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306 pages, Hardcover
First published September 1, 2012
There is not a person in sight, living or dead. Sometimes it can be this way - just quiet and still. The sound of a breeze through the high grasses, the creak of an unoiled barn door, the sandy brush of dust blown across an abandoned macadam road. Sometimes there is nothing for miles and miles around to remind you of the way things used to be. The world is so big - the amount of empty space is deafening. Who could of learned to live on this vast and poisonous air? What kind of man?
To end up at this place. Moses has gone wrong somewhere
They can see the place where the Vestal slipped, the snow has been dusted away from the surface of the ice, leaving a clear patch.
Look, she says and points. Slug under glass.
They gather around the cleared patch and look down. The ice is clear, and caught under it, like some kind of horrible fish in an aquarium, is the face of a dead man gazing up at them. His body has gone soft and bloated from being underwater for so long, his eyes milky, his flesh gone pale, nibbled at by fishes, his skin peeled off and floating around him like a nest of seaweed. They could have thought him just straight dead if it weren't for the fact that his eyes are blinking up at them sluggishly. As they watch, the dead man raises a hand to them, his movements slow, made almost ghostly by the freezing water in which he is entombed. He places his palm against the undersurface of the ice.
Moses knows it to be a grasp of hunger, but because the dead man doesn't seem to be able to bend his stiffened fingers, the outspread palm looks like a gesture of greeting or welcome. The eyes continue to blink, slowly.
It is pathetic and awful, the slug trapped underwater and undrownable - like a man staring up
at them from the very mouth of the void, waving his goodbyes as he descends, floating down peaceful into the great black.
There is a darkness to nature - the unhurried ways of birth and death.
The dead man reaches for Moses, opening his mouth. There is no smell to him, dried up and frozen as he is, and Moses can see the shrivelled tongue in the well of his mouth, the cracked grey palate, the teeth turned to chalky stone.
The arms grasp for him, but Moses gets to the man's side and reaches one arm around the back of his torso to keep the arms lowered. It is a gentle gesture, almost like a brother's embrace. The dead man looks confused. He tried to rotate his head to a position where he might get a bite out of Moses, but the neck doesn't allow such range.
Be still now, Moses says quietly.
Then he takes the knife in his free hand, unfolds it, and raises it in front of the dead man's face.
Close your eyes, Moses says to him. It is tender, the process, like a surgery or a baptism or a sudden kindness. Close your eyes now, he says.
He raises the knife to within an inch of one of the eyes, and the dead man instinctively closes them. He is peaceful now, his mouth still open but more by muscle slack than appetite. And then, with quick precision, Moses thrusts the knife deep into the man's eye socket. A little dribble of fluid, neither pus nor blood, spills from the burst orb of the eyeball - and then the man's whole body goes limp.
There is arbitrary death by nature, which Moses recognizes is everyone's equally shared hazard. And then there is arbitrary death by the foolishness of man. And this is something Moses cannot stomach.
When everything is still once more, Moses releases his grip on the wheel and checks himself for broken bones. There is blood all over his face and hands, but he does not know who it belongs to.Some of it could be his - but the ownership of blood is a sucker's guess in such a sanguine world.
What some mysteries reveal are truths so mundane they blast wide our own ludicrous vanities.
Now everything’s backwards. You plant life in the earth – call it death if you like – but it gets spit back up. Maybe we’ve fed he earth too much. Maybe it’s lost a taste for us.
It’s harder to die than you think. The world, it conspires to keep you alive.
You see now? Moses Todd asks. You see? It ain’t about what you think it’s about. All the wandering, and the mad pursuit, all the spinnin cycles of life and death and death and life over and over until you ain’t but a dizzy headed creature roamin the plains. It ain’t about anything but one thing. Drollery. You fights and you create life and you fight and you destroy – and some times in the middle somewhere you happen to love. But it all comes down to ridiculousness.