Stack had eaten, when he was reasonably content and well fed, he stared into the shadows and spoke to the creature sitting there.
“How long was I down there…how long was the sleep?”
The shadow thing spoke in whispers. A quarter of a million years.
Stack did not reply. The figure was beyond belief. The shadow creature seemed to understand.
In the life of a world no time at all.
Nathan Stack was a man who could make accommodations. He smiled quickly and said, “I must have been tired.”
The shadow did not respond.
“I don’t understand very much of this. It’s pretty damned frightening. To die, then to wake up…here. Like this.”
You did not die. You were taken, put down there. By the end you will understand everything, I promise you.
“Who put me down there?”
I did. I came and found you when the time was right, and I put you down there.
“ Am I still Nathan Stack?”
If you wish.
“But am I Nathan Stack?”
You always were. You had many other names, many other bodies. but the spark was always yours. Stack seemed about to speak, and the shadow creature added, You were always on your way to being who you are.
“But what am I? Am I still Nathan Stack, dammit?”
If you wish.
“Listen: you don’t seem too sure about that. You came and got me, I mean I woke up and there you were. Now who should know better than you what my name is?”
You have had many names in many times. Nathan Stack is merely the one you remember. You had a very different name long ago, at the start, when I first came to you.
Stack was afraid of the answer, but he asked, “What was my name then?”
Ish-Iilith. Husband of Lilith. Do you remember her?
Stack thought, tried to open himself to the past, but it was as unfathomable as the quarter of a million years through which he had slept in the crypt.
“No. But there were other women, in other times.”
Many. There was one who replaced Lilith.
“I don’t remember.”
Her name…does not matter. But when the mad one took Lilith from you and replaced her with the other…then I knew it would end like this. The Deathbird.
“I don’t mean to be stupid, but I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
Before it ends, you will understand everything.
“You said that before.” Stack paused, stared at the shadow creature for a long time only moments long, then, “What was your name?”
Before I met you my name was Dira.
He said it in his native tongue. Stack could not pronounce it.
“Before you met me. What is it now?”
Snake.
Something slithered past the mouth of the cave. It did not stop, but it called out with voice of moist mud sucking down into a quagmire.
“Why did you put me down there? Why did you come to me in the first place? What spark? Why can’t I remember these other lives or who I was? What do you want from me?”
You should sleep. It will be a long climb. And cold.
“I slept for two hundred and fifty thousand years, I’m hardly tired,” Stack said. “Why did you pick me?”
Later. Now sleep. Sleep has other uses.
Darkness deepened around Snake, seeped out around the cave, and Nathan Stack lay down near the warming-stone, and the darkness took him.
This is an essay by a writer. It is clearly an appeal to the emotions. As you read it, ask yourself how it applies to the subject under discussion. What is the writer trying to say? Does he succeed in making his point? Does this essay cast light on the point of the subject under discussion? After you have read this essay, using the reverse side of your test paper, write your own essay (500 words or less) on the loss of a loved one. If you have never lost a loved one, fake it.
Yesterday my dog died. For eleven years Ahbhu was my closest friend. He was responsible for my writing a story about a boy and his dog that many people have read. The story was made into a successful movie. The dog in the movie looked a lot like Ahbhu. He was not a pet, he was a person. It was impossible to anthropomorphize him, he wouldn’t stand for it. But he was so much his own kind of creature, he had such a strongly formed personality, he was so determined to share his life with only those he chose, that it was also impossible to think of him as simply a dog. Apart from those canine characteristics into which he was locked by his genes, he comported himself like one of a kind.
We met when I came to him at the West Los Angeles Animal Shelter. I’d wanted a dog because I was lonely and I’d remembered when I was a little boy how my dog had been a friend when I had no other friends. One summer I went away to camp and when I returned I found a rotten old neighbor lady from up the street had had my dog picked up and gassed while my father was at work. I crept into the woman’s backyard that night and found a rug hanging on the clothesline. The rug beater was hanging from a post. I stole it and buried it.
At the Animal Shelter there was a man in line ahead of me. He had brought in a puppy only a week or so old. A Puli, a Hungarian sheep dog; it was a sad-looking little thing. He had too many in the litter and had brought in this one either to be taken by someone else or to be put to sleep. They took the dog inside and the man behind the counter called my turn. I told him I wanted a dog and he took me back inside to walk down the line of cages.
In one of the cages the little Puli that had just been brought in was being assaulted by three larger dogs that had been earlier tenants. He was a little thing, and he was on the bottom, getting the stuffing knocked out of him. But he was struggling mightily.
“Get him out of there!” I yelled. “I’ll take him, I’ll take him, get him out of there!”
He cost two dollars. It was the best two bucks I ever spent.
Driving home with him, he was lying on the other side of the front seat, staring at me. I had had a vague idea what I’d name a pet, but as I stared at him, and he stared back at me, I suddenly was put in mind of the scene in Alexander Korda’s 1939 film The Thief of Bagdad, where the evil vizier, played by Conrad Veidt, had changed Ahbhu, the little thief, played by Sabu, into a dog. The film had superimposed the human over the canine face for a moment so there was an extraordinary look of intelligence in the face of the dog. The little Puli was looking at me with that same expression. “Ahbhu,” I said.
He didn’t react to the name, but then he couldn’t have cared less. But that was his name, from that time on.