without the feelings. He was frightened. For the first time in his life Jit was hearing his own thoughts in a peculiar clear way, like pennies dropped one by one on a stone floor. Nothing filled the emptiness, he could not hide from it in games, talking back to the squirrels, making the dead trees leaf again. The fuzzy echo of the voices in his mind now was welcome. He croaked a laugh, sitting up before the cold ash of his last night’s fire, and stretched for the voices, welcoming them, seeking their direction.
Outside it was still dark. The voices were dark, confused, angry, strange. Not the night voices of the park dwellers, he knew those well enough. They had been angry, violent, crafty in the way that the squirrels and rats were crafty. But there was a flavor to these new voices that Jit liked but did not understand, dangerous but curious. The voices tasted like anything could happen. And for once he could easily pick out individual voices with individual feelings, clear and distinct. That was something new: from his first memory Jit had been awash in so many voices, so many feelings, that he had only been able to pick out strands of meaning, themes.
“Hello,” he said to the darkness, to a mad voice that was howling somewhere in the night. Someone was locked up in a dark room, listening to someone else crying and muttering.
Jit giggled. He reached out for something else. A voice full of pain, incoherent with it, its owner ground beneath some heavy thing—a piece of building—was slipping in and out of consciousness. Jit played tag with the voice until it whispered away to nothing. Bolder still, he flitted from voice to voice, tasting each, stopping long enough to sample the different, singular flavors, all a little crazy, all a little strange in the darkness.
The novelty did not wear off until the morning light began to seep down to Jit’s tunnel and the voices became quieter, the game less exciting. Jit was hungry. If the voices were true, something had happened outside the Park, and he was curious. He had met images of emptiness, open streets, skyscrapers brought down and lying like fallen giants. A new playground, a wonderful new place to explore. It was time he found more food, anyway; even the squirrel that chattered when he reached for its voice knew that the hot-dog and souvlaki men would not stand on Fifth Avenue today.
The day was clear and bright. Instinct urged him back to the tunnel in daylight, but the voices said he would be safe today in the city. Jit experimented, walking coolly down the center of a path, watching from the corners of his eyes but claiming the path, the whole Park as his own.
He went west. When he listened particularly he could hear new voices, not so interesting as the night voices, but good. A woman was trapped somewhere in the dark, facing a sea of tiny eyes. Rats, Jit knew. Did she? Yes, he could taste her funny terror as they surged forward, burying her in musky scent; the tiny scrabblings of their feet against her skin before they went to work and tore into her.
That reminded him that he was hungry. For that, best to go farther north on the West Side; too far down was only towers and stores filled with things whose uses Jit could not understand. The security walls of steel mesh and old brownstone were crumbled into each other where Jit reached the Park’s edge, at Sixty-seventh Street. He scaled the pile of debris, moving agilely from displaced stone block to a doubled-up steel column, making a game of it. As he climbed it seemed the wall itself was playing with him, growing higher as he climbed. It took longer to reach the top than he had thought. In places the steel mesh grew out of the stone like a weed.
At the top of the wall Jit balanced carefully, scanning along the street, Central Park West, looking for movement, people. Uniforms. People in uniforms had taken him that one time. Now he saw nothing but the occasional skirl of a piece of paper or the lopsided roll
Outside it was still dark. The voices were dark, confused, angry, strange. Not the night voices of the park dwellers, he knew those well enough. They had been angry, violent, crafty in the way that the squirrels and rats were crafty. But there was a flavor to these new voices that Jit liked but did not understand, dangerous but curious. The voices tasted like anything could happen. And for once he could easily pick out individual voices with individual feelings, clear and distinct. That was something new: from his first memory Jit had been awash in so many voices, so many feelings, that he had only been able to pick out strands of meaning, themes.
“Hello,” he said to the darkness, to a mad voice that was howling somewhere in the night. Someone was locked up in a dark room, listening to someone else crying and muttering.
Jit giggled. He reached out for something else. A voice full of pain, incoherent with it, its owner ground beneath some heavy thing—a piece of building—was slipping in and out of consciousness. Jit played tag with the voice until it whispered away to nothing. Bolder still, he flitted from voice to voice, tasting each, stopping long enough to sample the different, singular flavors, all a little crazy, all a little strange in the darkness.
The novelty did not wear off until the morning light began to seep down to Jit’s tunnel and the voices became quieter, the game less exciting. Jit was hungry. If the voices were true, something had happened outside the Park, and he was curious. He had met images of emptiness, open streets, skyscrapers brought down and lying like fallen giants. A new playground, a wonderful new place to explore. It was time he found more food, anyway; even the squirrel that chattered when he reached for its voice knew that the hot-dog and souvlaki men would not stand on Fifth Avenue today.
The day was clear and bright. Instinct urged him back to the tunnel in daylight, but the voices said he would be safe today in the city. Jit experimented, walking coolly down the center of a path, watching from the corners of his eyes but claiming the path, the whole Park as his own.
He went west. When he listened particularly he could hear new voices, not so interesting as the night voices, but good. A woman was trapped somewhere in the dark, facing a sea of tiny eyes. Rats, Jit knew. Did she? Yes, he could taste her funny terror as they surged forward, burying her in musky scent; the tiny scrabblings of their feet against her skin before they went to work and tore into her.
That reminded him that he was hungry. For that, best to go farther north on the West Side; too far down was only towers and stores filled with things whose uses Jit could not understand. The security walls of steel mesh and old brownstone were crumbled into each other where Jit reached the Park’s edge, at Sixty-seventh Street. He scaled the pile of debris, moving agilely from displaced stone block to a doubled-up steel column, making a game of it. As he climbed it seemed the wall itself was playing with him, growing higher as he climbed. It took longer to reach the top than he had thought. In places the steel mesh grew out of the stone like a weed.
At the top of the wall Jit balanced carefully, scanning along the street, Central Park West, looking for movement, people. Uniforms. People in uniforms had taken him that one time. Now he saw nothing but the occasional skirl of a piece of paper or the lopsided roll
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