Читать книгу Little Beast - Julie Demers - Страница 6

Outside, there is a long trail that I never take that leads to where the people are. In a different way, it also leads to where I am and where the people never go. It is a narrow, hilly trail, filled with dirty depressions and wolf traps. It’s impossible to get here wearing leather sandals – it’s useless to even try. Getting to me requires boots. Men’s boots.

One fine morning, I found my shelter waiting for me here. It had been disfigured by the burrs and the thorns and sat trembling on a pile of rocks. I smoothed out the rough edges and knit it curtains. I showed it some kindness, and now it stands tall. Now, my cabin and I lay our heads down between two mountains, safe, from dusk to dawn.

Soon weeks will have passed that it has sheltered me. Soon weeks will have passed that I have been willing. I have fallen for it, I love it, because I love all that is big and that has as few doors as possible. You can lose yourself inside and never come out.

The forest that surrounds me opens wide onto the rest of the world, treetops pointing to the sky. It is a deep, devout forest. It is meditating; its thoughts are carried on the wind through the leaves, like thousands of prayer flags. It made itself from wood, petals, and needles. When I headed toward it for the first time, the woods grabbed hold of me. The trees formed a phalanx, surrounding me. Frozen, hunched over, I noticed the earth swirling over my tracks, erasing them, and with them the possibility of heading back the way I came.

I closed the doors to my shelter and I don’t open them anymore. I let the insects, nuts, and branches drop on the roof. The wind has stopped whistling through the walls, but everything is in danger of collapsing. No matter, I tell myself. Better to be buried than to surrender. This I know from experience: if the outside gets in, the outside will win.

When I was little, everything conspired to beat a path to my door, with the light leading the charge. Now I understand that there is just one way to cope: cut off access to everything. Lock the deadbolt. Stop the light and the sound from getting in. People think music is innocent. They think that melodies, particularly lullabies, are a source of comfort. But don’t be fooled: you need to stop everything from finding a crack and making its way in.

These things are learned. Right here, right now, there is nothing. There is no one. Not even a hint of colour. Not even the sliver of an atom of anyone. I have but one head, and I am alone in it. There is nothing left except for blackness. Not the colour black, just blackness.

No doubt at this very moment someone somewhere has their eyes closed. And they aren’t thinking about me. When your eyes are closed, there are better things to do than to think about others. I didn’t go into quarantine with anyone. No one wants to be quarantined with me. And I don’t want to be quarantined with them. Frankly, when you are wise, like me, it’s probably best.