A Hat Full Of Sky

Tiffany took a deep breath. This was about words, and she knew about words. ‘Here is a story to believe,’ she said. ‘Once we were blobs in the sea, and then fishes, and then lizards and rats and then monkeys, and hundreds of things in between. This hand was once a fin, this hand once had claws! In my human mouth I have the pointy teeth of a wolf and the chisel teeth of a rabbit and the grinding teeth of a cow! Our blood is as salty as the sea we used to live in! When we’re frightened the hair on our skins stands up, just like it did when we had fur. We are history! Everything we’ve ever been on the way to becoming us, we still are. Would you like the rest of the story?’

Tell us, said the hiver.

‘I’m made up of the memories of my parents and grandparents, all my ancestors. They’re in the way I look, in the colour of my hair. And I’m made up of everyone I’ve ever met who’s changed the way I think. So who is “me”?’

The piece that just told us that story, said the hiver. The piece that’s truly you.

‘Well… yes. But you must have that too. You know you say you’re “us”—who is it saying it? Who is saying you’re not you? You’re not different from us. We’re just much, much better at forgetting. And we know when not to listen to the monkey.’

You’ve just puzzled us, said the hiver.

‘The old bit of our brains that wants to be head monkey, and attacks when it’s surprised,’ said Tiffany. ‘It reacts. It doesn’t think. Being human is knowing when not to be the monkey or the lizard or any of the other old echoes. But when you take people over, you silence the human part. You listen to the monkey. The monkey doesn’t know what it needs, only what it wants. No, you are not an “us”. You are an “I”.’

I, me, said the hiver. I. Who am I?

‘Do you want a name? That helps.’

Yes. A name…

‘I’ve always liked Arthur, as a name.’

Arthur, said the hiver. I like Arthur, too. And if I am, I can stop. What happens next?

‘The creatures you… took over, didn’t they die?’

Yes, said the Arthur. But we—but I didn’t see what happened. They just stopped being here.

Tiffany looked around at the endless sand. She couldn’t see anybody, but there was something out there that suggested movement. It was the occasional change in the light, perhaps, as if she was catching glimpses of something she was not supposed to see.

‘I think,’ she said, ‘that you have to cross the desert.’

What’s on the other side? said Arthur.

Tiffany hesitated. ‘Some people think you go to a better world,’ she said. ‘Some people think you come back to this one in a different body. And some think there’s just nothing. They think you just stop.’

And what do you think? Arthur asked.

‘I think that there are no words to describe it,’ said Tiffany.

Is that true? said Arthur.

‘I think that’s why you have to cross the desert,’ said Tiffany. ‘To find out.’

I will look forward to it. Thank you.

‘Goodbye… Arthur.’

She felt the hiver fall away. There wasn’t much sign of it—a movement of a few sand grains, a sizzle in the air—but it slid away slowly across the black sand.

‘An’ bad cess an’ good riddance ta’ ye!’ Rob Anybody shouted after it.

‘No,’ said Tiffany. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘Aye, but it killed folk to stay alive.’

‘It didn’t want to. It didn’t know how people work.’

‘That was a fine load of o’ blethers ye gave it, at any rate,’ said Rob admiringly. ‘Not even a gonnagle could make up a load o’ blethers like that.’

Tiffany wondered if it had been. Once, when the wandering teachers had come to the village, she had paid half a dozen eggs for a morning’s education on ***Wonders of the Univers!! *** That was expensive, for education, but it had been thoroughly worth it. The teacher had been a little bit crazy, even for a teacher, but what he’d said had seemed to make absolute sense. One of the most amazing things about the universe, he had said, was that, sooner or later, everything is made of everything else, although it’ll probably take millions and millions of years for this to happen. The other children had giggled or argued, but Tiffany knew that what had once been tiny living creatures was now the chalk of the hills. Everything went round, even stars.

That had been a very good morning, especially since she’d been refunded half an egg for pointing out that ‘Universe’ had been spelled wrong.

Was it true? Maybe that didn’t matter. Maybe it just had to be true enough for Arthur.

Her eyes, the inner eyes that opened twice, were beginning to close. She could feel the power draining away. You couldn’t stay in that state for long. You became so aware of the universe that you stopped being aware of you. How clever of humans to have learned how to close their minds. Was there anything so amazing in the universe as boredom?

She sat down, just for a moment, and picked up a handful of the sand. It rose above her hand, twisting like smoke, reflecting the starlight, then settled back as if it had all the time in the world.

She had never felt this tired.

She still heard the inner voices. The hiver had left memories behind, just a few. She could remember when there had been no stars and when there had been no such thing as ‘yesterday’. She knew what was beyond the sky and beneath the grass. But she couldn’t remember when she had last slept, properly slept, in a bed. Being unconscious didn’t count. She closed her eyes, and closed her eyes again—

Someone kicked her hard on the foot.

‘Dinnae gae to sleep!’ Rob Anybody shouted. ‘Not here! Ye cannae gae to sleep here! Rise an’ shine!’

Still feeling muzzy, Tiffany pushed herself back onto her feet, through gentle swirls of rising dust, and turned to the dark door.

It wasn’t there.

There were her footprints in the sand, but they went only a few feet and, anyway, were slowly disappearing. There was nothing around her but dead desert, for ever.

She turned back to look towards the distant mountains, but her view was blocked by a tall figure, all in black, holding a scythe. It hadn’t been there before.

GOOD AFTERNOON, said Death.