Flannery's Bear - Part 4
This is what Gabriel wrote, that afternoon and into the evening of the 20th of December, 1963. Once upon a time there was no doubt. He lived in a small clay hut. The floor was smooth ground, was hard dry mud trod and trod again by feet coming, going, coming, going, and sometimes staying. His bed was a yellow and green mat of woven grass, still fresh and with a scent of field. It was light, and easy to roll up to stow away, or to carry. Although it was thin he slept well on it and he did not wake sore. This morning he felt well rested and refreshed, if somewhat dislocated. It was the sun that woke him, this new sun. This white, somewhat disorienting sun. This bright sun. The low half circle that was the hut’s opening faced its rising above the mountain ridge on the far side of the valley below. As it climbed, it lit the sky above him, touched the mountain behind him, then entered his hut and his eyes through shut lids. This is what woke him. And then he knew morning again. The end of another darkness, of another inactivity so deep he could not remember doing this nothing. He welcomed this new sun, this warm sun, white and closer. He crawled on knees and hands through the opening and out into the pleasant morning air. He was tall and slender. He was black skinned and strong. He stood up and it felt good to stretch arms and legs and lungs. It was good here, wherever here was. Under this closer sun. His hut was built on the edge of a large plateau high above the valley floor. The plateau was a wide expanse of green rippled by the morning winds. The man smiled as he held the air and watched the small, bright clouds overhead. This wasn’t so bad after all. A loud screech rose from the sea of grass to his left and a large bird took wide wing. Rose with the sound. He watched as the bird, startled and escaping, winged higher and higher into the morning sky. Another screech, as in answer, reached him and with it another bird, a copy of the first, arose further still to his left and soon circled with the first looking down at some shared annoyance. He walked toward a movement in the grass to see what could have stirred those powerful wings. The movement at the same time parted the grass toward him and soon they met. It was a large, beautiful cat. Not black, as cats should be, but cat nonetheless. Green eyes and sharp teeth, long, pink tongue. A deep voice spoke slowly and wondered who he was. He had not heard a voice like this, words like these, for . . . he could not remember when. Rumbling, whispering. He wondered how the cat could speak such and answered him that he was not altogether sure exactly who he was, it was a bit of a blur, really, but there was no doubt, he said, that he had been recently sentenced, and that he was here serving time. At this the big cat sneezed and sat down on his hind legs and looked at him long and hard. For what crime, he asked in the end. I don’t remember, he answered. And who are you, he asked of the cat. I am Cheetah, he answered. Is that a cat? Yes. “Are you serving time too?” he asked. “Yes,” said the cat. They looked at each other for some time. He was trying to find the cat within the cat who called himself Cheetah. Looking from the man within the man. “What was your crime?” he asked. “We all are,” the cat added, ignoring his question. “Why did you scare the birds off?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to scare them,” answered Cheetah. “It was a mistake.” He didn’t understand and looked at the cat for an answer. “I meant to catch me one.” “Why?” “To eat.” “Eat?” “Yes.” He looked up at the two circling pairs of wings, closer to the ground now. Looking down at them. Concerned. “What is eat?” “How long have you been here?” asked the cat. “I don’t know. Perhaps two risings of this sun.” “In another rising or two and you will know what I mean.” There was a new movement in the tall grass and the antlers and heads of two deer made their way through the green sea to their right. The cat stiffened and watched the brown backs part the grass. Got to go, he said, and set out after the deer. The man, still wondering about eat stood still, looking at the yellow and black of the cat moving away from him. He almost called the deer in warning but knew it would offend the cat so instead he simply watched. Watched the frozen panic of the brown animals, heads and antlers etched against the undulating green, watched the tail of the cat moving slowly from side to side creeping closer. Watched the sudden brown flight and the tremendous pursuit of the cat. Saw the leap, the kill, heard the cry, smelled the blood, almost felt the meat torn from the bones of the dead animal. Saw the other deer stop a ways off, still, sad, relieved. He wondered why this was taking place. He walked over to the cat. The cat didn’t turn around at first, but once the man’s presence was beyond doubt he looked up with fiery eyes and growled a low and threatening greeting. The man stopped and asked what he was doing. The cat did not answer, so the man asked again. Eating, said the cat between bites. The man remained for a while, watching, wondering about eat. The cat did not turn again and the man left him to his strange chore. When Cheetah had finished his task there was only the broken suggestion of deer left on the ground, a long twisted neck, torn and dark with blood, an empty eye looking up at the man, the deer within the deer gone. Freed? He thought not. He turned and walked back towards his hut. The two birds overhead were settling back into the grass and he walked towards them, maybe they too could speak, and tell him about this eat. As he drew closer he saw one lean next to the other and whisper something. If a wing could point, it pointed at him and they both took to the air again, screeching. He admired their aerial artistry for a while and tried to remember flying. There should be memories, there were memories, he was certain, but like stones slippery with moss they could not be grasped. He fetched nothing. The birds remained aloft and he walked back to the hut. Inside he rolled up his mat and placed it along the wall. He sat down on the ground and thought again about eat. He tried to remember. Remember the feeling that had certainly possessed the cat, had made him rude. But like flight these memories were elusive, and though they cast shadows they seemed of no substance and he fetched nothing from his groping. The sun climbed further and the band of light on his floor grew shorter and brighter. He thought about closing his eyes to enter the darkness again but felt not and could not find the restfulness. Not with the sun high. So he sat for a long time on his hut floor looking out across the valley, at the trees clustering the valley floor, at the grasses, grasses everywhere and the many animals, deer, antelopes, zebras, elephants, other cats, both larger and smaller than Cheetah, strolling some, eating some, sleeping some in the sun. How could they sleep when he could not? He crawled through the opening again and stood up. Other birds were soaring overhead. Some flew close to each other as in conversation. Others darted singly up and down seemingly without purpose. Cheetah came back. Quietly. One moment there was no one, the next there was Cheetah again. Had a good eat, he wondered. Yes, said the Cheetah. Hungry yet? he added. “Hungry?” “It’s must eat,” said the Cheetah. “No,” he answered. “But I’ve thought about it.” “That’s how it starts,” said the Cheetah. “Can you remember?” asked the man. The Cheetah didn’t answer, but instead began to clean his left front paw with his large pink tongue. The man could hear each raspy lick and watched the long white whiskers fold and unfold as he again and again licked pads and claws and furry top. There was also the faint smell of blood in the air. “Can you remember?” he asked again. The Cheetah slowly put his paw down and looked like he would begin cleaning the other, but he did not. “Not much,” he said. “What then?” he asked. “Only being Cheetah,” said the Cheetah. “Nothing else?” “No.” “No other sun?” “No.” “But you’re serving time. You remember that.” “I don’t remember that. I know that.” The man thought about that and saw that the Cheetah was right. No memory there. Just know. He nodded. “What about the others?” he asked. “Do they know too?” “Most do,” said the Cheetah. “Can they all talk?” “Most do,” repeated the Cheetah. “Anyone remember?” “Only this sun,” said the Cheetah, and left. This sun was setting now. The man watched its slow dive behind the mountain, bringing shadow to the valley. Cheetah returned again from the grassy nowhere and sat down beside the man. The world was stiller now, but for a larger roar than the Cheetah’s coming from the valley below. Another like you, he asked. No, said Cheetah, Lion. You don’t want to meet him hungry. He will eat you. For that matter, you may want to stay away from me too if you see me too hungry for choosing. I’d settle for man flesh in a pinch. “Like the deer?” “Yes.” “Seriously?” “Quite.” They spoke no more and soon Cheetah disappeared into the dusk. Restfulness returned to the man. He crept back into his hut and closed his eyes. The closer sun reached the top of the ridge and found his eyelids, lit his eyes. He woke and looked out and onto the valley below, still in shadow from the range, still not lit by the closer sun which had now entered him. Entered with a new heat, an ember at first below his heart, now waking in small steps. First into hollowness, then into glow, then into pain into larger pain, into hunger and suddenly eat was all he knew. He crawled out on hands and knees, but not with pleasure. With urgency. He stood up and surveyed his world, no longer for beauty and fresh light, but for food. Shadows cast by daemon memories dictated motion, guided his feet, steered his eyes and he remembered the birds. Cheetah had stalked them. Food. He tried to remember where, exactly, while his hunger twisted below. He walked through the grass, seeing no birds. Then the screech and the powerful down beat of muscle and feather. The bird rose and screamed the warning. He was not going to catch him. Instead he knew to look for where the bird had hid and found the nest. Large and brown, filled with eggs. With food. He bent to pick one, to eat one, when talons ripped long, red furrows across his shoulders. The pain seared through and he whipped around to see the bird again, to feel the down draft of desperation and anger. The bird had grown fearless and dove for him again. He was too perplexed to get out of the way and talons found his ear this time and drew blood. Then he ran. His shoulders and ear were pulsing and burning from the attack and he needed water to cool them. The hunger returned below and told him about eggs to eat. But eggs told him about talons to rip and he stalled, undecided. Pain returned and clamored for water. He found the path to the water hole. He had seen it traveled by antelopes and zebras. Pain and hunger made battle but pain prevailed. He must soothe his shoulder. And there was Cheetah sitting on the path, smelling the air. Green eyes held his steadily as he approached. His tail was tapping up tiny puffs of dust behind him. The man could see four sharp teeth as the Cheetah smiled. “Hungry now?” he asked. The man did not answer. A new feeling, sparked by green eyes, told him to run. Cheetah sat very still except for tail and nostrils. The man stood very still now as Cheetah’s muscles tensed and rippled. Then the big cat leaped. Claws found his chest, teeth found his neck and powerful jaws closed down over arteries and spine. He heard his own neck break before all went quiet as he looked down on Cheetah taking his first bite out of his shoulder. Then there was a new darkness. Once upon a time there was no doubt. He lived in a small clay hut. The floor was smooth ground, was hard dry mud trod and trod again by feet coming, going, coming, going, and sometimes staying. His bed was a yellow and green mat of woven grass, still fresh and with a scent of field. It was light, and easy to roll up to stow away, or to carry. Although it was thin he slept well on it and he did not wake sore. This morning he felt well rested and refreshed, if somewhat dislocated.
: Before Flannery fell asleep that night she said to the bear: “I’m worried about what his wife may do to him, she’s such a wonderful girl, you know. But when the urge hits, and it will, she’ll derail him.” The bear, as usual, said nothing. : “I am putting together a few notes of my own,” said Flannery the following morning. “For what they’re worth, I’ll have them ready for you before you leave.” Gabriel was showing her his Elements of Fiction survey at breakfast, and she was pleasantly impressed, leafing through the pages with interest. “Are they quotes?” asked Gabriel. “Are what quotes?” “Your notes.” “No, just thoughts.” “Ah.” She read on. “You have a keen eye for what makes fiction work,” she said. “Not me. I’m just mining the work of others.” “Don’t undervalue a selective eye,” she answered, still scanning his pages. “Be sure to include what Matthew Arnold said about style,” she said. “I’ve already made a note of it,” he answered. She looked up at him over the rim of her glasses and smiled. “I knew you would,” she said. He said nothing, just watched her intent scrutiny, seeing again, clearly, his sister from the little house by the edge of the valley. “I like the way you’ve organized this,” she muttered. Then she looked up at him, struck by the thought: “Did you finish your assignment?” “I did.” “So, where is it?” “Here,” he said, and handed her the thin sheaf of papers by his side. She took them without comment and began to read. Gabriel finished his eggs and toast at about the same time Flannery finished his story. “There’s hope,” she said. “You’ve taken well to English, or perhaps it has taken well to you.” Gabriel smiled at that and said: “I have a strange and overpowering feeling that it has always been an inherent part of myself. English was for me neither a matter of choice nor adoption. The merest idea of choice had never entered my head. And as to adoption—well, yes, there was adoption; but it was I who was adopted by the genius of the language, which directly I came out of the stammering stage made me its own so completely that its very idiom I truly believe had a direct action on my temperament and fashioned my still plastic character.” “You didn’t just make that up?” said Flannery. “No, I’m quoting Conrad.” “Ah. Excellent memory.” “It’s all coming back nicely,” he answered. : It was a strange Christmas Eve. For everyone. Flannery had declared that this year, in honor of her guests from overseas, all presents were to be handed out, in the Swedish fashion, by Santa himself, on Christmas eve. “No stockings?” her mother had asked while preparing the eggnog. “No stockings,” confirmed Flannery. Barbro had baked Swedish gingersnaps which, although strange to the taste of the help, were a hit. Stranger still, though, was Santa Claus. Shot, the hired help, black as night and not a little indolent, was pressed into service by Flannery and Regina ganging up on him while also bribing him with expensive whiskey and eggnog. In Sweden, Santa Clause arrives in person with a large bag of presents slung over his shoulder. He knocks on the door, and when let in is supposed to look imposing, though friendly, and then say, sternly like, but with a glint in his eye: “Does this house contain any good children?” Whereupon all children present (and most of the adults—at least everyone with still a trace of child in their heart) all yell, “YES”. Santa accepts this answer at face value and proceeds to sit down, opens his bag, picks up the first present: “To Gabriel from Mom.” And so it goes. Shot, however, once let in, looked neither imposing nor friendly, and had forgotten his line. “Some of that eggnog sure enough would hit the spot right about now,” is what he actually did say, which Barbro found hilarious and set her giggling. That took the edge off Flannery’s frown and Shot was forgiven. Regina was still asking Flannery about stockings, surely they had stockings in Sweden. “No, dear parent,” Flannery said more than once that night. “They do not hang up stockings in Sweden. Let’s do without them, just this once, please?” “But this may be your last . . .” Regina began, then bit her tongue and forced herself not to cry. “I know, I know,” Flannery said, and hugged her mother. “You’re probably right, but in honor of our guests.” Shot, who could read, but only with difficulty, and with strong glasses which he fished out of Santa’s coat, took his time handing out the presents—between eggnog refills, and in the warm parlor began to disrobe well before he was done with his Clausey duties. By the time he handed out the final present—which Flannery had passed him on the not-so-sly, Shot was back to being only himself, reading with difficulty though his glass bottle bottom glasses: “To Gabriel from Flannery.” It was the collection of Flannery’s thoughts on the craft, carefully typed, then stitched together in a small book by Flannery herself, which he stayed up late that night, reading. This was the one book he would never lose. Regina sneaked down into the parlor at one in the morning on Christmas Day and hung up four stockings, which she filled with trinkets and candy. : On the eve of their departure for London, it was now January 2nd, 1964, Gabriel sat with Flannery in her bedroom. Flannery, exhausted from the busy holiday season, was leaning into her heavy pillows and seemed asleep. Gabriel knew that she was not. “I have trouble staying awake,” he said. “Not surprising,” Flannery answered without opening her eyes. “Your first letter brought me around, but only temporarily. It opened my eyes, but only a crack, and only for a moment.” Flannery looked at him and nodded. “When you sent the second letter, with the one from Conrad, everything did come back, clearer, stronger. As strong as knowing. Then, four or five days later I caught myself having forgotten again. Only by picking up the Conrad letter again did I come awake.” “That’s what the blanket does,” said Flannery. Gabriel nodded, “Yes, I know.” After a spell of silence, when they both heard the soft hush of a steady but fine rain outside, Flannery said, “Poor Heather.” “Maybe she’ll recognize me?” “Don’t get your hopes up.” “But it’s worth a try?” “Why, I guess.” “What if I fall asleep, like Heather?” asked Gabriel. “What happens then?” “Then,” said Flannery. “I’ll have to think of something else.” “Netoniel?” “No, I don’t think so. I don’t think he will be of much help. Even if I could find him, which I doubt.” Then Gabriel asked the question that had been on his mind all Christmas. “Even if I do reach them, say a hundred million sleeping souls, will that undo the blanket? Will that actually make a difference?” Flannery closed her eyes and didn’t answer for so long that Gabriel thought for a moment that she had actually fallen asleep. Then she opened her eyes again and looked at him. “I have seen what makes the blanket,” she said finally. Gabriel did not answer. “I don’t know whether Netoniel meant for this to happen or not, but whenever a wish is made, his mirror captures and reverses it.” Gabriel nodded, yes, he knew that. “It is this opposite that returns to the soul, and which he then acts on,” she said. “Yes.” “But the original wish, passing through the mirror, lives on. Unfulfilled it cannot die, and instead forms a thin silvery thread that drifts upward into its huge sibling population, where it adds yet another strand to the blanket, or mist, or fog.” “You’ve seen this?” “I have.” Gabriel looked out at the rain for a spell. “So, the blanket is made of dead wishes?” “No, not dead. You are not listening. Quite the opposite, undead.” “Undead. Unfulfilled.” “Yes,” said Flannery. “So, is there . . . ?” began Gabriel “I think that the death of a mirror will free its undead wishes to seek their attainment at last. And when they do, when they are free to become the intent they are, they can finally rest. Accomplished. No more strand.” “So, with the mirror gone. No more strands.” Flannery nodded, yes. “But remember,” she said. “It is being added to constantly, at an ever madder rate. You must wake up at least one half of the population of Earth before the blanket will cease to grow, and all on Earth before it will vanish.” “All awake?” “Awake enough to stop creating Netoniel’s mirror.” Gabriel looked at her steady eyes looking at him. “That is a very tall order,” he said. “I know.” “And you, your books? How many do you think?” “Not even a dent,” she answered with a frown. “Not even a scratch on a dent.” “And you suppose that I?” “For one,” said Flannery, “we don’t have a choice. For two, you can do this better than I, as long as you stay awake.” “Oh, I doubt that.” “No, I know that.” “As long as I stay awake?” “That’s imperative.” “Mind if I borrow the bear?” “I don’t mind at all, but he might. Staying awake with his help, though, is not a pleasant proposition. He’s got a very painful way of reminding you.” Gabriel looked around the little bedroom, littered with books and magazines. “How many souls on this planet, would you say?” “Two billion?” “So I have to wake one billion?” “That’s to stop it from growing.” Gabriel shook his head. “You’d better hone your skills, Gabriel,” said Flannery. “I’d better turn into a God.” “No, no, no. Don’t even go there. They have enough problems with religion as it is. Also, I’ve tried that route, the religious metaphor route. Didn’t work. At least not for me.” “No, I mean, I’d better perform some miracles.” “Won’t work, Gabriel. They can only cast this blanket off from within. Each and every soul has to find Netoniel’s mirror and see for himself that he is indeed the one putting it there. That he is creating it. Once they see that, their wishes will work again. There is no other way, really, than reaching, touching, and waking one soul at a time.” “But that’s an impossible task, Flannery.” “It must not be. It simply must not be.” Then they both fell silent. The rain kept up its soft hiss outside. Flannery’s breathing changed into something softer, sweeter, something less punished by the bear who stood listening in the corner, recognizing Gabriel, of course. She was asleep. Gabriel left her room to pack. In the parlor he asked Regina again if the airline had called yet to confirm their one day stopover in New York. Regina said yes, they did call. It was all settled now. Gabriel thanked her. A day would be enough for him and Barbro to travel from New York to Ridgefield and back. : Heather was hurting. Lately Frank had taken to punishing her with a belt on her bare buttocks. She found it impossible to sit, hard to walk, and made her way through the crisp winter morning with difficulty. The two grocery bags were heavy, but she managed all right, her arms were unhurt. A young couple was walking towards her on the sidewalk. He was perhaps twenty, so blond that the sun seemed to make a private pool around his head. She seemed a little older, though almost as blond. His face was flushed by the cold and his breath came out in little clouds, same as his girlfriend’s or wife’s, same as her own for that matter. As they came closer the young man’s face looked faintly familiar, like something in a dream may look faintly familiar to something you meet in the waking world, and so connects the two. He was looking directly at her as they approached, and the feeling of having seen him before grew almost painful. She’d heard of deja vu and this was really it. The need to make a connection mounted and she was about to say something to him when he killed her by speaking first. “Heather,” he said. Hearing her own name, surrounded by cloud, issue from the lips of a complete stranger found and twisted something fundamental within her. The dream face turned nightmare in an instant and the blanket jealously clamped down completely. The young man no longer seemed familiar, he seemed much more like a threat. Probably someone from the school board, actually. Sent to ‘rescue’ her again. How many thousand times would she have to tell them that she didn’t need rescuing. That her family was just fine, for them to mind their own damn business. “Heather,” he said again and stopped, not five feet away. “Who wants to know?” “It’s me, Gabriel.” “I don’t know any Gabriel.” He exchanged a quick glance with his girl. “How about Flannery? Do you know Flannery?” “She from the school board too?” He looked confused, too confused to be faking it, she thought. Or a very good actor. “The school board?” he said. “Listen mister, if you don’t mind. I need to get home with these groceries.” “You don’t remember me, Heather?” “I’ve never seen you in my life.” “The bear,” he said then. “The what?” “The bear.” “Are you crazy? Please leave me alone. I have enough trouble as it is without crazy people I don’t know.” They looked at each other again, almost sadly, she thought. She could not make them out, what they were about. But they were becoming a nuisance, this she knew. “So,” she said. “Not very nice to have met you.” She shifted her grips on the grocery bags and set off for her house. Neither of them moved, so she had to walk around them. She didn’t look back, but she knew that they were still watching her, standing where she had left them. Luckily, though, they didn’t try to follow. That night Heather dreamed of a soft meadow with a tall grass that knew how to bend without the help of wind. And just for a flicker, for a spark of a moment, she saw his face again, Gabriel. But then she turned onto her back and her burning buttocks brought her awake enough to roll over on her left side to escape the pain. Her new dream was of something completely different, to do with Frank. : Gabriel looked out of the small, partially frosted window of the 707 taking him and Barbro back to London. Flannery had bought them first-class seats and the flight was comfortable. Barbro was asleep beside him, her head now and then falling onto his left shoulder. He gently eased down to the floor for his travel bag where he kept Flannery’s notes. Barbro did not wake up. The little book was about one hundred pages long, with one quote, neatly typed, per page. Flannery had taken good care with her typing, and had also added some decorative borders here and there, along with numerous little drawings of peacocks. He knew that he was holding a lifeline in his hands. His sister’s legacy. He continued to read: The writer's business is to contemplate experience, not to be merged in it. That, of course, thought Gabriel to himself, was easier said than done. And what experience was she talking about? This, planet Earth’s, or the real, the true experience of the soul? Of course what choice did he have right now than to be merged in it, the Earth and its blanket. Still, he could picture himself, in the stillness of his room, quietly pulling back from it all to view things from an inward distance, no matter how minute. That was of course what she meant. And also, he could see this even more clearly, this would help him stay awake, as it was certainly intended to by Flannery. “Imagination is the light by which we see. Well, that’s true. He had realized this himself not long ago, for what they called imagination here on Earth, they called creation back home, where what you imagined did in fact materialize—well, if you were any good at it. Here, he had noticed more than once, this was not the case. The imagined stayed imagined only—fantasy they called it, and if truly wished, Netoniel’s mirror took care to reverse it, while the original wish sailed on as yet another strand. No, there was no imagining things into existence here. Except, as Flannery was pointing out, for the writer, and especially for him, mirror-less. But back home, what you imagine, becomes. What other light would you need? Then it occurred to him: were these quotes written specifically for him, or were they aimed at other writers? Or, naturally, both? He settled on both, in the end. “Imagination is the light by which we see,” he read again, softly to himself and looked out the window, back at the enormous wing and its two large engines, down at the fading sea, New York now two hours behind them. He felt the Earth beneath him as a ball. As a ball for only the second time since he arrived. This giant, giant ball that for all its giantness is a rather small planet. Well, it’s all a matter of perspective, of course, people were so damn small here, everything so damn small. And so much of it. He had thought it before, and mentioned it to Barbro several times, how you cannot even breathe the air on this Earth without inhaling some form of life, some million, trillion forms of life. And he mused again, letting his eyes rest on the water far below, there is life everywhere, in the soil, in the water, in the air, scurrying around on the ground in the guise of two hundred and fifty thousand species, species if you please, of beetles, or flapping around in the air in the guise of one hundred forty-eight thousand species of butterflies. Who counts these things, anyway? And how many species have yet to be discovered, or are being mutated into right now? If a planet was ever crowded, this was it. There is literally hardly room to breathe, he thought, and if you don’t watch out, someone or something will breathe you. And I am to wake them up? Why so many? And why this place? Was it all Netoniel’s doing? He found that hard to believe. Barbro shifted in her sleep and brought her head over to the left of her seat. He adjusted her pillow for her and she seemed to grunt a soft thanks. A ball. He closed his eyes, a ball. Then he too fell asleep, with a firm grasp on Flannery’s book in his lap. : On February the 15th, 1964 Flannery wrote this letter to Fiona McCullough: We appear to all have our nasal drips stopped for the moment by the right amounts of anti-histamine. Louise’s and Shot’s cases are complicated by liquor and a bucket of potash water which she keeps handy to throw on him. He gave her a bad blow over the eye, or at least she claims he did. He claims she was so drunk she fell down and hit her head on the fender. Anyway these trials are normal. Miss Mary is out of the hospital and Robert appears okay. I may have to go into the hospital some time soon for an operation but that will have to await somebody else’s decision. Meanwhile, I am trying to have out a book of short stories in the fall but I doubt very much I will get it as the manuscript would have to be delivered in May and there is much work to be done on it. What did you think of the Hawkes opus? I am supposed to go there in April and read on my way to Boston and if I get there, I will view them in their natural habitat but not stay with them. My two new swans arrived and they look like a much younger pair than the last, have high voices and use them considerable. The weather has been too bad for me to get out and commune with them much. Andrew Carl Sessions sent his godmother a picture of himself for Valentine’s in which he appears in cowboy hat, six-shooters etc. and looks like the old man without the learning. She was much impressed. We are broke out with records now as Thomas sent me a box full out of his basement. All I can say about it is that all classical music sounds alike to me and all the rest of it sounds like the Beatles. I am reading for the first time I’ll Take My Stand, the Agrarian Movement Manifesto which is out in a paperback. It’s a very interesting document. It’s futile of course like “woodman, spare that tree,” but still, the only time real minds have got together to talk about the South. I know I’ve asked you not to bother about Heather anymore, but just curious, do you know how she is doing? Gabriel and his wife, I keep thinking about her as his girlfriend, she looks too young to be his wife although I understand she is older than he is, arrived back in London fine and he is busy writing, at last. His English is remarkable considering that he was born and raised in Sweden. His girlfriend is a sweetie. I may try to come by Ridgefield if I make it to Boston. We will have to see about the operation first, however. Wish me well. Flannery.
: It was in the middle of March. Gabriel and Barbro were on a short visit to Stockholm. The city was overrun by snow. The snow-clearing brigades, normally so efficient, were falling behind and children could be seen skiing and otherwise enjoying themselves on the sidewalks. Gabriel sat by his large window looking out at people fishing through the ice. The room was well heated and a sense of surreal comfort spread throughout. Everything was white. He opened Flannery’s book again and read: “All novelists are fundamentally seekers and describers of the real, but the realism of each novelist will depend on his view of the ultimate reaches of reality.” Thanks, sister, he thought. That is how real I must be, how far my reality must reach. He looked out again, at the very real city below, at the very real children, one of them now falling over on skis too large for her, although she did not hurt herself, at the very real fishers on the ice, at the very real boats stuck in the ice, immobile until the April thaw sets it free. Strong hulls, he reflected. He tried to remember, to picture again, the valley, the grass, the cottage, but found them hard to grasp. He got a flimsy notion of grass, but nowhere as real as the snow outside. So which is real? He read Flannery’s quote again, but still could not decide. : Flannery next wrote Fiona McCullough on March 28th, 1964: Dear Fiona, I can scratch you out this kind of note anyway but if you are like me when I see one of your handwritten communications, you will just wish it would go away. As far as the operation goes, I suspect it has kicked up the lupus again. Anyway, I am full of infection and am back on the steroids. Possibly I will end up at Piedmont. I hope not. Piedmont is a little more antiseptic socially than this country hospital here. You don’t, as I recollect, hear what groans are being groaned in other rooms. Here there was an old lady across the hall from me who had been in the hospital since last November. She was about 92. Whenever they touched her, she roared LORD LORD LORD in the voice of a stevedore. At night when she coughed a nurse came in also in a voice you could hear anywhere and said “Pit that old stuff out, Sugar. Pit it out. Pit that old stuff out. Pit it out, Sugar,” etc. Yesterday we went to the doctor’s office—same scene as in “Revelation” but nobody in there but us and two old countrymen—about 6 ft tall & skin and bones in overalls. They just had a talk. The first one said, “Six months from now this here room will be half full of niggers” . . . “Aw,” says the other one, “it ain’t the niggers so much. It’s them high officials. Jest take the money away from them high officials & you won’t have no trouble. All it is is money.” Cassius Clay says he don’t like all this talk about hate. Says, a tiger come in the room with you you gonna either run or shoot him. That don’t mean you hate the tiger. It just means you know you and him can’t make out. Did you see Cassius interviewed by Eric Sevareid on CBS? Worth seeing. The doctor couldn’t tell much, though—or wouldn’t tell much. Still, I could see by his demeanor that he was not coming out with it. I’ll be surprised if I’m alive six months from now. Flannery
: Then on 30th of April, 1964: Dear Fiona, Don’t pay too much attention to my good uncle in the matter of people’s health. Rigor Mortis has to have started setting in before he sees any serious difficulty. He was dying to call you up and tell you but I wouldn’t let him as I have this real high blood pressure and am not supposed to have company, although the door has opened several times & somebody I haven’t seen in twenty years has burst in. They seem to think I’ll be here another week. Cheers. Flannery
: And on May 25th, 1964: Dear Fiona, I’m afraid the telephone would finish me off for good. Letters I can do, company I can now have for 10 minutes but telephone clobbers me the thought of. Only thing I would be tempted to use it for is to call up & ask how I am & be told I am resting comfortably and have peaceful days & nights! That’s the sweetest thing I ever heard, now ain’t it. Peaceful days & nights. My. It sure don’t look like I’ll ever get out of this joint. By now I know all the student nurses who “want to write”’—if they are sloppy & inefficient & can’t make up the bed, that’s them—they want to write. “Inspirational stuff I’m good at,” said one of them. “I just get so take up with it I forget what I am writing.” If you have the time, I would like to see you. Flannery
: The same day Flannery wrote a letter to Gabriel: Dear Gabriel, I can hold on perhaps another two months, not longer. The bear has pretty much ruined this shell of a body I still have to call mine. He is not too happy about it, and neither am I. It is not pleasant, dying. But I will say this, it has kept me awake, he has not let me fall under the blanket, not ever for a second, or at least not very far, and then right back out again. I don’t know how he does it, how he himself stays awake. Please write something, a story, a poem, anything, and send it to me. I would like to see what you can do now. I would like to know that you will make it. Meanwhile, as Death makes great inroads upon your sister, I will try to observe him as much as possible, to see if I can chronicle him for you. Who knows, it might come in handy. I’ll stop here. Even this much writing is a strain, and—as you can tell—I am no longer up to using a typewriter, if they would allow one in this hospital. I hope to hear from you soon. Flannery
: Gabriel read the letter again, then looked out across Fenchurch street, where a grocery store owner was having his building repainted. He could smell the red mixture all the way from where he was sitting. The building was certainly coming alive though. Barbro had gone home to Stockholm for her cousin’s graduation, and would be gone another week, at the most. He had had several days of pure solitude in which to grant what he really perceived as Flannery’s last request. Her letter had done him good, stirred him awake, something her little book tended to do as well. But it seemed to grow harder with each day, harder to grasp that sense of self which knew where he had come from. It was so much easier to look around the room, and his books, and at Barbro, and simply bow to reality: this is who I am, nothing more. But her letter had stirred him again, all the way, and sitting with it in his hand he marveled at how insidiously the blanket worked, how unnoticeably it wrapped itself around you, like mold, and told you some tales while making you forget others. He had not been able to write anything meaningful, however. “I would like to know that you will make it,” she wrote. That he was good enough, in other words. That he had mastered the craft. Christ, at eighteen? What did she expect? Then, as if a drape was brushed aside again by her letter: of course she’s right. I’m not eighteen at all, I am not this Gabriel at all. I’m not even the Conrad Gabriel. I am the real Gabriel. Still, he could not start, could think of nothing to write about. He stood up and walked over to his bookshelf, searching for inspiration. He found Conrad’s A Personal Record, a grim little book that stirred memories. He was looking for a certain section, which he had underlined. Found it. Read it again: All I know, is that for twenty months, neglecting the common joys of life that fall to the lot of the humblest on this earth, I had, like the prophet of old, ‘wrestled with the Lord’ for my creation, for the headlands of the coast, for the darkness of the Placid Gulf, the light on the snows, the clouds on the sky, and for the breath of life that had to be blown into the shapes of men and women, of Latin and Saxon, of Jew and Gentile. These are, perhaps, strong words, but it is difficult to characterise otherwise the intimacy and the strain of a creative effort in which mind and will and conscience are engaged to the full, hour after hour, day after day, away from the world, and to the exclusion of all that makes life really lovable and gentle—something for which a material parallel can only be found in the everlasting sombre stress of the westward winter passage round Cape Horn. For that too is the wrestling of men with the might of their Creator, in a great isolation from the world, without the amenities and consolations of life, a lonely struggle under a sense of overmatched littleness, for no reward that could be adequate, but for the mere winning of a longitude. Yet, a certain longitude, once won, cannot be disputed. The sun and the stars and the shape of your earth are the witnesses of your gain; whereas a handful of pages, no matter how much you have made them your own, are at best but an obscure and questionable spoil. Here they are. ‘Failure’—‘Astonishing’: take your choice; or perhaps both, or neither—a mere rustle and flutter of pieces of paper settling down in the night, and undistinguishable, like the snowflakes of a great drift destined to melt away in sunshine.
He remembered writing that. Remembered the struggle of writing that very paragraph, as if it, and not his fiction, was the real creation that had to be wrestled from a jealous Lord. And then he knew what to write for Flannery. It would not be a story, it would be a poem, about returning. He wrote: Concerning Wolves We’ve been lost and running since these many moons ago Where we are and how we came is not for me to know Through the rage of heartless weather wrought by skies unkind We still race to keep the pace for what we hope our final run will find Crossing the tundra fighting the snow trusting instinct where to go Perilous mountains rise in our path urging the gods to vent their wrath Loping through these ancient forests full moon on the rise casting shadow 'neath our flight that we may realize that for all the wooded darkness light may still betray what we are and what we seek and what this aged voice may never say Fording the rivers besting their chill finding the air colder still Thirsting for sunrise we rest on the run cursing the clouds that shield the sun We are hunters of an open country seen by our hearts and dreams and by the hunger chasing us Restless eyes and distant skyline melt into night that seems kin to the season facing us On the wind our fathers whisper that the path is true but with cold and empty belly hard to keep in view Still the deep and vibrant calling surges to the fore Lick your wounds and quell your pain the trail is long you'll run forever more Racing your shadow's speeding grace urging the pack to keep the pace Leaping the chasms plunging the deep ceding your life the pace to keep Winds are fading with the darkness dawn is near at hand Chasms rise and mountains part to yield their hinterland Blinded by the sudden stillness shivering I see No more wolf no more life no more always running left for me Facing the shadow I hoist my pride I reach the well deep inside Mythical water you slake my thirst I surge to light as shackles burst
: Flannery put the letter down and wondered how come he knew so well: “I surge to light as shackles burst.” Her shackles were bursting, from pain to be sure, but bursting nonetheless. And she was surging to light, to her own so much truer self. And then she did something she had not done very often. She cried softly. It was from loss and relief both. The loss of having to leave him here, alone. The loss of Heather. The relief of knowing that if Gabriel could stay awake, he could, no, he would make it. : The fall of 1964 was the fall that Heather set fire to Frank. Frank, however, did survive, and that is how Heather become his nurse for life, the grass and the small house at the edge of the valley forgotten even by her dreams. : The fall of 1964 was the fall that Gabriel saw the Beatles live in London and began searching for the author of the quote: “Life without music would be a mistake.” Something he had read or heard as Conrad, but could not for the life of him put his finger on. It would not be until 1969 that he found out that it had been said, or written, by Nietzsche, someone he had not at all suspected. : The fall of 1964 was the fall that Flannery left. On August 2nd she went into a coma and on August 3rd her kidneys, hugged to death by bearish tendrils, failed, and Flannery returned to the valley. The bear, however, did not. He went to London. : On August 11th, 1964, Gabriel received the following little poem in an envelope addressed to him by a shaky hand, though unmistakably Flannery’s, and mailed to him by Regina, two days after Flannery’s departure (as she had promised Flannery she would). The envelope contained nothing else, just a blank sheet of paper, folded around the little scrap of paper, upon which was scrawled by a young hand, also unmistakably Flannery’s: I'm a little angle
I lack a certain grace,
My hands are always dirty
And I never wash my face.
That was all the notification Gabriel got. He had expected more. In one of her letters she had promised him a chronicle of Death’s inroads on her, as she had put it, but if she had kept a record, she didn’t send it. Just as well, he thought. Probably just as well. He re-folded the little poem in its long settled creases, and placed it in the book she had given him for Christmas. Then he wept for his sister. : Heather never found out. Fiona McCullough approached her once in late September of 1964 to inform her, but Heather must have mistaken her for some official or other, for she looked at her startled and afraid and refused to stop and talk even when Fiona called out her name. Fiona, who moved to New York City the following spring, never saw Heather again. : Christmas Eve 1964 was picture perfect. The snow started falling on Christmas Eve morning and it continued to fall, quite heavily, but gaily nonetheless, all day. By evening, which arrived early in Stockholm, the city was draped in a quilt of perfect white, turning almost blue in the fading light. Carolers strolled the cobblestoned streets of Old Town, hushed now by a million flakes, advent candles and Christmas stars shone in most every window. It was not too cold to venture out, nor so warm the snow might melt. It was, simply, as Soren Wallengard put it, “the finest damn Christmas Eve I have ever seen, and I’ve seen a few, ha, ha,” and with that he raised his glass of glogg, hot and reeking with spices, in a toast to Christmas, and to the couple back from London for the holidays, and to the excellent news that Barbro was expecting a baby. Everyone was cheerful, warmed by love and drink, with laughter bubbling here and there in a warm and festive room where only the bear wore a frown, but no one could see him. Not even Gabriel. Barbro was shining with the promise of motherhood. : On their return to London life became the new baby, long before it arrived. It appeared that Barbro’s many talents had finally found their focus and she now knew what she was put on earth to do: to raise children. Nothing, nothing, could be more important. Not even Gabriel’s writing, no, not even that. Luckily, she thought, Gabriel agreed. The second bedroom was to become the nursery, of course. The problem was money. Of course Soren was helping, but not supporting them. Were they to move back to Stockholm, well, that would be another matter. Then they could live in his apartment, which was certainly big enough for another little one, ha, ha, and Gabriel could go back to the Academy, no? Oh, Gabriel had thought about that offer, and about little else, the last few days before they were due to return. In the end, however, a deeper need had demanded that he go back, if for no other reason than to finish learning the language, something he felt he really had to do, although, of course, on some level, he knew it better than most. Back in London the problem now was money, and Gabriel got himself a part-time job in a local bookstore, which soon became a full-time job, to make enough of it. Barbro worked too, but only part time, and would soon quit altogether, to get ready. “Surely you will have the baby at home,” said her mother over the phone. “No, Mom, we’re having it in London.” “But why?” “This is our home, Mom.” Had it been up to her, she would have loved to go home for the May delivery, but Gabriel insisted on staying, not himself quite knowing why. It had something to do with Flannery O’Connor and the little book she had given him. Then Gabriel stopped writing altogether, and that tipped the scales for the bear. He had seen enough and made up his mind. Flannery may not have approved of his methods, but she would have approved of his aim. : “Gabriel,” she said, walking into the nursery where he was busy removing old wallpaper which revealed an even older wallpaper, which exposed one older still, before he finally got to the bare wall. “Gabriel,” she repeated. He put down the scraper and turned around. “Something’s wrong,” she said. The bear’s long tendrils had grown little fangs and were now seeping into her kidney and heart and liver a tiny stream of poison. Too small to be detected as such, but plenty enough to cause the symptoms. She stood in the doorway, leaning heavily against the jamb. Small pearls of sweat glistened on her brow. Her face was sallow in the bare light of the bulb. “What’s wrong sweetnose?” he asked. “The baby?” “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s me.” With that she took a step forward to reach his arms, but she did not make it. She collapsed on the floor by his feet. : She was diagnosed with lupus. Or as the pedantic Indian doctor explained to Gabriel in his strange accent, “She has developed a rather advanced case of systemic lupus erythematosus. It is an inflammatory disease affecting connective tissue of joints and internal organs. Her liver is affected, as are her kidneys.” “Cancer?” asked Gabriel, who did not understand. “No,” said the doctor, “not cancer. Lupus.” “Lupus.” For several seconds Gabriel could not breathe. The realization was too colossal, its weight impossible to bear. That is how Flannery went. He was suddenly wide awake: the bear! Gabriel looked around the doctors office, not expecting to see him there, and he did not. But he did see him in Barbro’s bedroom. Even when they moved her back to Stockholm for what they hoped was better treatment. The bear was with her. And there was nothing Gabriel could say or do that would stop him from killing his wife. By the end of March, the fetus was declared “non-viable,” poisoned by its mother’s blood. They had to remove the fetus surgically. It was an operation the mother did not survive. : Heather changed the morphine drip. Frank was sitting immobile in his wheel chair. Much of his face was still bandaged. His arms and legs likewise. But he could sit up now and insisted on doing so, no matter how painful. Well, as long as the morphine could handle it. “The bastard isn’t going to hit anyone now, is he?” said Ralph, her younger brother, loud enough for him to hear, wanting him to hear. If Frank heard, he didn’t show. Or didn’t care. Morphine made you happy that way. “Oh, Ralph,” said Heather. “How can you say that. Look at him. He’s suffering very much.” “Not nearly enough,” said Ralph. &nbs | 
