Act III — The Split

Page 14 — Two Readers

Wreckreate reads the water.

Wreckreate reads the water. It is what he does. It is the first of the erudite's work, and the first is the one the craft keeps for the man before he puts his hands in. The work is the one that does not lie. I want that kept, because the not-lying is what the water owes the reader, and the owing is the whole of the reading — the whole the record has kept since the second morning, when the water first came up on the black sand with the look of a thing that had been somewhere it was not meant to be.

He went to the water's edge.

He went at the first grey, the way the readers go — before the sun, before the talk, before the camp had finished being a camp and begun being a day. He went alone, and the alone was the courtesy the water kept for the reader. I stood at the back of the dune where I could see him and not be in the way of his seeing. The standing-not-in-the-way is the first courtesy the archmage owes the reader; I have owed it to him a hundred times in the old world, and the hundred is the work of the old world on my feet.

He knelt in the black sand at the line where the water comes in.

I want the record to keep the line, because the line is what the record is owed. The line is not one the water makes. Water in the old world made its line by the shore, by the slope, by the patience of the land, and the patience was the whole of the making. This line is made by the water going out. I have watched it since the second morning: the water comes in, and the water goes out, and the going-out is not the going-out the old world's water made — it goes out like a thing that is being sent. Wreckreate knelt against that line when he put his hands in.

He put both hands in.

And the water took his hands.

I want the record to keep the taking, because the taking is what the fourteenth page lives on. The water took his hands the way the wrong world takes everything — without looking up. It did not look up at them. It did not meet them. It closed around them the way the ground closes around a stone — not against them, and the not-against was the one thing the water owed the hands. In the old world, when the reader put his hands in the water, the water put its hands in the reader. That is the whole of the old world's reading: the water answered. Here the water took. The taking is not the answering, and the not-answering is the one thing the fourteenth page found.

He was quiet for a long time.

The long time was not the long time of thinking. I have the practice of the difference — I learned to tell the two long times apart the way a miller tells the water that is running from the water that is being held. It was the long time of reading: a man with a letter in his hands, and the not-yet of understanding between him and the letter. I have known that long time on a reader's face a hundred times, and the hundred is the work of the old world on my eyes: he was reading, and the reading was the whole of the morning's second hour.

When he looked up, his face was the face of a man who has been reading a letter he does not like. I have known that face on a hundred letters — the face of a man whose craft has done its work and whose craft has not lied, and the not-lying was the one thing the craft owed the letter.

He stood. He took his hands out of the water. And the water did not take them back. I will keep the not-taking-back, because it is the first of the water's manners, and the manner was the wrong one: the old world's water took the reader's hands back the way it gave them — with the answering in it. This water let the hands go the way the world lets go of the coal's word — not at all.

The water is wrong, he said. He said it standing at the line where the water comes in, with his hands still wet, and the wet was the one thing the water had not taken back. He said it the way the reader says it — not the way the frightened man says it.

Not poisoned. Not dead. Wrong.

I want the record to keep the two nots, because the two nots are what the finding refused. Not poisoned — the water is not sick. Not dead — the water is not gone. The water is here, doing the water's work: it comes in, it goes out, it keeps its line, it takes no hands back. And the whole of the water's work is the wrong thing done the right way, and the right-way-done-wrong-thing is the one the water owes the world it is in.

It flows the way water should, but the flowing is a copy of the flowing. Like a sentence that is in the right language and says the wrong thing.

I will keep the copy, because the copy is what the fourteenth page lives on. A copy is not a forgery. A forgery is the thing that means to be the thing, and the meaning-to-be was the one thing the forgery owed the true. A copy is the thing that does not know it is a copy. The water here is not trying to be the water. It does its work the way a man speaks a name he has been told is his own: right in every letter, in every sound, in every place the name should be, and the right-in-every-place was the one thing the water owed the world.

And I will say what the water's sentence is, because the saying is what the fourteenth page owes. The water's sentence is in the right language. The flow, the line, the taking-in, the going-out — every letter is right, and the right-every-letter was the one thing the water owed the language. And the sentence says the wrong thing. The sentence says: I am here. I am the water. It says it in the right language, in every letter — and the thing the sentence says is not the thing that is there.

He did not look at his hands after the reading. A reader does not: the hands are the reader's craft, and the craft is owed the not-looking. He came back to camp the way the reader comes back — slow, and the slow was what the reading owed the coming. He sat. He did not say what the sentence said. The not-saying was the courtesy the reader owed the camp: the camp had not asked, and the not-asking was what the camp owed the reader.

Smackage reads the ground. It is what he does, and the doing is the one that does not lie. The ogre does not go to the ground — the ogre is at the ground, and he has been since the second morning, when the sand first took his hands without taking them back. His palm was flat. His head was down. And when Wreckreate spoke, the ogre did not turn.

An ogre who does not turn has not finished hearing. I have known the ogre since the first morning of the old world, and the long knowing is the work of the old world on me: the not-turning is the ogre's way of saying the ground is still speaking. The ground speaks to the ground-reader slow, and low, and in a language that is not a language. And the ground here is still speaking — it has not finished. The ground in the old world finished. The ground here is the ground of a world that is still saying what it is, and the still-saying is what the ground owes the ogre.

The bones are under, Smackage said. He said it with his head still down, and the down was what the ogre kept for the ground. He said it the way the ogre says it — not the way the reader says it: the reader says what the reading is, and the ogre says what the ground is. The difference is the whole of the two crafts, and the whole is the one I have carried since the first morning of the old world.

Not rock. Not stone. Something under the rock. Something that has been under a long time.

I will keep the something, because the something is what the fourteenth page lives on. The ground here has a floor. I have stood on ground my whole life, and the whole life is the work of the old world on my feet: the ground in the old world did not have a floor. It went down into itself, into the deep, into the dark that is not a dark but a deeping. The ground here goes down until it goes down to the something, and the something is what the ground keeps where the deep should be.

I can feel the shape of the not-feeling. The ground here is not ground. It is a lid.

I want the record to keep the lid, because the lid is what the fourteenth page is owed. A lid. Not a floor — a floor is under, and the under is what the floor owes the foot. A lid is on top: the thing that is put over a thing, and the being-put-over was the one thing the lid owes the thing. The ground here is the lid of the ground — the thing that has been put over something, and the something is what the ground has kept since before the second morning, since before the world was this world.

Something that has been under a long time.

The something is not new. The something is not the broken line, and the not-broken-line was what the something owed the second morning. The something is older than the world's being-this-world — the thing the world was put over, and the being-put-over was what the lid owes the something.

The world has a body.

I looked at the water. I looked at the sand. The water is a copy of the water. The ground is a lid on the something. Two readers, and the two readings are the work of the fourteenth page, and the work is owed the saying, so the saying is the record's. The world here is not a world the way the world in the old world was a world — not a world that is, but a world that is over.

I did not say what I was thinking. I did not say it to the camp, because the camp had not asked. And I will not say it to the record, for the same reason — the record had not asked, and the not-asking was what the record owed the finding.

I will say it once, here, where the record keeps it, and the keeping is what the fourteenth page is owed:

We had landed in a mouth.