The Knife of Never Letting Go

And I realize I’m ready.

This is the last chance.

And I’m ready.

“I think it’s time,” I say. I look back at him. “I think now’s the time, if it’s ever gonna be.”

He licks his lips and swallows his water. He puts the cap back on the bottle. “I know,” he says.

“Time for what?” Viola asks.

“Where should I start?” Ben asks.

I shrug. “Anywhere,” I say, “as long as it’s true.”

I can hear Ben’s Noise gathering, gathering up the whole story, taking one stream out of the river, finally, the one that tells what really happened, the one hidden for so long and so deep I didn’t even know it was there for my whole up-growing life.

Viola’s silence has gone more silent than usual, as still as the night, waiting to hear what he might say.

Ben takes a deep breath.

“The Noise germ wasn’t Spackle warfare,” he says. “That’s the first thing. The germ was here when we landed. A naturally occurring phenomenon, in the air, always had been, always will be. We got outta our ships and within a day everyone could hear everyone’s thoughts. Imagine our surprise.” He pauses, remembering.

“Except it wasn’t everyone,” Viola says.

“It was just the men,” I say.

Ben nods. “No one knows why. Still don’t. Our scientists were mainly agriculturalists and the doctors couldn’t find a reason and so for a while, there was chaos. Just… chaos, like you wouldn’t believe. Chaos and confusion and Noise Noise Noise.” He scratches underneath his chin. “A lotta men scattered theirselves into far communities, getting away from Haven as fast as roads could be cut. But soon folk realized there was nothing to be done about it so for a while we all tried to live with it the best we could, found different ways to deal with it, different communities taking their own paths. Same as we did when we realized all our livestock were talking, too, and pets and local creachers.” He looks up into the sky and to the sematary around us and the river and road below.

“Everything on this planet talks to each other,” he says. “Everything. That’s what New World is. Informayshun, all the time, never stopping, whether you want it or not. The Spackle knew it, evolved to live with it, but we weren’t equipped for it. Not even close. And too much informayshun can drive a man mad. Too much informayshun becomes just Noise. And it never, never stops.” He pauses and the Noise is there, of course, like it always is, his and mine and Viola’s silence only making it louder.

“As the years went by,” he goes on, “times were hard all over New World and getting harder. Crops failing and sickness and no prosperity and no Eden. Definitely no Eden. And a preaching started spreading in the land, a poisonous preaching, a preaching that started to blame.” “They blamed the aliens,” Viola says.

“The Spackle,” I say and the shame returns.

“They blamed the Spackle,” Ben confirms. “And somehow preaching became a movement and a movement became a war.” He shakes his head. “They didn’t stand a chance. We had guns, they didn’t, and that was the end of the Spackle.” “Not all,” I say.

“No,” he says. “Not all. But they learned better than to come too near men again, I tell you that.”

A brief wind blows across the hilltop. When it stops, it’s like we’re the only three people left on New World. Us and the sematary ghosts.

“But the war’s not the end of the story,” Viola says quietly.

“No,” Ben says. “The story ain’t finished, ain’t even half finished.”

And I know it ain’t. And I know where it’s heading.

And I changed my mind. I don’t want it to finish.

But I do, too.

I look into Ben’s eyes, into his Noise.

“The war didn’t stop with the Spackle,” I say. “Not in Prentisstown.”

Ben licks his lips and I can feel unsteadiness in his Noise and hunger and grief at what he’s already imagining is our next parting.

“War is a monster,” he says, almost to himself. “War is the devil. It starts and it consumes and it grows and grows and grows.” He’s looking at me now. “And otherwise normal men become monsters, too.” “They couldn’t stand the silence,” Viola says, her voice still. “They couldn’t stand women knowing everything about them and them knowing nothing about women.”

“Some men thought that,” Ben says. “Not all. Not me, not Cillian. There were good men in Prentisstown.”

“But enough thought it,” I say.

“Yes,” he nods.

There’s another pause as the truth starts to show itself.

Finally. And forever.

Viola is shaking her head. “Are you saying…?” she says. “Are you really saying…?”

And here it is.

Here’s the thing that’s the centre of it all.

Here’s the thing that’s been growing in my head since I left the swamp, seen in flashes of men along the way, most clearly in Matthew Lyle’s but also in the reakshuns of everyone who even hears the word Prentisstown.

Here it is.

The truth.

And I don’t want it.

But I say it anyway.

“After they killed the Spackle,” I say, “the men of Prentisstown killed the women of Prentisstown.”

Viola gasps even tho she’s got to have guessed it, too.

“Not all the men,” Ben says. “But many. Allowing themselves to be swayed by Mayor Prentiss and the preachings of Aaron, who used to say that what was hidden must be evil. They killed all the women and all the men who tried to protect them.” “My ma,” I say.

Ben just nods in confirmayshun.

I feel a sickness in my stomach.

My ma dying, being killed by men I probably saw every day.

I have to sit down on a gravestone.

I have to think of something else, I just do. I have to put something else in my Noise so I can stand it.

“Who was Jessica?” I say, remembering Matthew Lyle’s Noise back in Farbranch, remembering the violence in it, the Noise that now makes sense even tho it don’t make no sense at all.

“Some people could see what was coming,” Ben says. “Jessica Elizabeth was our Mayor and she could see the way the wind was blowing.”

Jessica Elizabeth, I think. New Elizabeth.

“She organized some of the girls and younger boys to flee across the swamp,” Ben continues. “But before she could go herself with the women and the men who hadn’t lost their minds, the Mayor’s men attacked.” “And that was that,” I say, feeling numb all over. “New Elizabeth becomes Prentisstown.”

“Yer ma never thought it would happen,” Ben says, smiling sadly to himself at some memory. “So full of love that woman, so full of hope in the goodness of others.” He stops smiling. “And then there came a moment when it was too late to flee and you were way too young to be sent away and so she gave you to us, told us to keep you safe, no matter what.” I look up. “How was staying in Prentisstown keeping me safe?”

Ben’s staring right at me, sadness everywhere around him, his Noise so weighted with it, it’s a wonder he can stay upright.

“Why didn’t you leave?” I ask.

He rubs his face. “Cuz we didn’t think the attack would really happen either. Or I didn’t, anyway, and we had put the farm together and I thought it would blow over before anything really bad happened. I thought it was just rumours and paranoia, including on the part of yer ma, right up to the last.” He frowns. “I was wrong. I was stupid.” He looks away. “I was wilfully blind.” I remember his words comforting me