The shiver that ran up his spine was like the feeling he had when listening to an exquisite piece of music or on first viewing a perfect work of art. But how so? he wondered. Or was all art grounded in desire?
The fingers of his damaged hand clenched again. He took a sharp intake of breath against the pain and leaned his shoulder against the doorpost. It was the worst yet and left him feeling cold and weak, his brow beaded with sweat. He would have to have it seen to today. This morning, if possible. But first there was something he must do.
He went down and unlatched the door that led into the garden. Outside the air was sharp, fresh, the sky clear after the rain. Long shadows lay across the glittering, dew-soaked grass, exaggerating every hump and hollow, making the ground seem rutted and uneven. The roses were beaded with dew, the trestle table dark and wet.
He was still a moment, listening to the call of birds in the eaves above him and in the trees down by the water. It was strange how that sound seemed always not to breach but to emphasize the underlying silence.
The pain came again, more bearable this time. He braced himself against it, then, when it was fading, lifted the injured hand to his face. There was the faintest scent of burning. A sweet, quite pleasant scent. He pressed it against his cheek. It was warm. Unnaturally warm.
Cradling the hand against his chest, he stared out across the lawn toward the shadowed bay. The tide was high. Sunlight lay in the trees on the far side of the water, creeping slowly toward the waterline.
He smiled. This much never changed: each day created new, light flying out from everything, three hundred meters in a millionth of a second, off on its journey to infinity.
He went down, across the lawn, and onto the narrow gravel path that led, by way of an old, rickety gate, into the meadows. The grass here was knee high, uncut since his father had left three months earlier, the tall stems richly green and tufted. He waded out into that sea of grass, ignoring the path that cut down to the meandering creek, making for the Wall.
There, at the foot of the Wall, he stopped, balanced at the end of a long rib of rock that protruded above the surrounding marshland. The Wall was an overpowering presence here, the featureless whiteness of its two li height making a perfect geometric turn of 120 degrees toward the southeast. It was like being in the corner of a giants playbox, the shadow of the Wall so deep it seemed almost night. Even so, he could make out the great circle of the Seal quite clearly, there, at the bottom of the Wall, no more than thirty paces distant.
Ben squatted and looked about him. Here memory was dense. Images clustered about him like restless ghosts. He had only to close his eyes to summon them back. There, off to his left, he could see the dead rabbit, sunk into the grass. And there, just beyond it, his father, less than a year ago, looking back toward him but pointing at the Seal, explaining the new policy the Seven had drawn up for dealing with incursions from the Clay. He turned his head. To his right he could see Meg, a hundred, no, a thousand times, smiling or thoughtful, standing and sitting, facing toward him or away, running through the grass or simply standing by the creek, looking outward at the distant hills. Meg as a child, a girl, a woman. Countless images of her. All stored, hoarded in his mind. And for what? Why such endless duplication of events?
He shuddered, then turned, looking back at the cottage, thinking how ageless it seemed in this early morning light. He looked down, then rubbed the back of his left hand with his right, massaging it. It felt better now, more relaxed, which made him think it was some form of cramp. But did machines get cramp?
He breathed deeply, then laughed. And what if we're all machines? What if we're merely programmed to think otherwise?
Then the answer would be yes, machines get cramp.
It was strange, that feeling of compulsion he had had to come here. Overpowering, like his desire for Meg. It frightened him. And even when it was purged, it left him feeling less in control of himself than he had ever been. Part of that, of course, was the drugs—or the absence of them. It was over a week now since he had last taken them. But it was more than that. He was changing. He could feel it in himself. But into what? And for what purpose?
He stared at the Seal a moment longer, then looked away, disturbed. It was like in his dream. The bottom of the lake: that had been the Wall. He had sunk through the darkness to confront the Wall.
And?
He shivered. No, he didn't understand it yet. Perhaps, being what he was— schizophrenic—he couldn't understand it. Not from where he was, anyway. Not from the inside. But if he passed through?
He stared at the Wall intently, then looked down. And if his father said no? If his father said he couldn't go to College?
Ben got to his feet, turning his back upon the Wall. If Hal said no he would defy him. He would do it anyway.
"Again, Meg. And this time try to relax a bit. Your fingers are too tense. Stretch them gently. Let them feel for the notes. Accuracy is less important than feeling at this stage. Accuracy will come, but the feeling has to be there from the start."
Meg was sitting beside her mother at the piano. It was just after nine and they had been practicing for more than an hour already, but she was determined to master the phrase—to have something to show Ben when he returned.
She began again. This time it seemed to flow better. She missed two notes and one of the chords was badly shaped; yet for all its flaws, it sounded much more like the phrase her mother had played than before. She turned and saw Beth was smiling.
"Good, Meg. Much better. Try it again. This time a little slower."
She did as she was bid, leaning forward over the keys. This time it was note-perfect and she sat back, pleased with herself, feeling a genuine sense of achievement. It was only a small thing, of course—nothing like Ben's achievement—yet it was a start: the first step in her attempt to keep up with him.
She looked around again. Her mother was watching her strangely.
"What is it?"
Beth took her hand. "You're a good child, Meg. You know that? Nothing comes easy to you. Not like Ben. But you work at it. You work hard. And you never get disheartened. I've watched you labor at something for weeks, then seen Ben come along and master it in a few moments. And always—without fail—you've been delighted for him. Not envious, as some might be. Nor bitter. And that's . . ." She laughed. "Well, it's remarkable. And I love you for it."
Meg looked down. "He needs someone."
"Yes. He does, doesn't he?"
"I mean . . ." Meg placed her free hand gently on the keys, making no sound. "It must be difficult being as he is. Being so alone."
"Alone? I don't follow you, Meg."
"Like Zarathustra, up in his cave on the mountainside. Up where the air is rarefied, and few venture. Only with Ben, the mountain, the cave, are in his head."
Beth nodded thoughtfully. "He's certainly different."
"That's what I mean. It's his difference that makes him alone. Even if there were a hundred thousand people here, in the Domain, he would be separate from them all. Cut off by what he is. That's why I have to make the effort. To try to reach him where he is. To try to understand what he is and what he needs."
Beth looked at her daughter, surprised. "Why?"
"Because he's Ben. And because I love him."
She reached out and gently brushed Meg's cheek with her knuckles. "That's nice. But you don't have to worry. Give him time. He'll find someone."
Meg looked away. Her mother didn't understand. There was no one else for Ben.
No one who would ever understand him a tenth as well. Not one in the whole of Chung Kuo.
"Do you want to play some more?"
Meg shook her head. "Not now. This afternoon, perhaps?"
"All right. Some breakfast, then?"
Meg smiled. "Yes. Why not?"