Quibble, 7. Quill
Arriving in a surreal, frightening place, Quibble befriends Definition, a woman running from her past.
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7. Quill @Definition
I stand before Quibble’s mirror, looking at my double. I go to my desk and write. I stand and look again. I write. I wait for something to come clear – I don’t know what.
Am I just a fool? Did I let myself love a person no one can love because no one can really know her? Or does that not matter – did loving her only depend on knowing myself? What did I know of myself? Do I still know it?
I thought I was prepared to lose Quibble. I watched my joy turn to ashes in my hands, but I had seen that before. I dared not hope that she and I might yet reunite, once she unburdened herself of her own errand or the one Vega put before her. Without had taught me not to hope.
She was brought to us by Alnasl, who would go on to make so much trouble for her. Even then, I mistrusted this Zero – but I mistrusted them all. Quibble trusted him too much. She saw an earnestness of purpose in him. I never really convinced her that someone could be earnest and fair-minded and even benevolent but still wrong.
On the evening Quibble came to us, the sky had darkened with an approaching storm. I was strolling the monastery’s western parapet when Ellipsis called to me from a door in the cloister below. I descended the stone stair to meet her. The squat woman, three years with us then, was almost wholly incapable. She had gained little balance but much weight – she teetered as she walked, as if on the verge of falling. I half expected she was calling me in to instruct her in some menial task I had shown her how to do a dozen times already. Some Dazed are like that: they can’t wrap their minds around the simplest bit of work. Their expressions are dull too – so dull that I can seldom make out their actual mood. As an Adroit, I read most faces well, even the faces of Zeros. So these inept, unexpressive Dazed sometimes annoy me. As I reached Ellipsis at the doorway, though, I skanced something akin to surprise on her face.
“Kindness, Ell, what is it?”
“Cate wants you,” she said. “Quickly.”
“He can fetch his own wine and bank his own fire. My day is done.”
Ell skanced me. “Not in the garret, Nish. In the dormitory. Ours.” By which she meant the women’s wing.
“Newly Dazed?”
She bit her lip – I took it to mean yes.
I hurried in, a litany of fresh demands crowding my head. The arrival of a newly Dazed brings such work and care, most of it mine. They have only known the confines of an Egg and, before that, Within. In our world, Without, they are simpletons; even the Egg cannot prepare them for this. First I would make the Dazed comfortable if I could: a bed and, if she would bear it, a blanket. Food, which I would spoon-feed her. Clothing her would be tedious and, at this hour, pointless. I would show her how to dress herself tomorrow. For now, she would have to make do with whatever clothes the Zeros who’d brought her allowed her to keep, if any. Some Zeros left a Dazed with nothing, naked and helpless as a newborn.
I almost let myself ponder how becoming Dazed is like a rebirth, but I checked myself. No, I thought, not that night-door.
It is a curse and a hell. Going the next step – becoming Adroit – is worse, if you ask me. We Adroit can pick up a spoon without thinking about it, without looking carefully at the spoon and saying to ourselves, It is a spoon. I will pick it up. We never have to tell ourselves, That is a sunbeam. I will not embrace it. We’ve reconciled our minds to seen things, learned how we relate to them. Attached ourselves to the world Without. But to attach yourself to reality is to suffer again, more deeply, when it’s torn from you. To accept agony as the price of living. It’s a low bargain – and for what?
Unity is right, I often thought. We’re all heretics.
I came to the corridor of cells partitioned in the dormitory for the newly Dazed. A candle burned at the end of the hall. In the cell I found Indication with the Dazed and to my surprise Alnasl. The sort of Zero called a vision, Alnasl was short, lean, stern of face. He had small ears and a long, broad nose. His hair was close-cropped in the Zero’s fashion, but in a bit of eccentricity he also kept a thick mustache and beard. His cloak was white, as I knew was that of his lord Aladfar, the sort called a silence. All Zeros had skin many shades darker than any One. I puzzled over their provenance. A Zero’s eyes were a deeper mystery, though. Alnasl’s irises were overlarge – almost no white sclera to his eyes at all – and pure black, matching the pupils. All Zeros had these eyes. Staring at me out of his, Alnasl expressed nothing at all. Just as a vision should.
I almost asked Cate why Alnasl had stayed but thought better of it. One does not question a Zero’s actions in his presence.
Cate introduced me to Quibble. She wore a cotton shift, at least. But she seemed exhausted, possibly sick. I bit my tongue but inwardly raged at the Zeros – at Alnasl and whoever else had the charge of this Dazed before me. Had they fed her poorly? Left her wakeful too long? I wondered, in fact, whether they’d subjected her to any control or kindness at all. A scant moment after telling me her name, Quibble seemed entirely distracted, as if she’d forgotten I or anyone else was there and drifted off into a private dream. I let out a sigh. One of these daydreamers. Perfect.
“When did she last eat?” I asked, walking past all three of them to the window. Outside, it was already deep dusk under the billowing storm clouds. The moon was in its first quarter, but we wouldn’t see it tonight.
“I do not know,” Alnasl answered.
I wanted to strike him. Instead I said, “Surely it’s in her history.” I turned, held out my hand. “Tell me, please.”
A moment of silence. Alnasl gave me the blank gaze so typical of Zeros.
“You’ll have to do without it,” Cate broke in.
“Without it?”
“There is no history,” Alnasl murmured.
Skancing my stupefaction or indignation – which one prevailed? – Cate said, “Quibble is here now. Do your best, Nish.” With that, he left. His crutches tapped off down the corridor, a metronome to his steps. Alnasl followed him.
Just perfect.
Left alone with me, Quibble began to squirm, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, clenching and unclenching her fists. Agitated, though still aloof.
I suddenly felt worn out. Mine had been a long day, mostly spent supervising the shearing of our sheep, time-consuming work since Dazed can hardly be trusted to shear wool and not their own hands. Now I looked upon a new labor and wondered whether I would even sleep tonight. If she didn’t sleep, I wouldn’t. I’m not so callous as to leave a Dazed alone her first day or night Without.
I sat on the edge of the cell’s bed, reached out far to my side, and patted the quilt. “Quibble. Come here. Sit.”
She didn’t acknowledge my presence but nonetheless obeyed.
“Good. Very good, Quibble. Can you look at me?”
Her eyes didn’t move towards me, rather to the floor. She fixed it with a stare, and her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her shift. “I’d rather not,” she said.
Oh, thank kindness! I thought. Mentally, she was there – she only appeared not to be. I decided not to press her for a skance. It was better if she went at her own pace.
“Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?”
“Hungry? Eat?”
At once I understood. Alnasl didn’t know when Quibble last ate because no Zero had fed her or indeed cared for her recently. She had no history to speak of, medical or otherwise, because she hadn’t lived in an Egg even for a day. She was as newly Dazed as they come. Perhaps only an hour ago, she had been One.
My mood ran from murderous to flabbergasted. How did that Zero dare deliver a nestling to us? It was cruel to the Dazed, who knew nothing, and unfair to me, who would have to teach her everything. It violated edict. No wonder Alnasl was silent. He was flouting his own people’s laws. But why? He knew the penalty: a swift rectification. Why would he risk that?
I would think on it later. “Do you feel weak or woozy?” I asked Quibble.
“Woozy?”
“Like you might faint.”
“Oh.” A slight smile played at Quibble’s lips. “I’m not woozy.”
“Good. You’ll eat in the morning, then.”
“Morning,” she enunciated, savoring the word. After a think: “Indication called you Definition at first, then Nish. Which is it?”
“Ah!” I said, glad of an easier topic than morning and evening, day and night. “Do you know what sort of people we are, Quibble? Did the Zeros tell you anything of us?”
“Alnasl said you are Dazed.”
“And Adroit, yes,” I corrected. “I’m an Adroit. You are Dazed. Now my job is to take care of you, the way an iso would, at least for a while. To answer your question, we abbreviate our names. We don’t like the names we had as Ones.”
“Definishun?”
“Exactly. There’s no firm rule about how it’s done. Indication calls himself Cate. Quotation, Quote.”
There it was: Quibble skanced me. “You know Quotation?”
“I know a Quotation,” I replied, returning the sidelong look.
“The One I knew was sent Without.”
“You’re quite sure of that?”
“Unity said so.”
We’d come to this crossroads sooner than I expected. What was the best course? “Unity lies to us sometimes,” I said, opting for honesty.
“Yes, It does.”
Now I was astonished by Quibble – not by her heresy, common enough in Dazed and especially those who became Adroit, but by her quick, open admission of it. We’d said few words to each other, not yet touched. Why did she trust me with this?
“If you know Quotation, perhaps—” Quibble broke off a moment. “Quiddity?”
“Sent Without as well?”
Again Quibble skanced me. “I came here to find her.”
“I’m sorry. There’s no Quiddity here. How long ago was she sent Without?”
“One Fear.”
“She’s with another consensus, then.” I could not bring myself to dash Quibble’s hopes with the truth – Unity sometimes rectified One but said that One was Without. No need for such bitter news just yet. “I can’t promise we’ll find her. If we get a Zero’s help, we might. There’s no telling what they’ll agree to, though.”
Despite my caveats, the Dazed smiled and said, “Alnasl promised to help.”
I decided I liked her. She was careful with what she showed, aware of it. Newly Dazed, before settling into irritating inexpressiveness, typically reveal every thought, every emotion. Unused to seeing faces and being seen, they aren’t discreet. I could tell Quibble was. Her smile was forthright but somehow guarded, as if she expected little of Alnasl but was willing to give him a chance. She was a realist.
“For now,” I said, “we have other business.” I stood and laid my hand on the quilt. “This is a bed. I want you to lie down on it and try to sleep.”
“One does not sleep,” Quibble answered. “One does not lack for rest.”
“You are not One any longer. I know it’s hard, but you need to accept that. Trust me, the sooner you accept it, the better it will be for you.”
I expected Quibble to object further, to tell me I was mistaken or mad, to claim a right to her consensus, perhaps even to recite a confession. I’d heard it all many times. But she only turned and lay down on the bed without a word more. She closed her eyes as if already familiar by long habit with sleeping.
“All right,” I said, “stay put. I’m going to fetch my furs and the makings for a fire. I’ll be back in a little while.”
“A fire?”
“You’ll see. We’re still in the cool time, by our calendar, but I don’t expect you’ll want to lie under that quilt. The fire will warm us.”
I hurried out and down the corridor before Quibble could pose another question. She was curious, not the scatterbrain I’d first assumed her to be. Even after a stay in the Egg, most Dazed fresh Without are timid, frightened by what they encounter. Some are even terrified. None of that with Quibble. At first she’d been distracted, but with a little prodding she’d made peace with where she was and what was required of her.
Practically as if she expected it, I mused.
Was that as absurd as it sounded? I contemplated the quandary. Why did Alnasl violate edict? Heresy? What did Quibble mean by saying she came Without looking for Quiddity? Alnasl well knew there was no Quiddity in our consensus. If finding her was his only aim, why bring Quibble here?
The next thought so disturbed me that I halted just outside my cell. Did Quibble mean she came Without on purpose?
The storm broke out above us before I could finish building the fire. At the first flash of lightning, Quibble screamed. I asked her permission to touch her. As before, she readily consented. I sat in bed behind her, wrapped her with arms and legs, murmured to her. She didn’t scream again, though she shuddered.
You may think it strange, Numberless, that Quibble let me touch her like that, so intimately, so soon. I know you cannot bear to be touched. Ones say that touch is trust, though, and it holds true for Dazed and Adroit.
It often strikes me as funny that, with us though not with Ones, Zeros treat touch so cautiously. They rarely offer to touch or let themselves be touched. They plant their hands like trees in the folds and pockets of their immense hooded cloaks, only blinking at you. If ever they withdraw a hand, it’s usually the left. I’ve seen a Zero’s right hand only a few times. Nor do I relish seeing the left: something bad always comes with it – if not a glass, an edict; if not an edict, a callous remark. Isn’t it odd that Zeros, even their high-and-mighty lords and ladies, wield such power yet are so wary of touch!
Requesting Quibble’s history, I had asked Alnasl not only to touch me but also to share his amber glass. Cate probably wondered where I found the gall. He knew I had no wish to take the Zero’s hidden right hand. I would never see a Zero again if I could help it. I had let exasperation get the best of me. Still, I had a right to know the Dazed’s history. It was by the lady of kindness Vega’s express command that I care for Dazed when they first come to our consensus.
Kindness indeed! Zeros never take but what they give in kind. When the lord of control Alioth took my son, Vega uncloaked nary a hand. As if in exchange, she gave me children to raise: doltish Dazed who couldn’t hold hammers right, Adroit who went whistling down the forest road to join Bibliography’s consensus. I was left alone. Didn’t Vega grasp that for One alone isn’t the mere absence of company?
Holding Quibble that night, I was amazed to find that for once I didn’t turn away from such thoughts. How long since I let myself think of Index? I couldn’t recall exactly. A year at least. How long a forgetfulness is too long and how much forgetting is enough when you’re forgetting the most important person in the world?
Quibble said that Quiddity was her mother. She had come Without to find this Quiddity, and she would be absolutely damned if she failed.
Fine, I thought, I don’t want to be so much as your maiden aunt. The sooner you fend for yourself, the sooner I can get back to shearing sheep.
In the morning, after breakfast and a bath and a tiring lesson in how to put on her new clothes, I came up with a way to rid myself of Quibble for a few hours.
“Do you like to read?” I asked her.
“It’s only the best thing there is!”
I laughed. Her breath caught and she looked at me, dead-on, as if my eyes were sparking glints. But my surprise was even greater. Seeing her stare at me for the first time, I realized her eyes were heterochromatic: the left was sea-green, the right a deep blue. The surreal effect was only heightened by her albino skin and starkly white hair.
“Don’t stare,” I chided. “We consider it rude.”
“Stare?”
“Looking me in the face directly,” I explained.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“First time seeing someone laugh?”
“First time seeing anything!” she said, laughing herself. “Well, mostly.”
“Oh?”
“Within, I saw shadows. First during Fear, and I didn’t do it again for a long time because I was caught. Then Quiddity taught me how to do it surreptitiously. After three Fears, I began seeing the shadows everywhere, all the time.”
“Wakeful?”
“Yes. Did that happen to you?”
“No,” I told her. “I’ve never met any One that happened to.”
“Hmm. So how did you come Without?”
“Another time, Quibble,” I said with a sigh. “You must know what you just told me is a dangerous secret, practically a heresy. We’re hardly friends, and you spilled it like you were talking about a change in the weather.”
“The weather?”
I pointed out the window. “Look outside. See all that blue? That’s sky. It grows light and dark – we call that day and night. And then there’s weather. Like the storm last night. Now it’s clear – no clouds, no rain, no lightning. The weather changed.”
“Day and night – like Fears and the times between them?”
“Not nearly so long. It will grow dark again in about nine hours – oh, I suppose there’s no point telling you what an hour is. You’ll see. You grow used to it quickly.”
“So, when night comes, will the storm come too?”
“It doesn’t work like that. I mean, yes, day and night do affect the weather—” I felt the conversation was drifting too far afield. Quibble would have to discover certain things for herself. “The point I want to impress on you is that you must be discreet with your secrets, especially the heretical ones. Here, Without, it’s true you’ve freed yourself of Unity’s control, but still you must fear the Zeros. Even more so now. Remember the Negative Confession: censoriousness is perfecting.”
Quibble nodded her head gravely.
“Anyway,” I said, “we were talking about reading.”
“Oh, yes! Do you have orbs? I don’t know how I feel about dreaming now but—”
“We don’t have orbs, and we don’t read by dreaming. I’m not sure it’s advisable for you to read just yet, anyway. I want you to try writing instead.”
“Writing?”
“Creating text on your own.”
Quibble was quiet. I skanced her: she was staring at me again. I pursed my lips, and she looked away.
Going to the cell’s desk, I lifted the lid and took out a bottle of ink, a quill, and a sheet of parchment, then sat down and beckoned Quibble to look over my shoulder. I dipped the quill in the ink, tapped the nib on the bottle’s mouth to shake off the excess, set quill to parchment, and printed a neat letter Q.
“Oh! Oh, Nish, that’s incredible!”
“I have things to do elsewhere. While I’m gone, sit here and practice your letters. Try writing sentences. Tell your story, if you wish. Just don’t write any heresies! Write small, please. The ink is dear.”
Rising, I pointed at the bottle. Quibble sat and took up the quill.
“What do you make the ink from?” she asked.
“Shaggy inkcaps.” She looked at me. “Mushrooms. I’ll show you sometime. The parchment—” I touched the page. “—is hard to make, rare. Adroit make paper.”
Following my lead, Quibble drew a U looking rather more like a V after my Q. Leaving her, I made a beeline for the shearing pens.