Autumn Leaves

The arthritic sat calmly, like a statue, on the indigo swivel chair. The doctor felt his wrists, palm and fingers, mumbling what sounded like the names of the bones and joints. “Are you a typist?” he asked, puffing on his cigar. “Nobody types anymore,” said the arthritic. “True enough,” the doctor agreed, swiveling his own indigo chair to face his manual typewriter with its fresh new form. He punched some keys to make notes, and then turned to the arthritic to ask about his profession. It was not one the doctor recognized. He prescribed some ointments and aspirin and sent the man on his way. At the end of the day, as the doctor walked down a broad avenue of chestnuts, he saw the arthritic, standing in the shade to the side, counting on his fingers, pausing, and then counting again. What was he counting? Motorists? Transients? Lost friends? Syllables? Autumn leaves? “Nobody counts anymore!” the doctor exclaimed out loud, and shuffled off to the station.

The Orange Crate

There was no sky. And a light rain fell. In the black woods, the pilgrim walked through impenetrable darkness. The strange sounds of twigs, owls, foxen and just the wind and rain in the leaves surrounded him and made him fearful. The stones and ferns were cold and wet. Suddenly, he stumbled upon something. It was a cache–a lantern and a box of matches. There was one match left. One strike of the match was luckily enough to light the lantern, but the lantern was too dim. Even the little match had been brighter, but its light had only lasted for one flashing moment. Training the lantern on his surroundings, the pilgrim searched for landmarks or signs. He seemed to be in a glen surrounded by the black boles, leaves and needles of dark and formless trees. On the far side was an orange box, perhaps another cache. Close to him, in the opposite direction, was something resembling a path of pebbles and pine needles leading deeper into the mountains. Crossing the clearing, he found that the lantern began to flicker and grow dimmer. He could no longer discern the orange box in the darkness. Perhaps he had imagined it. Recrossing the clearing, he started on the path, and suddenly the lantern light grew brighter with every footstep. Stopping, he turned back toward the clearing. A small amber flicker, like Arcturus in the night sky, glowed in the distance amongst the black trees. It must be the orange crate, he thought. With the stronger lantern, he headed back toward the clearing, but the closer he got, the dimmer the light grew, and it was next to impossible to see. Only a dark glow barely illuminated his hand holding the lantern, some oak leaves and gravel underfoot, and nothing more. Once again he headed back to the path, and continued to walk. The further he walked, the brighter the lantern glowed. It is likely that he had gone further and higher than before. Now, when he stopped and trained the light in the direction begind him, he could read the contours of the path, the textures of the pines, oaks, larch and yew, and he even noted the fact that the orange crate was still there and seemed to be stamped with large text of some sort, but he could not read the letters clearly. A wolf howled nearby. It was absurd. What was even more absurd was the fact that he had traveled safely for hours before finding the lamp and the path, and now he felt only the madness of the whispering forest.

The Great Sea

The river began to speak. It spoke to the poor dry land. It spoke to the acacias. And it whispered to the dried out grass . Then it called to the man who sat on its shore. Come and let me draw you to the sea, it said. And what is in the sea? asked the man. Great things, said the river. And years passed. The river drew silt; it hauled driftwood; it carried off scraps of paper and golden leaves and straw; it ferried swimmers and boatmen. And the old man wondered why he could not get to the sea, and why the river called to him, and why the acacias eventually died and cast their branches and trunks into the stream, but he would not set a raft upon the waters nor wade into the streams, though the river ran forever, beautiful, blue-green and deep to the sea of great things.

The Match

A roof caught fire, and the wind bore an ember far down the street until it landed in a lane right next to an old match that some passerby had thrown away after lighting a cigar. “You look burnt-out,” said the ember. “And you have flown off course,” said the dark match stick. “It’s all right, though. Our purpose has been served.” The ember glowed a little less brightly. “I fear I am running out of time. I wonder if I burned enough.” The match seemed to almost curl, perhaps in a gesture or bow to express something. “To be fire, even just once, is magic.” “Will it be awful when I am extinguished?” “No,” the match said. “The sound of my burning was beautiful. And yet, the silence is also beautiful.” They sat in silence for a bit, the ember losing its heat and glow. Its annihilation was only seconds away. “Don’t worry,” said the match. “One can burn again. In the right circumstances, everything can burn. Everything is fire. A fire waiting to happen.”

The Corpse

Only the skeletal remains of buildings languished in the mist and ash. Scattered fires burned on the street of corpses as the medics walked slowly with a stretcher, searching for survivors. In front of a burned-out tram stop, a corpse sat on the ground with his back to the pole of a streetlamp. Most of his chest had been blown open and charred. As they approached, a sound like phonograph static emerged from the corpse. Its jaws began to move, and it spoke in a voice reminiscent of a recording: “The first conclusion of the argument is that a grapefruit tree is indeed a cinchona tree. The second is that fire is only fire if the conditions are correct. In fact, there is only one main condition–the quality of the person who started the fire. Should this condition not be met, then one cannot conclude that it is fire which one sees burning. The third conclusion, as certain as the first and second, is that…” The sound suddenly stopped as one of the medics checked the wrist of the victim. There was none. “Dead,” said the firstmedic. “Dead for a long time. And not an automaton.” “What is this?” asked the other medic. “Dark magic,” said the other, straightening up. “The worst possible or imaginable kind.” They continued forward, following the railway. A body lying facedown on the rails twitched. They rushed over, lay the stretcher down, and examined the victim. Other than some scratches, the body seemed unharmed. Again, the first medic crouched down to feel the wrist. “Alive!” he shouted, gently turning the body over. The body began to talk in the same phonographic voice: “The first conclusion of the argument is that a grapefruit tree is indeed a cinchona tree. The second is that fire is only fire if the conditions are correct. In fact, there is only one main condition–the quality of the person who started the fire. Should this condition not be met, then one cannot conclude that it is fire which one sees burning…” The body jumped up with great agility and ran off. The medics picked up the stretcher and were about to continue when they heard the voice from the corpse cry out: “Would you like to continue the discussion? Would you like to hear the third conclusion?” The medics ran along the rails away from the tram stop behind them. Several blocks away, they stopped to catch their breath next to a bonfire of broken furniture. “And what is that?” asked the first medic. “Not fire,” said the second, “or fire. Horror.”

The Mobiles

Driving into the lake town, one noticed the beautiful way the magical lights danced on rain-polished streets. At every intersection, a different triad of traffic lights hung from above. At the first, the lights were chocolate, vanilla and strawberry, but things quickly got complicated. The next intersection had cotton candy, tiger tail and cake icing. Down a side street, one could glimpse other triads–rum, spumone, neapolitan; raspberry, peach, caramel; matcha, sesame and kinako. It was hard to make out the architecture; one caught glimpses of old houses with pointed roofs and stainless steel siding, gray brick warehouses and old shops with clean glass windows full of colorful round paper lanterns. Most of the stores were shuttered, but outside one of them on a three-way crossroads stood a glowing, human-sized vanilla ice-cream perfectly reflected in the puddle lapping against the curb. It was impossible to tell what the colors of the traffic lights meant; one had to guess whether the order from top to bottom was the same as everywhere else. One drove slowly. One saw crosses, stray wheels and shredded metal under the pine trees. Gardens were lined with rubber tires or cinder blocks. The broken glass on every lane sparkled with the glimmer of a fair ground. Mobiles of spark plugs, zinc fender washers, wing nuts, rod bolts, and other automotive innards hung from cottonwoods. Had it not been for the lack of other motor vehicles on the road, it would have been impossible to get around the maze of streets meandering along the hills overlooking the deep indigo waters and gray shores lined with overturned, beached boats. One would like to stop somewhere and have a pint of amber ale amongst friendly faces under strings of naked light bulbs with outdated songs playing from a jukebox. One felt the bitter pang of nostalgia, regret or relief as one drove through the last intersection of town, lit by the last triad of signals glowing in rose, butterscotch and mint.

The Old Lanterns

It was the godless month when rain lashes the coasts and leaves fall from the trees. The wandering monk entered an abandoned town full of smoke and mist. An old lantern bearing the name of paradise flickered outside a run-down building with missing roof tiles. It was most likely a tavern, and it also seemed to be the only place open. Calling out a greeting, the monk rolled the sliding door open, only to see the strangest sight. Only a few lanterns, some of them misshapen, were burning. Instead of the master standing behind the counter ordering around barmaids with trays, he saw a warrior sitting next to an empty suit of armour at the bar, pouring it some liquor and muttering a toast. There is nobody here, said the warrior. The monk nodded and sat down at the far end. The warrior got up, went behind the counter into the kitchen and returned with a filled bottle of liquor and a cup, which he placed in front of the monk. It is cold, the warrior said. The firewood was wet. The monk thanked him and downed a cup of liquor. You see me, the monk finally said. Yes, the warrior mumbled. And it appears you see me. Then we are not ghosts, the monk deduced. I don’t know, the warrior sighed, moving closer, leaving his armour to drink alone. Ghosts, the warrior repeated quietly. The rain beat a constant harsh rhythm on the roof. My horse did not follow me, the warrior explained. That is some consolation. A bitter consolation. And my wound seems healed, although I am not keen to undress and look. And I still have my bow,quiver and sword. They poured themselves more liquor and stared at the dusty furnishings and lamps. I was the only one left on the battlefield, said the warrior. I got up, and walked to the edge of the escarpment, and saw a meadow filled with the slain. I was the only one alive, though my wound was fatal and I did not have much time. The morning sky was beautiful, blue, with only scattered clouds. The larch and the birch had already turned golden. Bloody corpses lay everywhere. I wept out loud for the first time in my life. Then suddenly a clear, grating voice spoke behind me. Why are you weeping? Is it because you regret losing them? They are nothing other than you. I turned and saw a young priest, probably a heretic, with a cold, pale face, holding an accordion book of the sutras and some beads. What do you mean? I demanded. Those bodies, and every body you have ever encountered, is no one other than yourself. You have only ever met yourself. I regarded the corpses once more, and they were still lying there in the vanishing morning dew. When I turned back again, the priest was gone. My horse was nowhere to be found, yet I still felt the pain of falling from him after the enemy arrows struck me. I am a lie, I thought, and the way of the warrior is a lie. I walked into the forest. It began to rain, and I stumbled into this village. I have not seen a soul. A sound of thunder shook the mountains. They told me the same thing, said the monk. I had a raging fever, and I figured my days were done. One cool evening, I awoke. Dark monks like puppets surrounded my bed, smiling. Their smiles reminded me of those hideous festival masks or theatrical masks. Where are the others? I asked. For I did not know any of these people. They were not my friends. They were not the acolytes or monks of my monastery. I called for the abbot, but the radiant monks started to laugh. Who are you calling? they asked. I repeated the name of the abbot, and they laughed even more. That person is you, they said. No, I argued vehemently. The abbot is corpulent, kindly and good at mixing herbs. I am gaunt, younger, and fairly inept at medicine. They shook their heads in silence. In the world, you are the only one who exists. Everyone you have ever met is you. Madness, I cried. They began to make a magic lantern show on the temple wall. I could not bear to watch anymore. I ran screaming down the corridors, into the courtyard, and down the country lane. It is one thing to say that the world is an illusion, but to think that the world is uninhabited, that I have always been alone. The warrior laughed and said, I kill myself in a thousand ways for no reason. It makes no sense. The monk went into the kitchen. After some lengthy digging around, he got a fire going and heated some liquor, bringing the steaming bottles back to the counter. I had a concubine and a son, said the monk. You had nobody, said the warrior. You may as well have married your sister or mother—what difference would it have made? And don’t get any ideas about sharing a bedroll or a bath with me. The monk burst into laughter, spewing liquor all over the counter. Then the spell of laughter turned into weeping. She got angry with me one winter, the monk said. She walked into the stormy sea clutching our child, and a riptide washed them away. That is a cruel thing to endure, said the warrior. I betrayed my lord, he said after a long pause. Only my army was to be massacred. The battle got out of hand, and everyone died. The monk refilled the warrior’s cup. My concubine was my aunt and my wet nurse, said the monk. She was still my wet nurse when she took her life and the life of our child. The mountains of the north are truly cold. There was nothing to say. They just listened to the rain and stared at the old lanterns.

The Mountain View

In the early afternoon, the man summitted the high mountain. Sitting down on a rock next to a large wooden cross, he burst into tears. What is the matter? asked a woman, who had arrived just after him. I have longed for this mountain for years, I have pined for it. And now I cannot see it! I cannot see it at all!! The woman shook her head in disbelief as he bawled with his head in his hands. At last, he calmed down and asked her what she suggested. The woman drank from a stainless steel flask and said that he should never marry. And if possible, he should enter a monastery on a high mountain with a lovely view of other mountains in the distance. The man thought about her words. Twilight came, and other mountaineers found his dead body embracing the snow beneath the cross.

The Doctor and the Drunkard

            In a mining town with one short railway and one horse-drawn trolley, there was a long, low shack near the market square: a wooden structure of three solid walls, an open front which once had sliding doors, a roof with some missing tiles, and indigo cloths bearing the symbol for ice hanging above the entrances, although ice had not been sold there for years. In the shade inside, one found a long, scratched, wooden table and behind it a wooden chair. Most of the time the place was empty and only a cat could be found curled up in one of the corners. On market days and some holidays, one could find the kindest man in town here. When he was not in the shack, he was usually sweeping streets, hauling sacks of coal, or washing iron kettles for the miners, kindly listening to their problems. When he was in the shack, however, he would sit on the old chair behind the table with a bottle of firewater and a hurricane lamp. Customers would come, place silver or copper coins on the table, and hear him drunkenly rant and swear at them. Some considered him a seer, and invested great thought and time into how to interpret his offensive and enigmatic words. Others just went to be entertained—or for sadder, more delicate reasons. Most of the early evening visitors only stayed a quarter of an hour; the midnight visitors would last anywhere from one to three hours. And then before the morning light burned above the blue and white peaks, the man shuffled off with his lantern, his coat pockets stuffed with coins. And for days after, the man who had ranted and raved at his customers in the most abusive language would be sweeping the streets, happily washing kettles for the miners, and patiently listening to the old farmers complain about the frost or the blight. One night, a newly arrived doctor came to the shack. Nobody else was there, but the kind man was already flushed and deep into another bottle of liquor, his beard and pony-tail in disarray, his eyes shining with a menacing fire. The doctor placed a revolver and three silver coins on the counter. This is the last of my money, and that is what awaits me if I do not find a solution to my problem. I cannot get enough patients. The miners visit the company doctor and die before they can finish their treatments. The others stay at home and eat medicinal herbs or drink tea. I thought I could make it, but I am irrelevant here. That’s what the midnight train is for, growled the drunkard. One train—two ways to leave. Any idiot can figure that out. Is that all you’ve got? The doctor laughed nervously, noting how the drunkard never looked at the money or the revolver. They sat through a long silence. I would like a cigarette, said the drunkard suddenly, in a subdued, kind and even plaintive tone. The doctor reached into his coat and found a crumpled pack, which he pushed across the table. Keep the pack, he said. The drunkard lit a cigarette, pocketed the pack, and pushed the coins back toward the doctor. I came here some years ago to work as a cook, said the drunkard, but I was hungry and there was no work. The company would not take me on. A month passed, and I was on the verge of starving. I sold my kitchen knives and other belongings, and got drunk. I was headed for the midnight train, but got confused in the town square, just in front of the ice shop. I started ranting and raving. I got madder and madder and threw my hat down on the ground. At some point in my sermon, I realized a crowd had formed. They were laughing and clapping and throwing coins into my hat. And I repeated this once, sometimes twice a week, and before long, I had enough to buy the ice shop. The iceman was forced out of business by the company, which had built an ice factory nearby—who knows why? It’s not like coal expires. It was hard, though. It was hard in those first days, and still is. I have never liked strong drink that much and my liver always hurts. The doctor shook his head in disbelief. The kind man got up, and picked up his hurricane lantern. It’s not that they don’t need a doctor, he said, gently clutching the physician’s shoulder. It’s just that they need a disease. The kind man is said to have left on the midnight train, and the cat was never seen in the abandoned ice shop again.  

The Lake of Snow

I was heading home, but I lost my way, said the pilgrim. In the way station, they fed small birch logs into a cast iron stove. What do you remember? asked the old man feeding the stove. I remember it was like this—cutting wood and feeding stoves—and windows full of snow. And of course, the lake. Not much, the old man sighed, sitting back down on his chair to warm his hands with a mug of tea. No, not much, the pilgrim agreed. Sometimes I dream of an evening of snow, of pine trees wrapped in straw, of lanterns, and of a quiet voice that sounds like a lake. Nothing happened that evening. The snowfall was the only thing that happened, but I remember it very clearly and dream of it sometimes. The infinite snowflakes were like plum blossoms and white stars—endless. One could never count them. The old man shook his head and said, You are lost because you are made of trails without footprints, unwritten letters, and unfinished tales. That will never work. The wind shrieked outside. I don’t want to be an unfinished tale, the pilgrim implored. Return to the lake, said the old man–it is somewhere in the heavy snow.