The Gray House

Humpback comes over, with a huge backpack slung over his shoulder. He looks like a pilgrim returning from faraway lands. Bronzed and dirty. His hair, sticking up and in all other directions, is full of leaves and twigs.

“I’m moving,” he says darkly. “What kind of life is it when those guys loiter here constantly? I’ve seen them in my dreams tonight, so I’ve just about had enough.”

Humpback sits down next to Sphinx, propping his elbows on the backpack, and peers owlishly at the windows of the House.

“What’s with the ropes?”

“They’re not ropes, they’re cables,” Sphinx says. “You’re not the only one to have bad dreams.”

Humpback frowns, trying to discern the relationship between bad dreams and cables wrapped around the window bars.

“And over there?” he says, pointing at the window of the Coffeepot. To the empty frame with soot spread around it like a palm frond.

Sphinx looks at Humpback in surprise.

“That’s from the fire,” he says. “Where were you yesterday evening? You mean you didn’t see anything?”

Humpback doesn’t answer. Instead he takes out his pipe and silently fills it.

“Tell me, who does this winged youth remind you of?” Sphinx says, kicking the battered booklet.

“Solomon,” Humpback says after the briefest of looks. “Who else? When he was still Muffin, I mean.”

“Me too. And they,” Sphinx says, nodding at the tents, “are sure that it looks like Alexander.”

“It’s not funny,” Humpback says.

“No, it’s not. And the one who thinks so most is Alexander himself.”

Humpback turns to look at the gate, where by now four shaved heads are nodding and leering obsequiously.

“You mean they dragged themselves over here for him?”

“They think so. But at the same time they carry the image of Muffin with them, so I’m afraid they’re not entirely clear on who it is they need.”

Humpback falls silent. Puffs on his pipe, sneaking sideways glances at Sphinx.

“Why aren’t you wearing rakes?” he finally asks.

“Rakes got damaged in the fire. We buried them yesterday, right under your oak. Don’t tell me you missed that too.”

“I was in the Not-Here.”

“You know, I figured as much.”

They are both silent for the next ten minutes. The shaved heads crowded around the gates are desperately trying to attract their attention. The air smells of the coming storm. The sky is almost orange now, and the swifts are flying low. Sphinx takes his foot off the booklet, and it is immediately whisked away by a gust of wind. He starts whistling the Rain Song. The missing eyelashes and the red burns on the cheeks and forehead make him look almost festive. Like a country lad kissed by the sun. Humpback, on the other hand, is sullen.

“What are you going to do without them? They’re not going to bother ordering a new pair for you now.”

Sphinx nods, his eyes still closed.

“No, they’re not. But I’m managing so far. It’s even easier in some sense. Like I’m little and helpless again, and not responsible for anything. And no one is allowed to hurt me when I’m that way. I was absolutely convinced of that before I ended up here, imagine. That no one was going to hurt me. Ever.”

Humpback coughs and looks at Sphinx askance.

“You mean you returned to your Outsides childhood?”

Sphinx laughs.

“Almost. Or it’s rather like senility. A person can only be saying farewell to everything around him for so long. Waking up, going to sleep, and even in his dreams. To every face, every object, every smell. You just can’t do it. The day comes when it gets so exhausting that you simply stop feeling. Anything, at all. And then on top of everything else you lose your prosthetics. Say the solemn farewell to them too, and realize that this was the last straw. That it’s time to start saying hello to at least something. And since you can’t actually do anything, you say hello to your own self. The long-ago, helpless self. Whom everyone helped and no one dared to hurt. Cool, isn’t it?”

Humpback shakes his head.

“I don’t think I like your attitude. It smells of the nuthouse, it really does. The way I see it, it’s better to just grieve inside, quietly, than laugh over things that aren’t funny at all. More normal, I mean.”

Sphinx laughs.

“There’s no such thing as normal here anymore. But don’t worry, it’ll pass. By the way, why are your fingers bandaged? Were you banging in nails, from Here to Not-Here?”

Humpback looks at his hands. The left thumb and the right index finger are bandaged. Thickly and sloppily. The bandages are black with dirt and barely holding together. Humpback, slightly embarrassed, begins to unwrap them.

“Oh, that . . . It’s nothing. Just bites. There’s this little tot . . .”

He tears off the bandages and studies the wounds. Sphinx leans in to look as well, and when he straightens up the look in his eyes makes Humpback shrink back.

“You are going straight to the Sepulcher,” Sphinx says icily. “Or rather running. No shower, no changing. No visiting the guys. The backpack you can leave right inside the door. Go.”