The first sentry always stood in his black and white striped shelter with its red lamp facing the cobblestone plaza in front of the train station. A man of law and vigilance, in his royal blue uniform he was the invisible observer who could not fail to note the humility of those who departed and the arrogance of those who returned. Suddenly these returning travelers knew much, spoke loudly and pretended to have forgotten their native tongue. Hauling their ostentatious baggage, waving around their passports full of stamps and making exaggerated faces and gestures as they recalled all the good sights they already missed, they passed by his post like dirty clouds that stain the clear blue sky. And thus he abandoned his post and bought a train ticket, confessing to the conductor that he hoped he might never return. The man of law who replaced him watched the departing with disgust, envying their wanton displays of freedom, deeply suspicious of their desires for foreign coasts and illegible scripts. Like mimes, these eager travelers acted out the adventures they would have just to remind the company seeing them off of how miserably small and insignificant their worldviews were. One day, the second sentry also abandoned his post, madly crying out to the ticket clerk that he hoped he would return chastised and meek. When he did return, he was court-martialed and shot. The third man of law only appeared when the new lamppost shone for the first time one evening. Standing in the striped sentry box, he watched the pigeons play in the fountain during day shifts and dreamed of books and expensive cigarettes by night. Though friendly and thankful for the bread crumbs and seeds he shared, the birds were careful, being secretly obsessed with the suspicion that he had wandered before and might wander again and knew more of their speech than he let on. When the revolution came, they would be sure to stalk him first and peck out his sandy eyes.
Long ago, the peasants were allowed to make three kinds of requests: an appeal for justice, an appeal for mercy, or an appeal for solidarity. Sometimes, they could appeal for all three at once. An appeal for justice meant that a person could demand what was owed to him. An appeal for mercy was a request to have a debt forgiven, a crime pardoned or to receive an unmerited gift. An appeal for solidarity was a request for assistance to solve a problem or merely to have one’s complaints heard and recorded for future reference. This was the law. One day, the bonesetter traveled to the capital to make all three requests. The magistrate seemed to be listening, but suddenly denied all three requests without reason. A trifecta of this nature was rare, and it was actually punishable by law. To be denied thrice or to be denied in all three categories was a symptom of either hidden crime or contagious misfortune in the supplicant, or perhaps both, for no one is really guiltless or innocent. Death or exile was the usual penalty. The bonesetter was exiled. The only place for him to go was the desert. The only desert where he thought he might survive or be happy was some 12,000 kilometres away and almost impossible to reach. Moreover, it was a land of cold waves, golden grasslands and dark mountains, a land of living skeletons, sleepwalkers and sheep. The bonesetter hoped that he would have the courage to venture there, the courage to learn about the sheep and to live with the sheep. The sheep are weighted down with so much beauty and sadness.
The omnibus was just starting to pull out when it had to stop for traffic. A terrific deluge was gurgling into the drains and brimming over curbs as the clergyman ran up to the bus stop. The man waved without hope to get the driver’s attention, and to his surprise, she graciously opened the door. As he stepped on and dropped his coins into the fare box, the clergyman said, “I don’t think you are really supposed to do that.” The light changed, traffic moved, and she drove on into the dark rainfall.
It was spring time. The scholar brought his paper on the revolutions of the spheres to the court of the academy. Despite the fact that his citations were all in order, the provost accused him of quote mining. The scholar revised his paper, adding summaries of the experts he cited, but this time the provost accused him of misrepresenting the sources and misusing the quotes, although the scholar could not see why. The provost demanded that for all future papers, candidates would have to supply the complete texts of the authors referenced in order to have their papers even considered for perusal. This was not a disaster for the scholar; he acquired the handful of books and departed for the office with his revised paper, but he could not even enter the courtyard of the academy, for all of its gates were cluttered and clogged with stacks and stacks of books. At first, the scholar was delighted. Is this a booksale? he asked a bystander. Clutching his head in his hands, the bystander said it was not. Some librarian had just submitted a new paper detailing the history of several ancient libraries and printers and had brought in all of his sources in accordance with the new laws. It is without question that half of these books are written in languages the provost cannot read, the scholar mused. The bystander laughed, and said, But look at all of the trees in bloom! Indeed, the streets had filled with white magnolia blossoms.
Once upon a time, there was a magic physic garden. Within the garden, weeds became herbs. Sometimes, herbs left the circle of the garden to become weeds. Sometimes, weeds asked for shelter, and were allowed into the garden if they became herbs. It all depended on a variety of factors–the way the sun was shining, the way the wind was blowing, the work of the garden nymphs and the temperament of the herb or weed. All of these things were regulated by the laws of nature, the laws of the garden, and the laws of the nymphs. As time passed, the nymphs forgot about their work. They spent all of their time playing with the sundials, gazing into the crystal ponds, or collecting shiny things. They added many rules to the law, and forgot many laws. At the same time, there were some weeds who began to feel that the physic garden was unfriendly for keeping out the weeds. Some weeds tried to erase the magic circle. Others were more clever; they enchanted the nymphs with cunning myths. Before long, the nymphs began to think of their own law as nothing more than a myth. They agreed to let more and more weeds in. Some nymphs and herbs still remembered the law, but these were divided into two camps—those who wanted all weeds to disappear and those who respected weeds but wished to follow their own laws and keep the garden intact. As time wore on, the forgetful nymphs and the hateful nymphs divided the ruined, chaotic garden between themselves, and all of the original nymphs and herbs were pushed out into the dark woods. It was not an easy life in the dark woods, but here weeds and herbs grew where they could. Some were chewed by silvery electric deer and others succumbed to radioactive moths and lichens, but the world did not end, medicine continued, and the mindful and lawful nymphs learned to fight mineral bears and robotic ferns. One of them reminded the living things that nature would rebuild the physic gardens, for of these had grown the first woods, the first gardens, and the first meadows. She looked forward to seeing a real bear someday.
After many seasons of traveling, the young damsel arrived at the foot of the great round tower. It was built of luminous gray stones and rose to heights that only hawks and eagles have tasted. One could barely see the crenelated battlements at its crown. There seemed to be no discernible windows. A single tall gate with a portcullis yawned before her. Trembling in her dark cloak, the damsel went forward into the tower. The sergeants in chain mail holding crossbows and guarding the entrance barely noticed her. Inside, she met a cleric who whispered that she should mount the stairs. Crossing the wide flagstone lobby, she began her ascent of the spiral staircase that wrapped around a thick column, a tower within the tower. There were no landings or chambers to encounter; the stairs wound all the way to the top. Cold and breathless, the damsel thought she would fall asleep before arriving at her destination. Suddenly, the staircase terminated in a wide chamber still encircling the thick round column at the centre. Off to the side, a princess dressed in white sat on a small throne before a large table upon which rested a candelabra, a few letters and some writing tools. The damsel bowed deeply before the throne. The princess rose, and approached the table, inviting the damsel to come forward. She took a letter from the pile of papers, inspected it and asked the damsel if it were her letter. The damsel nodded, still scarcely able to breathe. The princess announced that the damsel’s request to be a nonperson had been approved. Her relationship with the state would be severed at once; she would owe no taxes; she was no longer subject to the laws of the realm. She would be anonymous. She would not exist. The princess laughed happily and congratulated the damsel, and bade her to follow. They came to a door in the round wall of the central column. Above it, there was a black signboard with something written in white letters and roman numerals. The princess took out a key ring, searched among the many keys, and then unlocked and opened the door all the way. It was pitch black beyond the threshold. It seemed to be a bottomless cistern. A strange and haunting scent like an invisible herbarium wafted up from the depths, a scent of cold water, ammonia, old trees, weeds, night skies, eel skins, mountain stones, worn out boots, fireboxes and matches, charcoal, dust and straw. It was the heady fragrance of infinite black night. The princess looked intently into the damsel’s eyes, her own eyes electric and a slight blush rising to her cheeks. The damsel stepped closer to the darkness. Without warning, the princess embraced her, almost crushing their cheeks together, and then leaped into the cistern. The damsel fell to her knees and stared in disbelief as the princess changed from an effervescent gossamer cloud into an angel, then into a pale death mask, a white crane, a bleached butterfly, and, last of all, a fragile snowflake caught in the black whirlpool of eternity.