together back in their seats, in the warm night.
5.
What is he looking at? The maze of light made overhead by the high, mud-brick walls of the alley system. The aimless whorl of dust motes on the thick, slanted bar of brighter light in the intersection ahead. The synclinal area of darkened cloth at the back of the next manâs uniform, below the deeply umber, slickened skin of his neck.
And there in the very last glancing collision of thought in his mindâs eye, the realization: while the sole of his boot was there on the ground, a small system of trapped spaces mustâve formed in there between the rubberized nubbins and blocks, closed off by the sudden floor of earth beneath the boot. Closed off, a labyrinth with no entrance or middle or exit: a lightless maze. It is piercing to think of this miniature, lightless maze, enclosed by the fateful fall of his foot; a maze of darkness made of the once grand miniature landscape of Abramsâ obsessive attention, itself set within the momentary beauty of the maze of light made by the high walls of the alley. But just as soon as the image (or anti-image, as it were) is formed in Abramsâ awareness comes the hounding truth, the stomach-pit feeling of the truth: that the perfect maze of darkness within the maze of light only existed for the brief moment of the bootâs full contact; that Abrams himself has ruined it with his bootâs lifting progress; that it was ruined from that first moment of rising heel, which let in the light; that he has realized the truth about the maze within a maze just slightly too late to truly wonder at it; that it is all, in fact, already gone.
A Life
The manâs body was floating face down, slowly drifting counterclockwise in the clear water of the natural pool, his dark skin glistening as if newly splashed, like he might at any moment raise his face out of the water. Sambul and Soren perched on the low stone wall, watching his lazy circling and the deeper shimmer of green light as a turtle made its sudden glide from rock to rock beneath. Sambul watched Soren, the poolâs reflection filling the white manâs overlarge sunglasses as he crouched, kneading one hand with the other, and everyone waited for him to say what they should do.
Sambulru Moekena hadnât been the one to discover the drowned man; instead, it had been Benny, one of the trackers, knocking nervously on Sambulâs door before first light, talking quickly about the thing heâd seen, or thought heâd seen, in the springâs small reservoir. Sambul had asked Benny no questions, instead only waiting calmly until the sun was fully risen before going to see for himself. Standing there with nervous Benny beside him, the fog still swirling low in the brush, there hadnât seemed to be any way Sambul could avoid going, upon his return to the compound, up to the great house and interrupting Soren at his breakfast. Soren, for his part, hadseemed curious, almost excited by the prospect of such an anomaly, but now that they were there, in the presence of the body, Sambul recognized the old frustration in Sorenâs posture: Sorenâs annoyance with Sambul, the guides, and the world in general for presenting a problem that could not simply resolve itself.
Soren squatted on the lip of the crumbling wall surrounding the pool. He was looking up at the distant hills whence an errant British mortar shell had arced fifty years before, landing in this spot and leaving in its crater the revelation of the spring and its cool, pooling waters. Soren told Sambul once, in a jovial mood as they drove around the grounds of the preserve, that heâd always imagined the soldiers, far from home and country, had been drinking and suffered a crisis of faith when ordered to volley a last round into the native village below, turning their artillery instead to this vast stretch of flat red dirt and brush. Sambul could remember how they had laughed together,
5.
What is he looking at? The maze of light made overhead by the high, mud-brick walls of the alley system. The aimless whorl of dust motes on the thick, slanted bar of brighter light in the intersection ahead. The synclinal area of darkened cloth at the back of the next manâs uniform, below the deeply umber, slickened skin of his neck.
And there in the very last glancing collision of thought in his mindâs eye, the realization: while the sole of his boot was there on the ground, a small system of trapped spaces mustâve formed in there between the rubberized nubbins and blocks, closed off by the sudden floor of earth beneath the boot. Closed off, a labyrinth with no entrance or middle or exit: a lightless maze. It is piercing to think of this miniature, lightless maze, enclosed by the fateful fall of his foot; a maze of darkness made of the once grand miniature landscape of Abramsâ obsessive attention, itself set within the momentary beauty of the maze of light made by the high walls of the alley. But just as soon as the image (or anti-image, as it were) is formed in Abramsâ awareness comes the hounding truth, the stomach-pit feeling of the truth: that the perfect maze of darkness within the maze of light only existed for the brief moment of the bootâs full contact; that Abrams himself has ruined it with his bootâs lifting progress; that it was ruined from that first moment of rising heel, which let in the light; that he has realized the truth about the maze within a maze just slightly too late to truly wonder at it; that it is all, in fact, already gone.
A Life
The manâs body was floating face down, slowly drifting counterclockwise in the clear water of the natural pool, his dark skin glistening as if newly splashed, like he might at any moment raise his face out of the water. Sambul and Soren perched on the low stone wall, watching his lazy circling and the deeper shimmer of green light as a turtle made its sudden glide from rock to rock beneath. Sambul watched Soren, the poolâs reflection filling the white manâs overlarge sunglasses as he crouched, kneading one hand with the other, and everyone waited for him to say what they should do.
Sambulru Moekena hadnât been the one to discover the drowned man; instead, it had been Benny, one of the trackers, knocking nervously on Sambulâs door before first light, talking quickly about the thing heâd seen, or thought heâd seen, in the springâs small reservoir. Sambul had asked Benny no questions, instead only waiting calmly until the sun was fully risen before going to see for himself. Standing there with nervous Benny beside him, the fog still swirling low in the brush, there hadnât seemed to be any way Sambul could avoid going, upon his return to the compound, up to the great house and interrupting Soren at his breakfast. Soren, for his part, hadseemed curious, almost excited by the prospect of such an anomaly, but now that they were there, in the presence of the body, Sambul recognized the old frustration in Sorenâs posture: Sorenâs annoyance with Sambul, the guides, and the world in general for presenting a problem that could not simply resolve itself.
Soren squatted on the lip of the crumbling wall surrounding the pool. He was looking up at the distant hills whence an errant British mortar shell had arced fifty years before, landing in this spot and leaving in its crater the revelation of the spring and its cool, pooling waters. Soren told Sambul once, in a jovial mood as they drove around the grounds of the preserve, that heâd always imagined the soldiers, far from home and country, had been drinking and suffered a crisis of faith when ordered to volley a last round into the native village below, turning their artillery instead to this vast stretch of flat red dirt and brush. Sambul could remember how they had laughed together,
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