Read Online The Death of the Wave by G. L. Adamson - Free Book Online
Authors: G. L. Adamson
Ads: Link
am no different from them, Descartes.
I did what I had to do.
I am a measure in uniform,
I am a mind without a heart,
a bullet in a gun and
a footfall upon a stair.
I am a monster, Descartes.
And without the guilt that consumes me
all I could note is your white face in the darkness
with your shattered lips and silent eyes.
Your cold arms in the darkness were always mine.
And I was home.
Home,
and then our baby boy.
Our pure infant fire
that squalled and shook in
his makeshift cradle.
Our terrifying angel,
dark-haired, and like
an Artist born.
You protected me,
and our son,
had him sent to the Hives
and the child stalled a rebellion.
Twelve years, our promise charred upon your lips.
Wait until the child is grown
so he cannot be used against you.
Wait until he can take his chances.
Descartes.
I waited.
I waited too long.
And when the twelve years had passed
and our son was grown.
I stayed in the Palaces.
I read the works of dead men.
You had smuggled out the saved words of the ages
from the forbidden library.
Piece by piece under a jacket that was too small for you.
Only three books on the first day.
And I transcribed the words in my own handwriting,
the works of Genius lessened by my hand, their references tainted.
Milton spoke of angels and of Eden,
the tree of knowledge, our death by,
our lives in the words of men who are dead.
Hugo wrote of rebellion and extremists,
and Shakespeare wrote plays.
But what of France, of England, of Angel-land
that kingdom of Angels
sunk under the sea, or conquered?
What of the world before the fire?
I wrote late
on slips of paper torn from my brother’s CEE workbook
He would save them.
Prepared names.
Destinies of children.
My new position was in the Hives,
so I would remember,
the life-determined and the executioner.
I cannot think, I cannot feel.
But the words, and my words, make it back to the Camps
in the hands of those children who survive.
For I would give them not only a name, but a future.
There are some there who yet remember,
though most still try to forget.
The Citadel controls all higher technology.
What we did was the only way.
Galileo, unknowing, had given me my chance.
I had no intention of wasting it.
I would have salvaged the books that last from the fire.
Why, then?
The bartering of a life?
A life for words.
No meaning.
For one day, the Camps will say,
we will be dead.
But not today.
We are not dead today.
DEVOUR
BLUE
----
The books that last from the fire,
and yet I cannot remember them.
It happened before I was born,
and I no longer crane to look along the line for my letters.
On Cleaning Day.
On Cleaning Day.
Close call today, I’ve not been eating.
I’ve searched too long for a window.
Waited so long
that they pulled me aside at the signal,
the Cleaners, specters, in their bird-like masks
to feel my bones.
543,
the sole female Breaker left, watching with still hunter’s eyes.
Waiting, so long,
for the mirrored Palace car has lingered today longer than expected.
And I saw a pale hand gesture imperiously
from a window implacable as black ice.
None of us have looked inside.
None of us.
But I am alive,
and words know how to wait.
Cleaning Day and
the faceless old woman
sweeps as though she is born to it.
No matter.
Descartes is dead, and who is this other that knows
my failures, victories, ecstasies, agonies?
Of course it is meaningless now.
My phantom. My chess-master.
My game.
The one who dares to call me Artist.
I know no one here, most of the ones from the old days,
enemies and friends,
are dead or insane, save for the last aristo.
The one child, Darwin, glimpsed in the Palaces,
he is grown now, has taken over after the murder of Galileo.
The mercy-killing of Galileo.
Is it him? He must remember, though he was so young.
But here, in the Barracks?
He was there at the dawning of the last of the rebellions
when the Scientist shattered and
I did what I had to do.
I am a measure in uniform,
I am a mind without a heart,
a bullet in a gun and
a footfall upon a stair.
I am a monster, Descartes.
And without the guilt that consumes me
all I could note is your white face in the darkness
with your shattered lips and silent eyes.
Your cold arms in the darkness were always mine.
And I was home.
Home,
and then our baby boy.
Our pure infant fire
that squalled and shook in
his makeshift cradle.
Our terrifying angel,
dark-haired, and like
an Artist born.
You protected me,
and our son,
had him sent to the Hives
and the child stalled a rebellion.
Twelve years, our promise charred upon your lips.
Wait until the child is grown
so he cannot be used against you.
Wait until he can take his chances.
Descartes.
I waited.
I waited too long.
And when the twelve years had passed
and our son was grown.
I stayed in the Palaces.
I read the works of dead men.
You had smuggled out the saved words of the ages
from the forbidden library.
Piece by piece under a jacket that was too small for you.
Only three books on the first day.
And I transcribed the words in my own handwriting,
the works of Genius lessened by my hand, their references tainted.
Milton spoke of angels and of Eden,
the tree of knowledge, our death by,
our lives in the words of men who are dead.
Hugo wrote of rebellion and extremists,
and Shakespeare wrote plays.
But what of France, of England, of Angel-land
that kingdom of Angels
sunk under the sea, or conquered?
What of the world before the fire?
I wrote late
on slips of paper torn from my brother’s CEE workbook
He would save them.
Prepared names.
Destinies of children.
My new position was in the Hives,
so I would remember,
the life-determined and the executioner.
I cannot think, I cannot feel.
But the words, and my words, make it back to the Camps
in the hands of those children who survive.
For I would give them not only a name, but a future.
There are some there who yet remember,
though most still try to forget.
The Citadel controls all higher technology.
What we did was the only way.
Galileo, unknowing, had given me my chance.
I had no intention of wasting it.
I would have salvaged the books that last from the fire.
Why, then?
The bartering of a life?
A life for words.
No meaning.
For one day, the Camps will say,
we will be dead.
But not today.
We are not dead today.
DEVOUR
BLUE
----
The books that last from the fire,
and yet I cannot remember them.
It happened before I was born,
and I no longer crane to look along the line for my letters.
On Cleaning Day.
On Cleaning Day.
Close call today, I’ve not been eating.
I’ve searched too long for a window.
Waited so long
that they pulled me aside at the signal,
the Cleaners, specters, in their bird-like masks
to feel my bones.
543,
the sole female Breaker left, watching with still hunter’s eyes.
Waiting, so long,
for the mirrored Palace car has lingered today longer than expected.
And I saw a pale hand gesture imperiously
from a window implacable as black ice.
None of us have looked inside.
None of us.
But I am alive,
and words know how to wait.
Cleaning Day and
the faceless old woman
sweeps as though she is born to it.
No matter.
Descartes is dead, and who is this other that knows
my failures, victories, ecstasies, agonies?
Of course it is meaningless now.
My phantom. My chess-master.
My game.
The one who dares to call me Artist.
I know no one here, most of the ones from the old days,
enemies and friends,
are dead or insane, save for the last aristo.
The one child, Darwin, glimpsed in the Palaces,
he is grown now, has taken over after the murder of Galileo.
The mercy-killing of Galileo.
Is it him? He must remember, though he was so young.
But here, in the Barracks?
He was there at the dawning of the last of the rebellions
when the Scientist shattered and
Similar Books
