Book in Progress II

CHAPTER TWO – The Napthalis
The best laid schemes o’ mice and men
Gang aft a-gley;
And leave us naught but grief and pain
For promised joy.
Robert Burns

At this point it is important to know that there was a second family living behind the walls of Gwylan’s home, one that was small, and made entirely of mice. It was comprised of a mother and two sons, and had made its way from India after a monsoon (which is a fierce rainy season) in a sturdy and gargantuan breadbox (acting as a raft) with a large supply of Naan (which is bread), landing finally in a new, fair country on a frosty St. Patrick’s Day. The town that received them took the sort-of holiday seriously, and had dyed the bay green. Snow banks on either side recreated the world as a piece of spearmint candy, which was a family favorite of theirs. So it was that three shipwrecked mice fell in love with America at first sight.
Their last name was Napthali, and they spoke a beautiful marigold-smelling language that fell somewhere between Hindi and English. It’s hard to explain exactly where it fell. Call it Hinglish or Endi, or Shine or Hiding, if you like, but giving it a name won’t help you to understand how lovely it is. I will call it Hiding-Shine from now on, just for myself. Hiding-Shine has almost all the letters of “Hindi” and “English” combined, except for “L”. I’ll do something nice for “L” later to make up for it. Also, don’t worry who I am yet. Not yet.
The mother was Ayan, and the sons were Patil and Parva. When their Naan-box hit the shore and they scampered out to feel the gift of solid land, they found that the white ground was cold and hurt their feet. Ayan, Patil, and Parva ran to the nearest house, which happened to be Sofia and Gwylan’s. It was black, shingled, and had a roof that was often mistaken for a widow’s walk, for you could usually spot a severe, quiet young woman sitting or standing on top, staring out at the great expanse of dark water.
The Napthalis had now been there, making a new home behind the walls on every floor, for two years. But, in all this time they had never really introduced themselves to the human occupants. For two years Gwylan and Sofia had bumped them awake and creaked them to sleep, left the house free for foraging and cut excursions short unexpectedly, dictating the Napthalis’ lives without being aware that such a thing as the Napthali mouse family existed.
Not that Ayan was complaining. She was happy to live in secrecy with her prized boys, bothering no one and sleeping well, trusting that she, Patil, and Parva were safe. She remembered the long months tossed by waves with only rainwater to drink and crumbling Naan to eat, huddling beneath a woman’s swept-off sari Patil had clutched as they flooded out of the city of Chennai, in the state of Tamil Nadu. Ayan believed that their new candy country was not to be risked at any cost. She made her boys wait to run out for food until they were sure the big ladies were asleep, and only then if they were all together. She dreamed often of a world in which she was alone, and woke crying quietly, remembering only that in the dream she had had to cross an unending bridge that began to rise and break, sending her falling into green water. She hated the sound of the ocean, and lived in fear of rain, since she had received no promise from God that He would never again destroy her world with a flood.
Parva, for the most part, loved his mother and was fine with an arrangement that demanded he stay confined. He was the younger of the two sons, and felt very small. Although he wished, sometimes, to go outside once more and see if the land still looked sweet and crisp, he thought he could trust that it was good and not worry his mother with the request to leave. He contented himself with covert walks at night on the second floor. There were many small holes that aided the Napthali’s passage through the building, and one could be found under Gwylan’s bed. Parva liked to sit just inside it and listen to the little girl breathing above him as she slept. She gasped lightly breathing in and hummed breathing out. It was soothing, like a warm wind after thunder. Once he had even ventured out to the rug and peered up towards the sound. He could just see the fingertips of her left hand thrown over the side, hanging towards him. Her nails were bitten, and the fingers were long and thin. He watched for many minutes, but then something she was dreaming took her body’s focus and she turned over, removing her hand from his range of observation. He had gone home to Ayan after that, but thought often of how Gwylan’s hand had moved with her breathing, and wondered if her hand would move to hold or hit him if given the chance. It seemed, as it dangled, that it had beckoned to him. The thought of this silent conversation between his eyes and her sleeping hand occupied his mind for most of the day, and after that he returned every night in the hopes that her hand would be waiting for his company. The world inside his own mind seemed a brighter thing than the one outside, and the more he imagined conversations between himself and Gwylan the more he became convinced of it.
Patil was a different story altogether. Patil had a plan for his life, and in his opinion his own story had been dealt an inexcusable detour. When the monsoon hit he had seen it as a difficult but necessary first step in a grand adventure. It had all started with the German in Chennai.
In Chennai they’d resided in the home of a linguist and scholar. She often hosted visitors, and they varied greatly in their language and musicality. Some spoke in dark jangles with the weight of wood smoke. Many had clipping, metallic car words. But there was one visitor that Patil had overheard on a Monday that rang in his ears still, a young man with blonde hair who spoke in lengthy sugar-water gushes. It was the most wonderful sound he had ever heard a voice make, and he haunted the corners and bookcases the entire day the young man had been there, happy just to listen. Later he was able to put a name to the language when the linguist referred to the boy as German, being from Germany. Patil had an unrelenting sweet tooth, and considered the sound that poured from between the young German’s perfect teeth sweeter even than the spearmint bites he stole from the linguist’s bronze candy dish. When the German left and never returned Patil was heartbroken. He decided that one day he would find the country, and then the young man, and taste a life beyond his own knowledge.
I will, he often thought, devour it whole.
When his family was swept from their native land Patil had been the one to hold his weeping mother and to still his shaking brother. Ayan and Parva hid their faces and blocked their ears in terror and grief, but Patil had endeavored to see and hear. He saw great walls of water and stared as their small shelter slid down the waves, splashing to inexplicable safety. Patil had long since decided to trust the chaos of the world, and was thrilled to watch it in action, if only it would let him find that chiming voice he longed for both day and night.
If only he could get out of the house! If only he did not see walls wherever he looked! If only his mother did not still cling to him when it rained and make him promise to save them when the next flood came. If only Parva seemed capable of more than nocturnal wanderings and silent wonderings. Until Ayan was happy, and Parva more of a help, Patil was stuck, and an ocean apart from the place he wanted to call home.
Change comes to mice as surely as it comes to us, with strong hands and a sense of purpose.
On the Thursday in question (which we already know something about from being introduced to Gwylan), the Napthalis were resting after a long night’s search for food. They slept in a hollow behind one of the attic’s walls, surrounded by bits of found cloth and old hair. As we first met Gwylan sitting on the roof and painting birds, Ayan slept fitfully, flicking her nervous tail back and forth, as if in her sleep she was using it to swim. Parva was lying with his head against the floor, waiting for Gwylan to come in for lunch so he could feel the vibrations of her steps run through his tiny body. Patil was pacing back and forth, his tiny toe nails scraping on the old wood.
“Shh,” Parva said, “I cannot hear. Stop moving.”
“Ah!” Patil came back, “I cannot breathe. I’m not allowed to walk as well?”
“Please,” sighed Parva, “Please, Patil. Gwylan will come in soon. Then you can move.”
“Gwylan will come in soon,” sneered Patil, “Wait for her in the attic? Ask to join her?”
Parva ignored his brother. The rain had started and he heard the attic window close. Gwylan was inside again. He pressed full against the floor and held his breath. He wondered why he couldn’t feel her movement. This was because she was still staring out the window at her forgotten paint set. Finally he felt the boards tingling with her walk and he closed his eyes.
When she comes back, he thought, I will wait for her. I will ask.
He knew these were more imaginings. Regardless, he allowed himself the pleasant distraction and thought about an entire afternoon spent outside with the quiet, dark haired girl.
Patil waited until Gwylan’s steps receded from hearing and resumed pacing. He knew it was only a matter of time until the rain woke Ayan, and then he would have to comfort her until the downpour had ceased. After almost a minute the drizzle became a full shower and Ayan screamed herself awake. She dissolved into tears.
“Patil?” she whimpered, breathing thickly and blinking around.
“Here, Ma,” he said, and sat next to her. He wrapped his tail around her back and rocked Ayan back and forth. He dreamed every second of departure, but Patil loved his mother and knew that she loved him. He would not leave until he knew he could. He would do his best.
“Patil, I dreamed. I dreamed of bridges falling and no one could hear,” Ayan trembled next to her son but her sobbing was turning gentle and preparing to stop.
“There are no bridges, Ma. There is no falling. And even if there were both, I would hear you. Parva would hear you. We are all here.”
“Shh,” said Parva, again. “Something is happening.”
Some dull but resonant sounds were coming from downstairs and the Napthalis all paused in their lives to listen. There was a crash, like a person being hurled across a room, and then silence. Then, from two stories down, Gwylan’s voice.
“Out! Get out of my house!”
Parva stood and ran to one of their passage holes. He knew only that he had to see what was happening to Gwylan. He went without turning to look at his family, and he went with tremendous speed. It took him a scant five seconds to cross the floor and disappear into the hole beside a vent.
Patil at first felt only bewilderment, and then anger that Parva would leave him alone with Ayan during a thunderstorm.
“Parva? Parva! Come back!” Patil yelled. Ayan stared at the hole that Parva had gone through and then broke from Patil’s side. She gave Patil not one word of warning. Parva had never gone out into the house alone during the day, Ayan had forbidden it. But in a split second two years’ rules and routine had been broken. Ayan sprinted after her younger son. She was tangled in Patil’s tail and pulled him with her for a few steps, then threw him off and ran into the darkness that Parva had left behind. Like Parva, she did not look back. Patil was alone for the first time in weeks.
Patil sat for many seconds. He was certain Parva was being a fool and that Ayan was worried over nothing. He was bewildered that they had left without thinking of him. Did they not remember who took care of them? Did they not remember that his advice protected and comforted them? He walked slowly towards the hole they had used to exit, telling himself that he would not run. He would take his time and find the other two thirds of his family shivering and silly in the middle of the attic’s floor. Ayan would be rapping Parva hard on the head for scaring her, and Parva would be taking it in silence. Then they would all go back behind the wall to sleep. But, when Patil entered the attic almost a minute later, that was not what he saw.
Parva stood on all four legs, his face pointed straight out. Ayan clutched him from behind. They were both perfectly still and low to the ground. The storm flew against the house and echoed within. Something was wrong.
Patil smelled something unfamiliar and warm in the attic. There was strange blood on the floor, he was sure of that. It reeked rich and wrong like bad bread. The scent was now so strong he recoiled to his tail. But he saw no stains on the ground. He whispered, to see if Parva and Ayan knew.
“Blood?” Patil breathed across the room to his mother and brother. Ayan gasped a little, but didn’t answer. Parva’s voice shook with anger as he answered Patil.
“Look,” Parva seethed. Gwylan’s foot could just barely be seen between several boxes; if you were any higher than a mouse’s view you wouldn’t notice. Parva had seen her dive for cover. He had noticed, because he always looked to her lithe fingers, that her left wrist hung sad and grating. He knew by the way she had held it that it was snapped, ruined. Parva stared at Gwylan’s poor foot as it rose and fell with her punching breaths. He felt Ayan’s nails raking into his fur and listened to Patil mumbling under his breath. Patil mumbled in German whenever he was confused. At the moment he was mindlessly running through a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke. Patil had just reached the final line, Ich glaube an Nachte, when he sucked his Ich back through his teeth. There were soft, soft footsteps in the attic. They were silken, and barely lifted into the air, but they moved forward rapidly. Gwylan didn’t notice them, but their minute bendings of the floor were like slaps to the Napthalis, who all pivoted their heads back towards the broken ladder entrance but saw nothing and no one. Ayan wept silently and begged Parva with her eyes to return with her behind the wall, away from sounds without sources and broken little girls, away from unknown dangers. Patil watched, interested now in what was unfolding before him. Parva waited for who or whatever had broken Gwylan’s wrist. He wanted to see something’s face so he could memorize it, ink it onto his brain, and then find a way to shatter it. He had never shattered a face, but he resolved to do so when he encountered the face that belonged to the Wrist Breaker.
Then they heard a single, polite clink, much the same as the sound a finger would make tapping on the globe of an old lamp. Parva saw Gwylan’s foot freeze as her breath decided to stay inside her body.
“I’m sorry about your wrist and the threat of choking, Gwylan. Rest assured it’s all in your best interest. Where in this low-roofed, narrow-middled room can you be?”
Parva’s teeth were now bared in the dark room. This was the voice of Gwylan’s assailant, and he would tear out its throat when the chance presented itself.
“I wonder,” the Wrist Breaker continued, “whether I can shed a little light on the situation.” The clink disappeared, only to be replaced by the znick of Gwylan’s favorite lamp’s brass cord being pulled down against its will.
The lamp burned gorgeous waxy light for a moment, then fluttered and burst, cracking the glass and sending off four sparks. We have already discussed the importance of the various sparks. The sudden flash startled the Napthalis’ eyes and Ayan screamed in the new blindness. Parva barely heard her; his ears went to Gwylan’s singed cough. His eyes came back to him in time to see Gwylan’s break for the circular window.
Later on, long after this moment, the remaining Napthalis would rage within themselves. Change came, and took with it a member of their family’s trinity.
In the instant that Gwylan made for the roof, Parva darted forward in the hopes that he could go with her, help her, do something, but he found himself stopped by Ayan’s body. She’d thrown her weight down when she felt him leaving her, and bound hard to his back. Without thinking, focusing only on what he must do, which was to help a running girl, he twisted around to his mother and bit her on the face.
Patil saw all of this as though a reddening glare. He felt a tremendous pricking behind his eyes, and a thickening ache in his head. He ran for his brother, ready to correct and punish Parva for the bite. The two young mice erupted in a fight, and did not notice the unusually close bolt of lightning that scorched Gwylan from the roof and started a brand new story far, far away from their home. They did not notice the creature with strange blood return from outside. Only when the vibrations of his steps shook the floorboards did the Napthalis feel a deadbolt of instinct, a tiny scream for them to crouch close to a corner, for the middle of a floor is no place for those who hide to live.
Patil shoved his younger brother back towards the wall. Parva turned back to bid Patil to follow when something invisible fell upon Patil, about the size of a man’s foot, and smashed him into the ground.
Parva saw his brother’s complete flattening. It was quite different from watching someone be crushed by a rock or a piano, or anything visible. When that happens you see the object fall into the place your loved one happens to be, and then the object is there instead of them. They’re there, of course, but underneath the object. When Patil was pulped from above there was no visible object to take the place of his agony in Parva’s eye. It seemed to happen very slowly to Parva, as he watched his older brother become flatter and softer, become blood covered and eye popped.
It is a blessing that the blood in her eyes and fur blocked Ayan’s view. When she finally cleared her vision she saw Parva sitting next to what used to be Patil. She went to them.
Ayan lay hard and flat, speaking quietly in Patil’s ear, telling stories of Princes and journeys, of fresh mango and spearmint, of strife turned to gold. Patil’s eyes roamed around the attic without fixing on any one point. It was as though the object of their search was hidden across an ocean. Parva sat and wept.
After a bit the rain went home, and the only sound in the attic was Ayan’s voice recited an unending story for her eldest, and the hitching breath of her children. She reached a point in her story when a whale had emerged from an unknowable deep to save a young man lost at sea.
“He felt the sea reach up to cup him in its hand…” Ayan whispered, and then paused. Patil was still beneath her and his eyes had ceased searching. Ayan lapsed into silence and curled her tail around Patil’s face. Parva’s head fell to the floor. Only miserable sounds came from him now.
“I’m sorry, Ma,” he moaned, staring at the wood next to his head. Ayan ignored him, and began her story again.
“He felt the sea reach up to cup him in its hand, and then he saw it was a whale’s skin upon which he rested. He lay in the sun. He was returning to shore at great speed.”
So died Patil Napthali, brother and son.