EXCERPT: ELEPHANT ON A STRING
By Rachel Rosen

CHAPTER TWO:

IN WHICH THE JOURNEY TOWARD POST BEGINS, AND LEAH GIVES A POTENTIAL SUITOR AN EARFUL.

Imagine a road. It cuts through the prairies, through tall and golden fields of wheat under a sky that is bluer than the colour of your dreams. Perpendicular to the horizon, it is long, and straight, stubborn and oblivious to how the world has changed since its construction. It is empty, or nearly so.


Imagine the perfect geometry (sky - sideways, earth - sideways, wheat - up, road - forward) broken only by the perfect circles randomly dotting the sky. Even these are few and far between. The Visitors do not have much interest in the prairies, though their biodiversity exceeds even what remains of the forests. A handful of towns branch out from the road, but the Visitors are students of conflict and change, and the road is too Platonic for their liking.


(They would however appreciate its longevity - if nothing else, they are patient. Very patient.)


Imagine a road, and on that road, a woman riding an old mule. Both the woman and the mule are as broken down as the relics of cars that lie by the side of the highway, their rust colour so barely distinguishable from the wheat that you only notice them upon closer inspection.


The mule is called Zapata, after the long-dead revolutionary to whom its bulging eyes and drooping whiskers evoke a vague resemblance. The woman calls herself Leah Silverman. Her head is shaved a millimeter to the scalp, and a patch conceals the place where her left eye should have been. On her right hand is a tattoo of bones, tracing carpals,metacarpals,
phalanxes in lines as accurate as those in a medical textbook, as delicate as a Japanese watercolor. She is so undernourished that she has not menstruated in six months. Her skin hangs loosely on her frame, reminiscent of a younger, more sensuous figure. It is the limpness of her breasts that bothers her the most, flinging themselves around carelessly as the mule trots over the uneven, broken pavement.


Earlier this morning, Leah left a young man sleeping on his bed, his hair golden as the fields that surrounded his country home. She had needed a place to sleep, and found one. He was lonely enough to fall in love with a one-eyed criminal over the course of a night, and she was cynical enough to kiss him softly on the forehead as she stole one of his shirts and made her way out the door.


The town that lies behind her is called Marlybone now. She doesn't know what it was called Before. It is typical of the settlements that grow along the highway - friendly, for the most part, peaceful, full of people who have never seen a bomb explode or a child die of starvation, people for whom the ships are unacknowledged mysteries ("God's will," a woman once told her, "He has sent them."), for whom the Liberation Front is a distant myth. They sleep quietly, so quietly that Leah wonders if they even dream.


Leah dreams. She dreams of the past, mostly, and wakes up with tears in one eye, and a painful absence in the other.


She is twenty-six years old. Had she lived when the first humans crawled out of their caves blinking into the sunlight, she would have been considered a senior citizen. Today, a one-time revolutionary, Leah knows she should have been dead and buried years ago.


She left the young man a piece of paper, with a drawing she'd done of him in the hours before morning. Leah does not sleep much anymore. The sketch was poorly rendered - her missing eye has destroyed her depth perception - but she hopes he will appreciate it nonetheless. Before she was a revolutionary, she used to be an artist. She feels a twinge of guilt, leaving him behind, but she has no desire to bring him with her. The drawing is her penance. She genuinely wishes for him the life that she will never have.


Leah has grown to respect, if not to like, the open road. She will admit that it is heartachingly beautiful. It is lonely, desolate. The farmland stretches for miles, the sky bold and blue, and she has the feeling that she's hugging the earth, beneath the dome of heaven. Every so often she sees a hydro tower, a relic of the Old Days, and its scaffolding will remind her of the pictures she saw as a child, the Paris skyline, the Eiffel Tower, gorgeous and tragic. It burned, like everything else, and though the hydro towers are pale shadows, she looks up to them like ancient gods.


You could say that Leah is afflicted with the disease of her time, that most useless of emotions that humans call nostalgia. She is intelligent enough to realize that life was not perfect, that those past men and women committed the sins that brought about the world in which she lives now, but she knows with a fierce certainty that she would have loved it, imperfections and all. Leah is a lover of imperfections. It is the remnants of the artist within her that still gasps for breath, seeking beauty in the ugliest of things.


Like Max.


But let's not talk about Max now - since Leah is trying so valiantly to forget about him. He was the reason for last night, and the reason why she now clings to her mule, her few possessions in a bag slung over her shoulder, heading for a city called Post.


Many things can happen to a woman traveling alone, especially these days. Leah is not stupid, and she fears violence, but she is aware that the greatest danger is internal. She carries a revolver to protect herself against whatever she might encounter on the road, but no amount of bullets is enough to ward off the thoughts that come with too far a distance to go, too much vast, empty silence. You can go mad like this - many people have. One hour looks very much like the next - flat plains, straight lines, sky increasingly dark as the city nears. It would be nice to say "time passes", and be there, the whole journey in a flash. But it doesn't work that way.


Leah keeps thinking about her life, and then she starts trying to distract herself from those kinds of thoughts. And one part of her mind insists on thinking, while the other tries to distract it by making sad clown faces and inane remarks. And a third part of her mind sits back and takes bets on which of the other parts will win. And she starts to wonder if this is the same road to madness that all lunatics take.

Time passes. Leah tries to sing the songs she used to know from when she lived in Post. They weren't good songs, but they were spirited, and she used to join in when they would start up a chorus at the Unity Cafe. Nowadays that sort of thing gets you shot. (And besides, the Unity Cafe ceased to exist just before seven-thirty this morning. But Leah doesn't know this.) Even the abandoned highway is not safe. It doesn't matter - she can't remember the words to anything.


Leah counts five spaceships in the sky. They are wide and flat, with concave bases made out of a material that scientists have determined to be akin to one-way mirrors. She can feel them watching her - she knows that they must see her, alone on the road, but when she looks up, all she can see is the curve of the earth's reflection, not even a tiny dot to indicate where she is in relation to all that yellow and green and blue. The ships are close enough that when she stares up at them, they fill almost her whole field of vision. She wonders if she even registers on theirs.


"Hello," she says, softly. She has lived with them all her life. She does not wonder whether or not she should be afraid. Then she sees a sign that says Post, 30 km, and she ignores the ships to contemplate how quickly the past is forgotten.


Zapata does not look up. Unconcerned with the ships, with the distance to Post, he watches the shadow cast by his hooves as he makes his way along the charcoal grey gash that cuts across forever.


++++++


She has one friend in Post, a man by the name of Dorian Johnson. Most of her other friends are dead now. She has no overwhelming desire to visit him - in fact, she doesn't know why she is traveling down this road now. She has his address in her pocket, however. He was happy to hear from her when she told him she was coming back. That was the last day the telegraphs worked - almost two weeks ago - and she would not have been able to cancel, even if she'd changed her mind.


It is this tiny piece of paper she keeps creasing in her palm, damp with sweat, the words barely legible. She has not seen him in five years, though she has sent him the occasional note to let him know she is still alive. Leah supposes he misses her. She has never stayed anywhere long enough for him to write back.


She searches the ships for a gleam of reflection, the far-off glitter of a distant city. The sun is falling fast, dragging the light reluctantly, behind it. She will not reach Post tonight, and the mule is tired. She saved him from a bullet in the head, argued with the farmer that she could use the old beast more than he could use the meat. Maybe it hadn't been worth the effort. She could have stolen a bicycle. She thinks about this, then smiles grimly. Compassion is one of her flaws.


Leah no longer remembers the journey out of Post, not in any detail. She doubts it took this long, although in all logic, it should have taken longer. She must have simply not noticed. All of this time she was traveling from town to town, she was moving farther away, The thought chills her - she has spent the last five years lost, drifting from home without being conscious of it, without even knowing where she was.


(There were six months or so during those five years during which Leah knew exactly where she was. But this memory is filed amongst those she does not access. And so we will respectfully leave it alone.)


Over the edge of a hill she can see lights -- not the lights of Post, but an outlying settlement, perhaps a small town. She hates to push the mule further, but the thought of sleeping in a bed is far too appealing to resist. A bed, and if she's lucky, a drink first. She drives the poor animal onward, heading towards a handful of run-down houses where the residents illuminate their streets by burning rags in garbage cans.


Unassailable fatigue assaults her as she catches the first glimpse of the buildings. No matter how hard she tries to understand them, every small town is part of a painful blur in her mind, every stranger she has met blends into the crowd, inaccessible, unknowable. She wants to leave them there, part of a world for which she can feel nothing but contempt. Leah doesn't want to believe that they are all the same, but as she reaches the town, the stares she receives are too familiar, the sight of a man passing his hand over his eye too reminiscent of a gesture she has seen somewhere else, somewhere far away.


"Fuck him," Leah says, remembering too late the rule that in populated areas, thoughts must be kept to oneself. Nevertheless, her words go unnoticed, and she rides into town unchallenged, catching sight of a broken neon sign that still flickers the word "BAR" every so often, shining a dim red glow into the pools of mud on the ground.


The town isn't dry, and that is enough of a blessing. She hitches Zapata to a lamppost in front of the building. She smiles, but she keeps one hand near her gun as the other opens the door.


++++++


A one-eyed woman walks into a bar.


It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, but it isn't. The place smells like moonshine, vomit, sweat, and the sweet haze of hand-rolled tobacco. Three men sit on broken stools, lined up in front of a doughy blond woman with red-rimmed eyes. The one in the middle looks twice as mean as his buddy to the left. The one on the right looks as though he could take both of the other two in a fight without even breaking a sweat. All three turn to stare at Leah as she stands in the doorway. A fourth man sits at the very end of the bar, leaving one empty seat for her between them.


She takes it, ignoring the leers. "Tequila on the rocks," she says to the bartender. The other woman raises an eyebrow.


"Just kidding," Leah says. There is no menu. There is only one thing to drink here.


She can smell all four men from where she sits. Each seems to have his own distinctive odour, none of which is pleasant. Leah doesn't smell like roses either - probably the cleanest of them all is the bartender, and that isn't saying much.


The number one thug says to her, "What's your name, sweetheart?"


Leah says, "Nutcracker."


His face twists like pliable rubber. He's a dumb thug, and his friends don't get it either. Probably just as well. The man at the end of the bar, looking for the answers to life at the bottom of his glass, snickers a little.


Leah slaps down a few rusted coins on the counter. The bartender nods in understanding, turns her back on them to scoop a cupful of dark brown something from a barrel by the side of the wall.


Last year, nine people in this town of three hundred died from drinking moonshine. Leah sips hers slowly. She tries not to look at anyone, but the Thug Number One is watching her.


His eyes are yellow, his beard disheveled and crusted with dried puke. Her eyepatch seems to interest him the most. "Can I see?" he asks.


Hell, she thinks, maybe it will turn him off. She peels the patch back, hoping that he will see the scars, the rows of tiny dots placed a quarter of an inch apart, hoping he will see the way the eyelid droops over its empty socket, as though she were only half sleeping instead of half blind. But all he sees is another, albeit unusual orifice. He leans over and places a hand on her leg.


"You an' me baby," he slurs, "How Œbout it?"


"Leave her alone," the bar room philosopher type sitting next to her mutters.


Leah shoots the interloper a withering glare, then says, "You're not my type, angelface. Please remove your hand."


No words come out of his mouth, just heavy breathing. He slides his hand a little higher. Leah waits a few seconds, just to ensure that the warning was received. She leaves the gun alone, reaching instead for the knife that hangs on a chain around her throat.


(It belonged to Max, once, although Leah borrowed it frequently. When he left for the last time, he left it on the pillow beside her head.)


But there is no time for Leah to contemplate the origins of the weapon - the thug sees the flash of silver and smacks her across the face with the back of his hand, then twists her neck backwards, knocking her off the stool. Leah smashes into the bar, eyepatch askew as she scrambles to her feet before he can strike her again. Now his buddies are lined up behind him. Leah knows she has no chance against all three, not in a fair fight, anyway. She tries to dodge as a fist crunches into her arm, sending her knife flying.


"Take it outside!" the bartender shrieks, the refrain of bartenders throughout the ages and like everyone who has gone before, she goes unheeded.


Leah snatches her glass of moonshine - a waste of a good drink, desperate times call for desperate measures - and shatters it against the counter, sending a spray of broken fragments in all directions. She lunges at the thug, cupping the shards against his cheek. He howls, reeling as she picks up the knife again, grabbing his long, greasy hair.


("Slash, don't stab," Max used to say, "That's what it's designed for.")


"Ah, fuck it." She draws the blade and hacks off the man's ear. He screams now. He wants his friends to kill her but the Philosopher holds a hand up, warning them off, and they are too scared of the tiny one-eyed woman with her bloody knife.


"Oh my God," the thug gasps, clutching the side of his head that is pouring blood, gushing blood, his eyes searching the floor for the amputated ear. "What the fuck did you do that for?"


Leah shrugs. She wipes blood off the blade. Max might still be alive, somewhere, and she wants to return the damn thing in perfect condition. Generally speaking, Leah is an honorable woman.


She picks up the severed ear from beneath her overturned stool. Speaking into it, she says, "I told you. You aren't my type." Then she slaps it on the counter and says to the bartender, "Have a super duper day."


The mule is waiting outside, and she didn't even get to finish her drink.


++++++


"Wait," the Philosopher calls as she unhitches the mule.


The look in her eye stops him from coming any closer. She could have killed the man in the bar, easily; she has done it before. She has made it clear that she wants to be left alone.


But he doesn't retreat. He stands his ground, and she too is motionless, waiting, as he had requested.


"Why?" she asks.


"Who are you?"


"That's not a very original question."


"I saved your life."


Leah squints, then swings herself onto the back of the mule. "No you didn't."


"I helped you, at least."


"Probably," she agrees, "Do you expect some kind of payment?"


"You could buy me a drink."


Leah laughs. "I'm not that rich." She wonders if he is worth her time. She is almost back in Post, and the appeal of non-revolutionary but otherwise nice men is fading quickly.


"You're not leaving town tonight, are you?"


Leah considers the question for a moment. "I think I might have to, yeah." She glances towards the bar. "Van Gogh in there will be joining us shortly."


"I know a safe place."


"Your place?" When he doesn't answer, she says, "Good enough."Œ


He nods, and starts walking. "It's not far. Where are you heading?"


"That, I can't tell you. State secret."


"Post?"


She lets the answer fall between them, unspoken, into the muddy earth. "I've been on the road for a long time. No use in stopping now." He isn't bad looking, she thinks. He probably came from Post, a refugee of some sort. The tattoos on his arms and hands speak of jail time. She is in safe company, then.


"You should have killed him, you know," he says after awhile, "The folks in this town remember. He'll come after you soon."


Leah's eye narrows. "I'll be gone by then."


They arrive at his house, a shack of corrugated metal and stolen insulation sheets. It won't last the winter, she thinks, probably most of the buildings here won't. It is late summer, but she can already feel the chill in her bones. She ties the mule outside and follows him in. He takes her in his arms as she crosses the doorway.


There is something in him, some dark, wild, feral thing that reminds her of Max, and that is enough to stop her from breaking away. She can pretend. This is Max's hair, grown long enough to curl at the tips, Max's beard scraping against her cheeks.


(It is not enough to be faithful to a person. People change, die, they disappear into thin air when you let go of their hands and let them slip away. To love, to give yourself completely to another, you must be faithful only to ideas, to ideals.)


And so she allows herself to be led.


He is rough, but not so rough as Max had been. Perhaps her scars dissuade him, convince him that she is a fragile, vulnerable thing. Perhaps Leah no longer has the strength to compel, to meet this man's violence with her own. She lies back oddly disappointed, until he has finished with her.


"You're crying," he says finally.


"Am I?" She touches her face, feeling dampness. She feels oddly disjointed, removed. "I guess I am."


"What's wrong?"


She traces her finger over the spiral between his thumb and forefinger, months, years ticked off in black ink. "How long were you in jail?" she asks.


"Not jail," he corrects, "Work camp." He lifts his head to look at her. She is overcome with a sense of elusiveness, unable to ever look at him directly in the eyes. "And you?"


"Too long," she replies.


His gaze unwavering, he says, "You loved someone."


"Sure," Leah says, "Doesn't everybody?"


"What happened to him?"


Leah sits up, wrapping the thin blanket on the bed around her bare shoulders. "He's dead, I suppose. They all are."


"The saviors of the working class?"


"Ah, so you do have a sense of humour."


He shrugs. "I met a few of them, in the camps. You can't avoid them. They're drawn there like flies to shit."


"You never wanted to join them?"


"I wanted to get out. Not get shipped somewhere even worse."


The sound that emerges from Leah's throat is like a laugh that has been rotting for several weeks. Five years ago, the woman who had shouted, "Freedom! Long live the socialist revolution!" at the hardened men digging roads with pick-axes might have condemned him, thought him a coward. She knows better now. "I can't blame you," she says.


He is evaluating her. She lets the blanket drop and stands in front of him, naked except for the patch over her eye. She feels exposed. It is not the exposure of being without clothing. It is the exposure of being without skin.


"Come with me."


He shakes his head. "I have all this," he says, gesturing at the shack's interior, the piles of clothes on the floor. "Why give it up?"


"For freedom." She reaches for her shirt.


"The kind of freedom that costs an eye? No thanks."


"That's a nasty blow. I haven't done anything to you."


"I don't believe in all that."


"I think you doŠI think everyone does. Everyone walks around with the vague impression that something is horribly wrong with the world. They're just too numb to do anything about it."


"Or they lack the privilege of being revolutionaries."


Leah smiles. "Yeah. That too."


"Are you lost?"


"No." The light is strange in here - instead of glass on the windows, he has nailed plastic sheets to the inside of the walls. Now the sun is glowing, filling the room, and she realizes they have been here all night. "I'm not lost. I know where Post is. I'm just not sure of what I'll find when I get there."


He nods, almost sympathetic. "If you want, I can take you by the work camps. Maybe you'll find some of your people there."


She stares at him. "Why? I mean, why help me?"


For a moment, he doesn't speak. Then he says, "They will kill you, when you go back to Post."


"Yes," she replies, "Probably. Why does it matter to you?"


He considers the question briefly. "It doesn't," he says, "It's an old rebel's last strike at the system. Just to let them know that they haven't completely broken me."


Leah fumbles with the buttons on her shirt, then slips into her pair of faded jeans. "Thanks. Muchos gracias."


He waves a hand. "It's nothing. Do you want to go now?"


"I'd like to sleep."


"Sleep."


She sits in the overstuffed, tattered armchair by the window, tilting her head against the cushion. Dimly, she is aware of the man on the bed, watching her. Sometimes she removes the patch at night but she can't bring herself to do this now. Half of her vision is premature darkness. She hopes the rest will follow soon.


She falls asleep.