And then the stranger had come. As strangers in tales were wont to do, he spoke first.
“You don’t want to go in there.”
I faced the fence, not him. “It would be nothing to climb over it.” The difficulty of keeping the unspoken question out of my voice was almost too much. “’ Look—here, and here,” I began to stroll down the length of the fence, pointing out points that were so low I (even I!) could have safely stepped over it without lifting my hem and not torn my skirts.
Then I halted, for there was one part of the fence lacking in wire altogether. It must have been the gate, or rather the entrance, for it was merely an empty space. One of the posts bordering the entrance bore a simple red and white sign, with this admonition:
DANGER: MINES.
I turned to the stranger for the first time. His back was to the sunset; I could not see his face. “Is this it? Is this why I am not to go beyond the fence?”
I fancied I saw something of slyness play over the grey-blue hollows of his eyes. “Did I say you should not go in there? An exact quotation, I believe, would be you don’t want to go in there—a statement wherein the emphasis, my dear literary girl, lies not on the going, but the wanting.”
“The wanting?” I scoffed. “The sign would have done well enough what you and your shallow sport with words aim to do—if you are to be believed.”
The stranger ignored the last statement. “Would it?”
“Of course! Who wittingly and willingly walks into a minefield?”
He stood without motion so long I thought perhaps he had turned to stone. At last, he said but a single word: “Many.” And then, two more: “You would.” There was another pause. “You have traveled far, but not (I trust) from a cave. You knew there were mines here.”
“I have heard of the minefields, of course, but I did not expect them to be so loosely bordered—nor so clearly marked.”
“Then you have heard, I suppose, of the stipulations imposed on those entering.” His voice took a definitely mocking tone.
“Stipulations? I have been taught the way things are,” I shrugged. “To enter the minefields, you must enter two at a time, or not at all.”
“Two at a time, by the gate,” now his tone slid softly about the ever-deepening dusk, with an almost fragrant quality to it. The contrast with the bitterness before was frightful. “And not just any two, eh? That is your problem. You have said it yourself; the way things are, and not a stipulation. Because if they were stipulations, it would be simple; if they were stipulations, you would climb over the fence. But the way things are cannot be changed; the way things are leave you hopeless—drifting along a tired old fence—and why?”
My voice sank with the slope of the nearest strand of wire. “Because I am only one.” The words seemed to catch at my fingers like the flailing barbs at the strands of grass, needling and shredding everything they touched.
The stranger took a step forward, a swift movement that startled me into a clumsy step backwards, but he only went past me and laid a gentle hand on the sign. “Danger: mines.” His voice became gentle. “Believe me: you are in no danger of the going, of the crossing over. But what of the staying? Is not the wanting a mine itself, planted deep in your heart, threatening to explode with each hasty step?”
I had no answer. He continued: “Stipulations—or the way things are—whichever word you call it.”
“I think—” I faltered.
“You think!” scoffed he.
He blinked again, and I felt so foolish I was temporarily muddled. “Do you pretend to know more than I?” scoffed he, and there was that blink. It was almost hypnotic: like a cat entrancing a mouse. I was the mouse; I was sure of it. “Do you know who I am?”
I knew the answer to that question. “No.” Then, suddenly, I had it, like the thunderbolt following late on the heels of the lightning strike. “No, I do not know you at all. You are the stranger—and very clever for such an unknown, but you know what they say about talking to strangers. Oh! You are very wise and cunning; in fact, you remind me of an owl, especially when you blink. But I was brought up on the best sort of children’s books, and I seem to remember an owl who looked very learned and turned out to be a fool. I think perhaps you are that sort of owl. And I—well, to be sure, my size in comparison is more a sparrow than an owl, and I’m sure I haven’t half the brains of a sparrow. But again, that depends on the sorts of books one reads. The ones I know seem to place things very decidedly in favor of the sparrow.”
“Sparrow?!” he laughed. “Sparrows do not live in the desert. They travel in flocks about cities and eat crumbs that wiser birds know to leave behind. You, my dear girl, are in the desert, with a great minefield bound up inside of you. You would be in a minefield either way, but this is the one you must walk—and walk it (as you say) alone.”
The words chirped in the lingering silence; the crickets had fled years ago. Again, I felt my companion must have turned to stone, and my stomach with him. I seemed the only living thing in a world of rock, and a stone stranger sent to mock me for it.
And then I heard a voice, faint but clear enough to rise above the roaring silence of my stone heart and my stalwart companion and the crickets who were not there. The voice trilled like a poet, thundered like a prophet, sang like a minstrel, riddled like a bard, bellowed like a herald; it was each of these entirely and none of them at all. It was only my youngest sister’s voice, lifted high in what seemed a glorious epiphany of truth: “Anna! It’s dinner-time!”
My eyes jumped from the dry grass at my feet to the stranger by the gate, but he seemed not to have heard. Whichever one you walk, you must walk it alone.
My eyes jumped from the dry grass at my feet to the stranger by the gate, but he seemed not to have heard. Whichever one you walk, you must walk it alone.
Rhetorically, the moment for answering had long since passed. But this was no mere game of rhetoric. I lifted my head. “What do you mean?”
Then he looked at me, and now that the sun was no longer behind him I could see his face. He blinked a trifle owlishly, and I felt the question was stupid so I asked it again. “What do you mean?” I said again, frowning at the two lumps of gatepost and the stranger standing between them. He opened his mouth to speak, but I continued hastily: “Did I say I could not cross the fence because I was alone?”
“The stipulations—”
“Did I say I was alone?!” I squeaked desperately, wishing for the voice of man so that I might thunder back with equal volume, but determining to stick to my point this time, however unimpressively. He gave me that superior gaze and I almost felt silly, but that had never stopped me from talking before, and it seemed foolhardy to break with tradition at a moment like this. “I am sorry; I am sure the particular nuance I have in mind is too slight for a proper literary mind to divulge. It was almost too much for me, and even then I only thought of it because of the dinner-call.”
There! I had done my best to be enigmatic, but he still looked less confused than I felt. I plunged ahead. There was no sense in caring about making sense now. “I did not say I could not enter because I am alone; I said it was because I am only one. I did not say I was alone.” I repeated the last sentence with stubborn pride, putting my hands on my hips as I did so (I could not help it!). “So! There is this sign, and it says there are mines and there is danger, or (as you have inferred) there is danger to be had in the mines. All that is drawn from this side of the fence, where it seems this side is life where one must be alone, and on the other side a sort of half-life with the threat of explosions, and the best to hope for is a sudden death either way. But perhaps we have forgotten to look through the darkened glass; perhaps we have taken it for a mirror, and the reflection reads backwards. After all, the sign faces outwards, speaking not to those who are about to step on the mines, but to those of us who will not risk them at all. Danger.”
I stopped and drew a breath, feeling giddy with the words and the dusk and the memory of the trumpet-sound of my sister’s voice. “And you! A veritable signpost yourself—you would have me find myself alone, with a heart ready to explode but safe. Safe! Wherever I walk, I pray to God it does explode. My heart is good for nothing else, just as this barren field is no good for a crop.” I kicked pensively at the draggled grass beneath me. “But maybe things will grow here, after the days of explosions and fires and smoke. Maybe if we forsake the mirror, the glimpse through the darkening glass will reveal this side is death, and the best we have to hope for on the other side is the explosion, and after that a sudden life.”
I did not give him another glance that evening as I turned and made my way away from the fence. The gate would have to wait for another evening. I had received a greater summons already; I was late for dinner.
