What Isn't There

The curtains having been pulled aside, the sun came through the hole in the wall and Esh awoke and began his day. His wife Erish was in the center of the house, already tending to the large steaming pot, which was wonderful smelling, full of grains and vegetables and some meat. After Esh had eaten his breakfast, he put on his shoes and tied on his girdle and kissed Erish goodbye.

“Have a good day in the fields,” Erish said after they embraced.

Esh waved goodbye as he departed. Where the path split off onto the main road, by the fig tree, he petted one of his goats and then headed toward the fields.

It was neither the planting nor harvest time for wheat, and instead an in-between time to work on one’s house or make simple tools or dig wells. But those tasks were mostly complete by now, so Esh, along with many of his neighbors, worked in the fields, doing the routine tasks like weeding and controlling pests that never stopped, and also making improvements to the farm land.

Up ahead, he saw his friend Saghaza departing from his own home, and embracing his own wife, Zimah, and then walking to the road. At the date palm, they met.

“Morning, Saghaza.”

Saghaza nodded. “Hello, Esh. Everything alright?”

Esh nodded. “Everything’s going very well.”

“Glad to hear it,” Saghaza said. “On your way to the fields?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s walk together, shall we?”

“Alright.”

Then they walked along the road together, discussing the various improvements they intended to make to their homes once the harvest was done. Esh planned to enlarge the manger for his goats, using funds raised by the extra cloth that Erish, somehow, by some miracle, had managed to produce. Saghaza planned on planting pomegranate trees and starting an orchard. They talked in excited terms, eager to begin their projects.

At the storehouse where the farm implements were kept, each removed one of the poles with the forked bronze end used for weeding, then they made their way to the field.

It was a large field, held communally by the village, where both the work and the proceeds were divided among the villagers, after a certain amount had been set aside to support the few village artisans who worked exclusively at their crafts, and also the tribute for the King of their land, who was far away and they had never seen, but they saw his emissaries nonetheless, who were well armed.

They spoke the same language, Esh and his fellow villagers and the emissaries from the king, and they understood well that this portion of their harvest would finance an army to protect them all from invaders. War had never touched their land in Esh’s lifetime, but he still remembered well the stories of his grandfather, who had been to war and had informed him of all the dangers that lurked outside their lands. So it made sense. And when the emissaries would come, and they were always different men, they and the villagers would tell each other stories of their respective villages, things from the past, and they always echoed. They were the same, even if they lived so far away. And the tribute was for a common purpose, just as the surplus for the artisans was for the common good.

Though, Esh knew, darkly, that this arrangement was fine in good times. But when droughts came, or locusts, or floods, and the grain bins were empty, the emissaries still came on and demanded their share, no matter what manner of calamity had befallen the village, and accepted no excuse.

Then the relationship was strained, tempers flared and danger began to lurk on the horizon.

“Not enough work this time of year, eh?” Saghaza said, observing him.

Esh was stirred and became conscious of Saghaza’s observant eyes. “Just pondering, I guess.”

“Well I guess it’s a good time for pondering.”

“Yes, I guess you’re right.”

Saghaza was a little older than Esh. In the past couple of years, a little gray had come into his beard. He was full of wisdom. He had five children. They soon reached the furrows of wheat and began to hunt for the weeds.

As they were working, another of the villagers, Gishkim, walked by their furrow. Esh straightened up to greet him. “Morning, Gishkim,” he said.

But Gishkim seemed not to hear and said nothing, only continued on down the furrow, his hands clasped behind his back. Esh watched Gishkim as he made his way to the other end of the field, then he turned to Saghaza. “I wonder where he’s going?” He speared another weed and threw it down between the furrows.

“He’s not carrying any tools,” Saghaza said. “Let’s ask him where he’s going, shall we?” Saghaza straightened up and leaned on his implement. “Hey, Gishkim, where are you headed?” he said in a loud, clear voice.

But Gishkim continued walking.

Saghaza shrugged. “Guess he’s out of sorts today.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Esh agreed. “After all, we all have those days, don’t we? When the world seems upside down.”

“Yes, we all do,” Saghaza said.

They continued their work.

After the weeding was finished, and the sun was high in the midday sky, Esh and Saghaza sat down at the edge of the field, by a small stream that ran by the trees and there they broke their bread. It was a simple meal: flat bread and a little honey. Then they went back to the field, judged it a fine day’s work, and decided to head on to the village proper, where they could get a drink of mead at the tavern.

The village proper, where the artisans worked and trade was conducted, was a group of a dozen or so buildings clustered around a central square, with a well in the center. The tavern was on one side of the square.

Esh and Saghaza sat down in the tavern and paid for their mead. A few other villagers were also lunching there.

“I tell ya, the King’s no good!”

It was one of the old men of the village, a real character named Afghou. Esh and Saghaza watched with placid smiles on their faces as Afghou expounded with vigorous agitation.

“Takes a tenth of our harvest, and what do we get in return? Nothing! I tell ya, it’s a real racket! When I was a boy, my grandfather told me of the good ol’ days, when we didn’t have any king, and lived as free men, did as we pleased. No tax-collectors, no soldiers stamping around, inspecting everything! Why, it was a simpler time!”

“But we’re protected, Afghou,” Esh interjected. “From the barbarians that live outside our lands. The raiders and marauders who shoot arrows from horses and burn and loot villages. Surely this is a better arrangement.” Saghaza nodded in wise agreement.

Afghou was unfazed. “Think all that grain we give them is for our protection?” He turned and faced Esh. “Tell me, you ever been to the Big City?”

“Big City?” Esh asked, puzzled. “What’s that?”

“Hah! Ain’t even been to the Big City. Why, it’s the King’s palace. Do you know that he lives in a great house made of stone taller than the trees? It reaches into the sky! He wears clothes made with threads of gold, and has a hundred wives. That is where your grain goes, young fella!”

Esh turned to Saghaza. “Could that be true? Threads of gold? A hundred wives?”

“I doubt it, Esh,” Saghaza said. “Even if a man could live like that, why would one want to, when one has family, friends, a full stomach and a home and garden to call one’s own? Can the King cheat death, evade sickness and disease, buy his way into heaven?”

Esh saw the reason of that. Yes, it was a fine life they led in the village. And the bad things in life would not be ameliorated with gold and a house taller than the trees and many wives.

That put an end to those thoughts for Esh. After he and Saghaza had finished their mead, they left the tavern, leaving Afghou to complain to the barkeeper.

Outside, in the village square, they stretched themselves in the sun, thinking of home and their wives and the various projects they could work on. Then they took a left at the cypress and started out on the road that led from the village back to their own homes.

On the way, they again talked of all they would do when they got back, and of the upcoming harvest, which looked to be a good one. Kora, the village mayor, a wise man, had plans to expand the common fields, to enlarge the stables and the grain houses, and to plant more orchards where they would grow grapes for wine. With the cash sales from the wine they could then buy iron instead of bronze and share it out among all the villagers, thereby increasing the good fortune of all. He was full of ideas for the future and Esh and Saghaza talked of him with admiration.

About midway to their homes, they were talking of the merchants that sometimes passed through town, and wondering at their lives and the strange things they had seen, when Esh stopped and tapped Saghaza’s arm.

“Look, it’s Gishkim again.”

And it was Gishkim, standing a little ways off the road, on the grass, under an almond tree, staring at the ground, holding his chin in his hand. Saghaza gave Esh a perplexed look.

“What’s gotten into Gishkim?”

Esh shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose he’s still out of sorts, but if he’s been like this the whole day, it must be something serious.”

“Let’s go find out,” Saghaza said.

They approached Gishkim, who had now sat down beneath the almond tree and lounged against it, staring up into the branches.

“Hello, Gishkim,” Saghaza said. “How are you today?”

Gishkim look at them mournfully. “Oh, fine, I guess.”

“We noticed you’re looking a little dispondent lately,” Esh said, “and were wondering if anything is the matter?”

Gishkim’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh! It’s that obvious, is it? That I’m out of sorts? You can tell that easily?”

“Well...yes,” Esh said.

Saghaza nodded in agreement. “It’s not too subtle, Gishkim. It’s fairly clear that something’s bothering you. Would you like to talk about it?”

Gishkim reached up towards the almond tree and grabbed a low-hanging branch and began to gently pull at it. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt, I suppose.” He continued to pull on the branch, bouncing it up and down. The leaves shook and a few of them departed from the tree and landed at their feet. Then he let the branch go.

“It relates to something I heard a while back from Afghou,” Gishkim said.

“Afghou?” Esh and Saghaza said simultaneously.

“That’s right,” Gishkim said. “I was at the tavern having a drink of mead and Afghou was discussing something with the barkeep, and he said something about a mammoth.”

“What’s a mammoth?” Esh asked.

“That’s what I wondered, too,” Gishkim said. He sat up now, crosslegged, bent over a leaf that he began to tear into pieces. “Afghou said a mammoth is a creature that lived a long time ago, but does not exist any longer. It was larger than a house, with a nose ten feet long, and giant teeth that stuck out of its mouth and would impale a man.”

“Sounds like one of Afghou’s tall tales,” Esh said. “We heard one just today, about stone buildings taller than trees and men with a hundred wives. It is just a fantastic tale, Gishkim, nothing more.”

“Yes, I would’ve thought so, too,” Gishkim said. “Except Afghou produced one of the molars from this creature. Afghou says that far to the north, in the summer, when the ice melts, in some spots the ground reveals the bones of the creature. The molar was sold to him by a trader. He showed it to me. It is as big as a man’s fist.”

Esh snorted.

But Saghaza was a little quiet and thoughtful. “I, too, have heard of these creatures.”

Esh looked at Saghaza with amazement. “Truly?”

“I’ve heard it,” Saghaza said, “from my father, long ago, and one of the traders of silk who used to water his camels here.”

“Yes,” Gishkim continued. “Afghou said men used to hunt the mammoth. Tribes far to the north, very far to the north in fact, many months of travelling away, maybe years. They would hunt the mammoth, and they did so so often that now those creatures are gone, wiped off the face of the Earth entirely. Gone forever.” Now Gishkim stopped speaking at merely stared into the distance, his face all screwed up.

“Yes?” Esh said. “Go on, Gishkim.”

“That is all,” Gishkim said simply, still staring. “I was thinking about the mammoth.”

“What do you mean?” Esh asked.

“Well, it was there, and now it’s not,” Gishkim said. “All of them, apparently, are gone. Me, you, Saghaza, we might as well have never even known of their existence at all if it wasn’t for Afghou and the chance stories collected from traders, merchants and soldiers over the years. Not many know of the mammoth, and soon no one will remember them at all!”

“I don’t see why this should make you so despondent, Gishkim,” Saghaza said plainly. “The fate of an animal, let alone one you have never seen, does not seem worth getting upset over.”

Gishkim bit his lip and began to grow uneasy, shifting back and forth in the dirt. His lips pursed up and the muscles around his eyes gathered together. “Well, there are other things, too,” he said vaguely.

Then Gishkim got up and, without a backward glance, clasped his hands behind his back and began to walk off down the road. Esh and Saghaza stared after him, concerned and puzzled.

*

After he had made it a league or so down the road, Gishkim decided it would be good to calm his nerves with a drink of meade at the tavern, so he looped back around through the almond orchard, as to avoid running into Esh and Saghaza again, and then made his way across Farmer Igozba's pasture. At the old walnut tree, he re-entered the road and then headed for the village square. At the tavern, he found Afghou slumped in his chair, asleep, next to his drink of meade. Gishkim ordered some wine then sat next to him. How old is Afghou? Gishkim wondered. The old man had been old, as he remembered, even when Gishkim had been a boy. Surely there was no one older in the village. And to have seen so much, over the course of his long life, Afghou must surely be a repository of the best kind of wisdom. Next to him, Afghou seemed to mumble something under his breath, then, stirring slightly, his head drifted down to the table and he began to snore softly. Afghou, old chap, so soon to depart, Gishkim thought. I will miss you, spending so many hours in this very tavern, listening to your stories. "Mmbmmbmm," Afghou said in response. Then you will be buried, out in the village cemetary, Gishkim thought, and your bones will remain there in the earth, just like the bones of the mammoth who were now all gone. Not so very different from the bones of the mammoth, either, except in size, for all creatures when the flesh is stripped away resembled each other on the inside. Mammoth bones, and lion bones, and gazelle bones, and cow and sheep bones, and bones from man, if you put them in a pile all together and mixed them up you wouldn't be able to tell one from another. All the same, made from the same stuff, the earth. Out of it we arise, and we all feed off of it, and then we all return to it. Gishkim took a big gulp of his wine. Beside him, Afghou began to mumble again. "Emmmreff econseeee," he seemed to say. Gishkim wondered what Afghou thought of his nearing departure from this life. What attention had he devoted to it? What did he think came after the body stopped moving? What became of the person? For that matter, what became of the mammoth? He took another big gulp of wine, paid the barkeeper and headed back out of the tavern. It was dusk now, and the light was quickly fading and the early stars could now be seen. At the poplar tree, Gishkim took a left, still feeling unsettled and wanting to think on some more.

*

Back inside the tavern, the snoring stopped. Afghou opened one eye, which peered around in a keen circular motion. "He's gone," the barkeep said. "You can stop pretending now, Afghou." Afghou lifted himself from the table and began to mirthfully chuckle. "Not a very nice trick," the barkeep said. "No, not very nice," Afghou agreed. "But have you ever talked to the boy? What a bore he is." Afghou rolled his eyes. "And he'll believe anything." He began to dig for something in his pocket, and soon produced and held up something that looked like a large tooth. "Carved this from the leg bone of a cow," he said proudly. The barkeep pointed. "I know that tooth! You have shown it to many of the villagers, and have told them it was the tooth of a great elephantine beast!" "Yes, but nobody believes me!" Afghou said. "They all think I'm a bit touched, a bit funny. No one, except for that boy. You know what he is?" "What's that?" the barkeep asked. "A patsy," Afghou said.

*

Gishkim took the main road out of town, heading east as the sun was melting into the horizon. He walked quickly, his head down, without any particular direction in mind, a cloud of dusty sand kicking up behind him as he went.

He walked for what he thought must have been a few league or more. But as the sun finally sank down and the sky opened to the stars, remembering that vagabonds and rogues were often on the roads at night, waiting for unwary travelers or the loaded carts of traders, he decided to get off the road. He started off down an embankment on the side of the road, but in the dark he must have lost his footing, for he began to slip and scramble down, finally coming to rest at the bottom covered in sand and dust, scratched by rocks. But it was no matter, and he paid no mind. He continued on, away from the road.

The land around their village was mostly bare: plains with good, rich earth that would sometimes flood. To the south it turned to desert. But to the north it was hilly and lush and the clouds would linger there. There were many trees and streams. Gishkim headed in that direction.

He took a little trail through a small vineyard, walked past a farmhouse, with candles ablaze inside, and proceeded on up a well-worn trail that led into the hills.

The trees of the hills were old and stout, covered with very respectable, old bark. Mostly pines and cypresses, with the kind of green, spiny leaves that seem to absorb the pearl light from the moon and mix it in secret ways that must make them come more alive.

He stopped where the trail branched, and sat down on a large boulder, with a flat space good for sitting. He was breathing a little heavily, he noticed. Gishkim, you’re out of shape, he thought. Too much wandering and pondering lately. Not enough working, probably. He inspected his feet and his arms, noting the scratches from his fall down the embankment and the small pin-pricks of blood, here and there. And he had torn his robe in a few places as well. But it did not matter, not really.

From his perch on the rock, among the trees, high up, he stared down the hill, into the small vineyard, the farmhouse all lit up, and the road, with the thieves and marauders no doubt prowling back and forth along it, disguised as old women, bent-over, hauling big bundles on their backs, and beyond the road where there were more fields and farmland, and then, beyond that, the desert, with its far-off bone-dry craggy rock-hills. And surmounted above everything was the starry field of the night sky, blueish and purple, thickly littered with glittering, jewely dust swirled far across and over the impossibly wide black expanse.

Gishkim stared at the stars, transfixed. Nothing comparable existed in the daytime, he realized. He wondered why that was.

Here too, Gishkim found the mammoth, waiting for him, in the sky. Among the stars, out in the ether, all of the long-ago things, receding in the past, and also into the distance in the sky, far out there, into whatever or wherever it was. It was blocked, cut off from them. Gishkim suddenly felt very large, like a giant, like he had been filled with water and expanded and grown. And he felt that he was filled with people, too, innumerable small people, coursing through his insides, plying their trades in his body, a whole village inside of him, ready to come out. Maybe they would come out, at night, and go about their business, retreating when the day came.

Suddenly, down below, by the farmhouse, Gishkim heard a door creak open and shut. He looked down. A swinging point of light advancing toward him. Soon enough he could see it was an old man, holding a lamp in one hand, and walking along unsteadily, gripping a staff with his other hand. Nevertheless, the man began to proceed up the steep trail.

Gishkim, on his rock, withdrew a little into the shadows and watched the old man. His movements were agonizing slow, but determined and consistent. First, the staff would be plunged into the earth, making a sound like ‘plonk’. Then the man would shuffle forward a little. Then he would lift the staff up again, reach out, and plunge it back down into the earth. ‘Plonk!’ Then shuffle forward a little more.

At this rate, it would take the man ages to reach the rock, and Gishkim did not especially want to talk to him in the first place. So, getting off his rock, he proceeded further up the trail, into the hills.

‘Plonk!’

Back down below, the old man saw Gishkim rise up off his rock and move further into the forest, heading up one of the south trails. The old man paused for a moment and watched the moonlit figure disappear behind some trees. He wiped his brow.

He’ll come out right around the pond, the old man thought. Lifting up his staff, he plunged it back into the ground and shuffled forward a bit more. I’m so old, I can barely lift my feet off the ground. Each time he shuffled forward, little ridges of dirt collected in front of each shoe. What a trick life played on you! He raised up his staff again.

Plonk! He had lived at the foot of this forested hilly land for over seventy years. He knew it so well that it was now a part of him. As much as one knows one’s own mind after seventy years, or one’s own face, or any other number of things about oneself, the old man knew this land.

He knew each individual tree, of which there were perhaps a couple thousand. He knew most of the rocks, from the boulders to those only the size of a fist, that had lain in their places for decades; they were all catalogued away in his mind. He knew where the sun rose and set on every day of the year. He knew how sound carried and was shaped in any given part of the hills, so he could know exactly where things were by the sound of them. And he had found all of the hiding places of the animals, all of the burrows and nests, and knew exactly where to look for them at any particular moment. There were hundreds of animals, large and small, that called this area home as well as he did, and many of those animals, such as some of the tortoises, had called it home for as long as he, if not longer. And the animals knew him, too, and were not afraid of him. They were all an extension of himself, an extension of his life.

Reaching the rock where Gishkim had been sitting, the old man took a break and sat down. He was breathing heavily. His house looked so far away, all lit up. He took a moment to examine the stars over the desert land far away and this refreshed his spirit.

He looked up to the right, where Gishkim had retreated further into the forest, up a trail that followed a steep slope that was practically a cliff. Eventually, the old man knew, his visitor would loop around and inevitably come back down to the pond, one way or another. Then he would either loop back down around, back past the old man’s house and to the road, or he would go around the pond, and that would lead him to the other side of the hills, and from there, where would he go?

So, I’ll meet him by the willow tree, the old man decided. I’ll watch him for a few moments, to determine what sort of fellow he is, then I’ll either let him go on into the forest and leave him to his fate, or offer him a place to stay for the night.

Having decided everything, the old man lifted himself from the rock and shuffled off towards the pond, which wasn’t very far. He could take his time getting there, and on the way perhaps he could see a few of the creatures whom he knew so well.

Further into the hills, and in the opposite direction, Gishkim was now mindlessly following the trail. It was clear and well-worn and Gishkim made rapid progress, walking, walking. In silence.

“Oh, I’m so lost,” he thought to himself, suddenly feeling quite morose, and not at all enchanted with the stars or the way the trees had been in the moonlight. And he no longer felt the community within, but was now only one of their number, his own small self within his self, shuffling along in the night in the woods.

But here too, walking along this moon-lit path in the woods, feeling miserable and confused, here too he found the mammoth, dwindling down, dwindling, dwindling, down through the stars that were on Gishkim’s hollow, void-like insides that extended forever in all directions, down into the void, everything proceeding down into the space from whence it had come, down and down.

The mammoth- he wondered what it had looked like. The ten-foot nose, the giant spiked teeth, as big as a house, trundling over the Earth. What conceivable reason could it have for being here? Gishkim frowned as he walked. He felt offended. The mammoth had disappeared, but how could such a creature fit into the world in the first place? And having lived, despite being out of place, how could it be taken out again? He was feeling more and more irritated by this conundrum, more and more confused at the senseless disappearance of the mammoth when he stepped into a puddle.

He glanced up.

It wasn’t just a puddle. It was overspill onto the path from a large pond. Here, the trees had retreated into a ring around the pond, and the sky and the stars were like a bowl, reflected in the very still waters of the pond, so there were more like two skies, instead of just the one. Gishkim stepped along the outside of the path, to avoid getting his feet wet, sheltering under the trees as he went along.

He looked at the pond, expecting the two skies to provide him some miraculous feeling, but he was beyond all of that, he felt. It was a body of water. Very still. That was all. It did not soothe his disjointed spirit. But then something caught his attention.

He stopped and peered at the opposite bank of the pond. There were things moving there. Very slowly. Round things, plodding along. Three or four of them. Tortoises! Gishkim thought. What a treat. Funny little things. Occasionally he would run across one between his house and the village proper. They seemed to like taking roads, for some reason.

Gishkim suddenly laid out his plans for the night, all at once. It was decided. He would spend some time with the tortoises. Still keeping to the edge of the path, he circled around the pond.

They were tortoises. Four of them, marching in single file along the edge of the pond, munching on grass as they went. Gishkim sat down on a stump and watched them as they slowly walked along. They did not seem to notice him or mind him. Tortoises are very brave, Gishkim thought, as he sat on the stump. They can retract into their shell at any moment and make themselves impenetrable, so they can be risk-takers.

One of the tortoises, the last one, at the very back of the line, stopped. It craned its neck and stared sleepily at Gishkim for a few moments, its eyes dispassionate and imperturbable. Then, having evidently made its judgement, it turned back and tore more turf from the edge of the pond and began to chew.

And very nearby, behind the old willow tree, the old man shuffled forward, having reached his destination. He rested against his staff and took a breather.

There was the young man, he observed. On a stump. Watching the tortoises. Seems like a good sort, fond of animals, but what is he doing out here in the night? The old man thought a moment. Evidently, the young man was not going any further into the forest, not following the path into the hills. He would remain at the pond for a while, then he would go back the way he had come.

So the old man decided not to interfere. He would neither talk to the young man, nor leave him to fate, but would wait here a while longer, then make the long trek back to his home by the vineyard, where he would collapse into bed, exhausted.

*

As the pale light of dawn appeared faintly in the sky, Gishkim slipped down from the hills. He had had some difficulty retracing his steps and finding his way out of the forest, but then again he had also had all night to do it, so he felt not much of a feeling of pride when he finally sighted the large, flat rock at the bottom of the trail.

Here, he rested. Ooooh, he thought, while he stretched, I'm so tired! How was he ever going to complete a day's work in the fields? But then again, would anyone notice he was gone. He had never been the most dependable, the most productive worker in the village.

But, regardless, he must get back. He set off down the final part of the path.