‘I am dead grass on the riverbank. You are dead grass on the bank as well / I am dead grass …’
‘Well, well, well,’ said a familiar old voice in the cold, dark night. ‘Fancy meeting you here again.’
Shocked, Y turned to see the old man sitting beside him on the riverbank.
‘What luck,’ said the old man, ‘that our paths should cross again.’
Y shook his head and said, ‘It’s hardly luck, is it? You’ve been following me, stalking and spying on me, no doubt. Who are you? What do you want?’
‘I am simply a man with a debt,’ said the old man. ‘A grateful man, wishing to thank the person who saved my life. Nothing more …’
Y shook his head again and said, ‘Well, if that is truly the case, then you more than repaid me. So forget any sense of debt; you owe me nothing.’
‘No! How can you say that,’ asked the old man. ‘The gift of life is the most precious gift there is. It can never be repaid in full. And so lay your head upon these stones, upon this riverbank, and when you first sense the light of the morning sun, then you will wake again to find your reward. Please lay down your head, please now close your eyes …’
Shocked again, Y felt himself caught in a sudden tempest of emotions and sensations: the promise of blank sheets of paper, the urgency of a flowing pen and its words upon those sheets, the applause of his critics, the adulation of his readers, the scent of alcohol, the taste of women, pride and greed, gluttony and lust, oblivion and regret, bankruptcy and despair, a black and starless sky, the riverbank, the stones and the water …
‘No,’ said Y. ‘No, thank you. I return your gift, I refuse your gift. For I am not worthy to receive it. Please give it to someone else. For I would only squander it again. And so I do not want it.’
‘Then tell me,’ asked the old man, ‘what do you want?’
And now, for the first time, Y saw the old man, saw the old man as he truly was: far from being the eccentric philanthropist Y had once imagined, the old man sat beside him now was dressed in threadbare, stinking rags, his hair long and matted, his skin ingrained with dirt, ancient and weather-beaten. And Y reached out and took the old man’s hand, squeezed it in his own and said, ‘I want to live as you live, I want to be as you are. Please take me as your disciple. Please, I beg you. Please teach me …’
For a long while, the old man was silent, staring down at his own hand pressed tightly between Y’s hands. Then slowly, the old man raised his face and stared into Y’s eyes and said, ‘What you are asking is far from easy. What you are asking involves great pain and suffering. So please look into your heart, please ask yourself, Is this truly what I want?’
His grip tightening, Y nodded and said, ‘It is, it is. Believe me, please.’
‘Then if you’re truly certain,’ said the old man, ‘I will do as you ask.’
Elated, Y shouted with joy, ‘Thank you! Thank you!’
‘No,’ whispered the old man. ‘For this you do not need to thank me, and for this you will not thank me. Just remember: you asked for this, and remain certain in your heart, be certain in your heart …’
Y nodded and said, ‘I will, I will …’
‘Then please now close your eyes …’
And Y closed his eyes.
‘And only open them again on the count of three,’ said the old man. ‘One, two …
‘3’
The air thin, the wind biting and his footing precarious, Y opened his eyes; the world had vanished, leaving only the clouds around him and the ground beneath him. Y tried to steady himself, timidly shifting from foot to foot. Y tried to get his bearings, nervously straining to even glimpse his feet: Y seemed to be standing on a flowing heaping of tumbled fragments, rolling and turning under his feet, empty shells bursting beneath him, clattering and crashing down, down, down with soft, hollow echoings as faint, cold fires lighted and died at every breaking far down, down, down below him. Dizzy and nauseous with fear and vertigo, Y closed his eyes, and Y cried out, ‘Where am I? Where am I? What is this place?’
Now Y felt a hand upon his arm, steady and sure, and Y opened his eyes again; the clouds had parted and the old man was stood beside him, dressed in a coat of shining white feathers, his head clean and shaved, his skin translucent and newborn.
Y reached for the old man’s hand, gripping and squeezing it in his own, tighter and tighter, asking, ‘Where am I? Tell me, what is this place?’
‘Look,’ said the old man. ‘Just look, and then you’ll see.’
And now, for the first time, Y saw this place, saw this place for what and where it truly was: not ground, not ground beneath him, not ground above nor ground about him, but naked steeps, steeps of heapings, yes, but endless heapings, heapings of fragments, yes, but measureless and monstrous, of skulls, of skulls and fragments of skulls, and of teeth and bone, of bone and dust of bone, all
