How They Were Found Part 1

HOW THEY WERE FOUND.

by Matt Bell.

And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share.

-House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski.

THE CARTOGRAPHER'S GIRL.

TO BEGIN, A KEY: This symbol is the place where the cartographer first met the girl. This symbol is the place where they kissed for the first time. This symbol is any place he told her he loved her, anywhere she once said it back.

The cartographer wanders the city streets, crosses the invisible boundaries that lie between neighborhoods. He takes notes, studies the geography of streets and sewers, of subway lines and telephone wires. His bag holds nothing of value beyond the tools of his trade: his pens and papers, his s.e.xtant, his rulers and stencils, plus his dozens of compa.s.ses, some worth a month's rent and others bought in bulk at dollar stores and p.a.w.n shops. The compa.s.ses are disappointingly true, pointing north over and over, when all he wants is for one to dissent, to demur, to show him the new direction he cannot find on his own.

Even the compa.s.ses that break, that learn some new way, none ever point him to her. At least not yet. It is not their fault, but his. He is making the wrong kind of map, knows he is, but can't stop himself. All the maps he's made since she left have been wrong, but the cartographer does not know the kind of map he needs.

Different maps have different requirements, and trying to make the wrong kind of map in the wrong way is an obvious mistake.

Less obvious is how making the right map in the wrong way will also fail completely, with no indication of how close he is to his goal. There is no partial success to hope for. He will either find his way to her or else he won't.

When she started sleepwalking, neither of them knew where she was trying to go or why she was going there. She was an expert at slipping out without him noticing, at opening the bedroom door and then the apartment door without making a noise. He'd awaken and find her missing, and then it would be a mad scramble down the stairs, down the street, trying to figure out where she went.

Sometimes he found her sitting in the lobby of their building, or on a bench a block or two away. On other nights, he'd search for hours, only to return home and find her asleep in their bed, her nightgown streaked with mud.

During her worst episodes, she would be gone for days, days in which he didn't sleep or eat or work, instead wandering the city with someone else's map in his hand, some official version of the city drawn by a company or a commission, an agreed upon fiction with which he hoped to guess where she might have gone.

Afterward, she could never explain where she'd gone or what she'd been feeling while sleepwalking. After the first months, the cartographer realized he wasn't supposed to ask anymore, that she couldn't or wouldn't answer his questions no matter how insistently he pried.

All she'd ever say was, Let's just enjoy the time we have together, and then she'd cling to his body like the mast of a sinking ship, like she had lashed herself to him.

One time, near the end, the cartographer found her in the Broad Street subway station, sitting beside the train tracks, crying into the red scarf she always wore wrapped around her neck. When he asked why she was crying, she told him she had just missed it, that she'd been so close this time. She said the word skinny over and over, but he didn't ask what she meant. He'd stopped asking long ago, when she'd begged him to.

Besides, she herself was skinny now, had lost so much weight in the previous months. How was he supposed to know it meant something else entirely?

He'd looked down the empty tracks, into the open mouth of the subway tunnel. He worried she'd hurt herself, that if he didn't stop her she'd do something terrible. Now she was gone, and it was he who was hurt: by her absence, by not knowing where she went, by not knowing a sure way to follow.

This symbol is any place where he believed he saw her after her disappearance. It is any place he circles back to, week after week after week.

The cartographer compulsively maps everywhere he visits, draws on any surface he can find. At the bar down the street from his house, he draws topological renditions of the layout of the tables, of the path from his stool to the bathroom, of the distribution of waitresses or couples or smoke. There are many kinds of maps, but none of these get him any closer to where he needs to be. He keeps drawing anyway, keeps drinking too, until he feels his head begin to nod. He pays his tab, gets up to leave. If he walks home fast enough, he might be able to fall asleep without dreaming of her.

It is never enough to a.s.sume that the reader of the map will approach it with the same mindset the cartographer does. Even omitting something as simple as a north arrow can render a map useless, can cast doubts on all it's trying to communicate. Other markings are just as necessary. There must be a measurement of scale, and there must be a key so that annotations and markings can be deciphered, made useful.

Even though the map is for only himself, it must still be as perfect as possible.

This symbol is any place she woke up after sleepwalking, any place he found her, disoriented and scared. He makes this mark over and over and over and over.

Her sleepwalking: It wasn't the only thing wrong with her, but it wasn't until after she disappeared that he opened his mail to find the first medical bills, sent from hospitals all over the city. She'd been hiding them from him, keeping him safe from how sick she was.

Opening each envelope, he saw the names of procedures she'd undergone, the dollar amounts she owed after the insurance paid its share: Blood tests. X-rays. EEGs, EKGs, acronyms on top of acronyms. Prescriptions for anti-seizure medications, for sleeping pills in increasingly powerful dosages.

He read electric shock treatments, the phrase bringing him near tears the first time he read it, wracking him with gasping cries when he began to see it over and over and over.

The cartographer received dozens of these letters in the months after she left, and it was only then that he realized the full scope of her problems.

Sleepwalking, sure, but this too: She was sick, possibly dying, had been almost as long as he'd known her. And she hadn't wanted him to know.

One of their last dates before her disappearance was to see a show at the planetarium near the park. Hand in hand, they watched black holes bend light, obscuring everything nearby in their greed for photons. They watched supernovas, the death of one star, and they watched a recreation of the Big Bang, the birth of many. He remembers how she leaned in close and whispered that in a universe as mysterious as theirs, anything might be possible, and that it was therefore completely reasonable to believe in miracles.

This symbol is somewhere he thought he'd find her using his map. This symbol is false hope, easily crushed.

The cartographer smells her when he wakes, smells all her scents at once: vanilla perfume, hazelnut coffee, apple shampoo. Here, she is only a breeze of memory. As soon as he opens his eyes, as soon as he moves his head, she will be gone.

This symbol is anywhere they had a minor fight, this symbol anywhere they had a major one. These are the spots where he regrets, where he goes to say he's sorry when each new map ends in failure.

No matter how hard he tries, the cartographer cannot keep to ground truth, cannot render the streets and landmarks in precise relation to each other. No cartographer can. Rendering a three-dimensional world in a two-dimensional s.p.a.ce means that purposeful errors are necessary to complete the drawing. Even worse than the change in perspective, there are lines that must be shifted, moved out of the way so that names can be affixed to symbols, so that these identical markings can become specific places instead of generalized symbols. Denoting one (bas.e.m.e.nt apartment E5, where she lived when they met) from another (the third floor walkup 312, her last apartment before they moved in together) requires s.p.a.ce on the map, requires the physical world be made to accommodate the twin realms of information and emotion, the layers of symbols and abstractions necessary to represent the inhabitants of these parallel universes.

In even the best maps, all these short distances add up over time, until the city depicted is hundreds of meters wider than it should be. This is the second way he loses her, the way he feels her slipping away. He fights for accuracy by creating new symbols and more complex keys, each designed to end his reliance on language, on descriptions now unnecessary, obsolete. He saves his words, stockpiles them for the day he and his girl will be reunited, when his map will lead him to another skinny, another crack like the one she fell through, where he might follow her to the place she has gone.

After one of her late episodes, the girl laid across their bed and asked, Do you ever imagine there might be a place that would be just ours? That no one else could get to?

The cartographer often imagined such places, but when he told her of his own imagined hideaways-a cabin in the mountains, or a ship floating in the middle of a vast, unknowable ocean-the girl only shook her head.

That's not what I mean, she said. I mean somewhere no one else could ever get to, no matter how hard they tried.

No one, she said, and no thing, either. Where we would be untouchable and safe.

He hadn't known what she meant then, but he did now.

What scares him even worse than not being able to find her is this: What if he finds her, only to discover that this secret place is just for her, that he can't follow where she has gone?

This symbol is any hospital she went to before he met her, while this symbol stands for the hospitals and specialists she went to later, after the sleepwalking began, after the seizures got worse, after she had something to hide.

The cartographer has been to all these places. He has talked to her nurses, her doctors, her fellow patients. He has shaken the hands of these men and women and introduced himself, explained his relationship to her. Although they remember her with fond laughter and sad smiles, none of her caretakers have ever heard of him. This is how thoroughly she had protected him. This is how she kept her illness a mist-shrouded country, barely even imagined from across a vast sea.

This thing killing her the whole time they were together, it might have taken her away, but the cartographer doesn't think so.

He thinks-he believes-that there is somewhere else, some place she has escaped to. Some place where she is safe from this thing that chased her, that invaded her body, that turned her own cells against her.

He believes it took hundreds of sleepwalks for her to find this place, but that she did find it: Her skinny, the place where everything got thin enough that she could walk right through, where whatever was hurting her couldn't follow.

It has been years, but in his heart, he is still true to her. He has doubts, but he does not allow himself to express them. To do so would be the end of him, of all that he has become, of all that he has reduced himself to.

He is only the cartographer now, and so he must continue to believe.

The cartographer once thought this would be the last map he would ever create, that his profession would end with the culmination of this quest, but he knows that it might not. What awaits on the other side of the skinny might be another world, unmapped and unknown. He imagines it as a limbo, a purgatory, a place neither as bad as this world nor as good as the one they are truly destined for. It will take another map to escape that place, to complete the destiny he feels in his bones, in his s.e.xtant, in his many compa.s.ses. In their many needles, each aching to point the way.

X:.

X is the store where he bought the ring he never got to give her.

X is the place where he planned to propose, where he had already made the reservation.

X is the speech he rehea.r.s.ed, that he practiced saying slowly, carefully, so that she would not mishear even a single syllable.

X is nowhere, X is now, X is never mind.

X is everything that ever mattered.

X is all he has left.

What follows the realization of his mistake is as intuitive as breathing, as involuntary as sleepwalking. He spreads his map before him, messy with a thousand corrections, and then, eraser in hand, he tries, tries again. One by one, he eliminates all his symbols, destroys them and replaces them with words. Mere words, great words, words that denote and words that describe and words that will direct him in the way he needs to go. Ground truth disappears, is replaced by something else, by truth as meaning, as yellow brick road, as key to a lock to a door to an entrance. He widens the error in his map one phrase at a time, each annotation requiring its own accommodations. He writes their truth upon the city, and the city bends to it, its streets and avenues warping around his words: This is the place where we met. This is the place where we kissed. This is the place where we fell in love, and so is this one and this one and this one. This is our first apartment. This is where we bought our first bed, the first thing we owned together. This is where we went for breakfast on Sunday mornings. This is our favorite restaurant, our favorite coffee shop, our favorite movie theatre. These are all the places I found you when you were lost. This is the storefront where you bought the red scarf you cherished so much, that you were wearing the day you disappeared. Where you shopped while I stood outside smoking, where I looked through the window gla.s.s and saw how beautiful you were. Where I decided I would marry you, that I would be your man forever.

This is where I was going to tell you what I wanted to tell you, where I was going to ask you the question I wanted to ask.

He annotates until the city appears as a bloated, twisted thing, depicted by a map too full of language and memory to be useful to anyone but himself. Until there are s.p.a.ces that simply do not exist scattered everywhere, one of which will be the right one. After he finishes, he upends his bag on the floor of his apartment. He rifles through the spilled pile of his tools until he finds his favorite compa.s.s, the one she bought him for Christmas their first year. He holds it up, sees true north for the last time. He slips it into his pocket beside the only other thing he needs, the small black box. He puts on his coat, then steps out the door with his map in hand. He looks like a tourist, but he's not. Somewhere the city opens, like a fissure or a flower, and inside, she is waiting.

This story's formatting originally included several graphics which could not be included in this eBook version of How They Were Found. To read the story as originally formatted, please download the PDF version available at www.mdbell.com.

THE RECEIVING TOWER.

MOST NIGHTS, WE CLIMB TO THE TOWER'S ROOF to stand together beneath the satellite dishes, where we watch the hundreds of meteorites fall through the aurora and across the arctic sky. Trapped high in the atmosphere, they streak the horizon then flare out, with only the rarest among them surviving long enough to burst into either mountains or tundra, that madness of snow and ice beneath us.

Once, Cormack stood beside me and prayed aloud that one might crash into the receiving tower instead and free us all.

Once, I knew which one of us Cormack actually was.

II.

The tower is twenty stories tall, made of blast-resistant concrete and crowned by two satellite dishes twisting and turning upon their bases, their movements driven by the powerful electric motors installed between the listening room and the roof. The larger dish is used for receiving signals and messages from both our commanders and our enemies, the latter of which we are expected to decode, interpret, and then re-encrypt before sending them to our superiors using the smaller transmitting dish.

It has been months since the larger dish picked up anything but static, maybe longer. Some of the men talk openly about leaving the tower, about trying to make our way to the coast, where we might be rescued from this place by the supply transport that supposedly awaits us there. These men say the war is over, that-after all these years-we can finally go home.

The captain lets the men speak, and then, calmly, asks each of the dissenters where they are from, knowing these men will not be able to remember their hometowns, that they haven't been able to for years.

The captain, he always knows just how to quiet us.

III.

As I remember it-which is not well-young Kerr was the first to grow dim. We'd find him high in the tower's listening room, cursing at the computers, locking up console after console by failing to enter his pa.s.sword correctly. At night, he wandered the barracks, holding a framed portrait of his son and daughter, asking us if we knew their names, if we remembered how old they were. This is when one of us would remove the photograph from its frame so that he could read the fading scrawl on the back, the inked lines he eventually wore off by tracing them over and over with his fingers, after which there was no proof to quiet his queries.

Later, after he had gotten much worse, we discovered him sleeping on the roof, half-frozen beneath the receiving dish, his arms wrapped partway around its thick stem, his mind faded, his body lean and starved and blackened with frostbite.

None of us realized he was missing until we found his body trapped in the ice just inside the compound's gate. What pain he must have felt after he threw himself from atop the tower, after he tried to crawl forward on crushed bones, heading in the direction of a coast he must have known he would never live to see.

IV.

My name is Maon, according to the st.i.tching across the breast of the uniform I am wearing and of all the others hanging in the locker beside my bunk. This is what it says beside my computer console in the listening room, and what the others call out when they greet me. It is what the captain snarls often in my direction, growling and waving his machine pistol to remind me that he is the one giving the orders, not me.

My name is Maon: Some mornings, I stand before my mirror and speak this word again and again, reminding myself as I stare at my reflection, surprised anew by the gray of my hair, by how the winter of my beard mimics the snow and ice outside. I have begun to put on fat, to find my stomach and face thicker than I believe them to be away from the mirror. Caught between the endless dark outside the tower and the constant fluorescence of our own gray halls, it is too easy to mistake one time for another, to miss meals or repeat them. My mouth tastes perpetually of cigarettes and salted beef, and my belly grows hard and pressing against the strained b.u.t.tons of my uniform. Sometimes, I can't remember having ever eaten, though my stomach is so full of food I am often sick for hours.

V.

It was only after Kerr died that I discovered our personnel records had been deleted: Birthdates, hometowns, the persons to be notified in the case of our deaths, all these crucial facts gone. From that moment on, we had only our tattered uniforms to prove our ranks, only the name tape attached to our chests to remind us who we each were.

Without the personnel records, it became impossible to determine the date we were to be released from service and taken to the coast for transport home. According to the captain, this meant no one could go home until we re-established contact with the main force, something he seemed increasingly uninterested in trying to do.

Once, Macrath and the others came to me and asked me to speak to the captain, to inquire after our missing records. The next morning in the mess hall, I did my best to convince him to honor their requests.

It would only take a few minutes, I said. You could do it right now. Probably there's no one out there listening, but even if there is, they won't respond without your authorization codes.

The captain finished chewing before looking up from his breakfast of runny scrambled eggs and muddy coffee. His eyes flicked from my face to where Macrath stood behind me, then back again. He said, Are you trying to give me an order, Maon?

No, sir. A suggestion, maybe.

The captain's voice was stern, providing no room for argument. When I turned to leave, I saw Macrath still standing there, his eyes murderously red-rimmed and locked onto the captain's own implacable black orbs, on those irises as shiny and flat as the surface of burnt wood. Macrath only wanted to go home. He had a family, a wife and children, a little house, a car he liked to tinker with on weekends. That was what he always told us, what he believed he remembered.

When the captain acted, it was not me he targeted but Macrath, ordering some of the men to haul him into the frozen courtyard, then following behind to deliver the fatal bullet himself. The captain explained that the orders to execute Macrath had come from higher up the chain of command, in a coded communication meant for his eyes only. Even though it was I who had manned the silence of the listening room all morning, I said nothing, counseled the others to do the same. As I had once warned Macrath: We must not cross the captain too often, and certainly not when he is in a killing mood.

VI.

The captain is unshakable in the face of our questions, but perhaps he too knows nothing more than what we know ourselves: that there are no more signals, no signs of either friend or foe. When we ask if our transport is still moored at the coast, waiting for our return, he refuses to answer. He says that information is cla.s.sified, and that we don't need to know. We disagree. If the ship is still waiting, then we could make a try for the coast, leaving this wasteland behind. Perhaps then we could find a way to stop our fleeing memories, to slow the dimness that replaces them. In the meantime, we blame our forgetfulness on anything we can, scapegoating the tower first and the components of our lives here second. It could be the radiation from the satellite dishes, or the constant darkness, or the fact that the only foods we eat are yeastless wafers of bread, jugs full of liquid egg subst.i.tute, tins of dried beef, plus powdered milk and powdered fruit and powdered everything else. Together, we all eat the same three meals, day after day after day, our taste buds grown as dull and listless as the brains they're connected to, until the repet.i.tion steals away our past lives, until our minds are as identical as our gray beards, our curved paunches, our time-distressed uniforms.

VII.

Standing in the dark among the mechanical workings of the two satellite dishes, I work swiftly to repair a series of frayed wires splayed out from the larger dish, my fingers shaking beneath the tight beam of my headlamp, frozen even through the thickness of my gloves. It has been dark as long as I can remember, long enough that the sun grows increasingly theoretical, abstract. My own memories of it faded long ago, so that all remembrances of places lit not by torches and floodlights are suspect, at best more evidence of a past increasingly faked and unlikely, stolen from the remnants of the others who share this tower.

When I finish my task, I stand and look out from the tower's edge, studying the ice and snow and wind and, above it all, the aurora, its bright curtains of color cutting a ribbon through the darkness, obscuring much of the meteor shower that continues to fall. I linger until the cold penetrates the last of my bones, then I turn the metal wheel atop the frost-stuck hatch, descend the rickety ladder leading back into the tower.

An hour later, lying in bed, I am unable to remember the colors of the aurora, or even what exactly I went outside to fix. The events of my life increasingly exist only in the moment, too often consumed by their own bright fire, lost as the many meteorites tumbling and burning out across the already unimaginable midnight sky.

VIII.

Once a week, after we're sure the captain is asleep in his quarters, we gather in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the tower, amidst the stacked palettes of canned and powdered foodstuffs, the whole rooms of spare wiring kits and computer parts and drums of fuel oil, where there is enough of everything to last another hundred years. There are six of us who meet, the only ones who still remember enough to work, who can still log into our computers. Weeks ago, we changed our pa.s.swords to pa.s.sword, the first thing everyone guesses, so that as we continue to dim we will still be able to log in and listen for the orders we hope we might yet receive.