(no subject)
When I awoke, I was back in my bed. Lanthorn light fell broken and spotty across my sheet, and I saw my father's face haloed in yellow as he hunched over a desk whose bulk dominated the western wall of our room. I did not stir, but he seemed as always to have an innate knowledge of my comings and goings. He spoke to me in a tone that seemed below sound, as though it came straight to my ear without the interference of atmosphere.
"You are awake." It was not a question.
"Is it morning?"
"It is not," he replied, and dipped his quill into ink, tapping it off against the bottle. Despite this precaution, it dripped a trail of tiny black puddles as he began once again to scribble on the page. "What were you doing in the cellars?"
I paused then, because I detected something almost like anger at the edges of his voice. Something coiled like a spring inside him, something that I was loath to release. I bit my lips together until they tingled for lack of blood, and finally said, "I...couldn't sleep. I was looking for you."
For a few long moments, the only sound was his quill-pen scratching urgently upon the page. Though I did not watch him write, I imagined the hand as scrawly, angular. I pushed myself up into a seated position. Finally, the scritch-scratching was interrupted by the tiniest of snapping sounds. The point had broken. My father sighed, took up his pen-knife, and turned in his chair to face me, the knife and broken pen loose in his hands. "I do not want you to ever look for me, do I make myself clear?"
I nodded, more of habit than any real understanding. He had given me the same instruction countless times before, but I was a curious child and he was a bit of a curiosity. He went to work upon the pen, carving it into a wicked point that would hold the ink and hopefully last a bit longer than his last effort. When he finally asked me, "What did you find in the cellars?" it was almost conversational.
I was not fooled, however. There was a sort of cold efficiency behind everything my father ever did, and I knew better than to think he was simply taking an interest in my adventure. I had watched him squeeze answers from clever men before, and I knew he was doing the same to me. "Dirt," I replied. "Spider-eggs."
"You opened no doors?" He looked up from the pen with an eyebrow raised.
"I listened at a few." That, at least, was truthful.
"What did you hear?"
I paused then. Part of me wanted to tell him about the sound, about the beautiful singing and the woman's white hand. But these thoughts lasted only a moment. They were put down as quickly as they had come. "Pretentious talking." Then, remembering my readings from that morning, "some gentlemen talking of Herr Leibniz's paper. They were talking of the 'chain rule' put forth, essentially that if you have a variable which is dependent upon another, which is dependent upon a third, then--"
He cut me off with a wave of his hand, as I had been hoping that he would. I hadn't been able to glean much actual knowledge from the paper. "Enough of that nonsense," he said. "You know I haven't a head for figures." I nodded. "Did you learn anything from listening to them talk?"
I shook my head. "When I am older I think that I shall understand more. For now I just listen and hope that it will make sense one day."
"It shall," replied my father, and laid the pen back upon the desk, seeming to give up on it. He stood, and crossed the room to ruffle my hair with a gloved hand. "Someday I think you shall be better learned than all those gagers in silly wigs talking of Herr Leibniz's discoveries." He moved over to the small wardrobe and began systematically to remove his outergarments until he was clothed only in his threadbare underclothes. "One day you shall make your own discoveries." He said this with a certitude that my child's brain found at once admirable and silly.
He climbed into the other bed in our room and extinguished the lanthorn. "Get some sleep," he instructed me. "There are few hours left without sun."
I nodded, though we were now in darkness, and tucked myself down under the covers again. I did not, however, sleep. My mind was too a-buzz to obey.
"You are awake." It was not a question.
"Is it morning?"
"It is not," he replied, and dipped his quill into ink, tapping it off against the bottle. Despite this precaution, it dripped a trail of tiny black puddles as he began once again to scribble on the page. "What were you doing in the cellars?"
I paused then, because I detected something almost like anger at the edges of his voice. Something coiled like a spring inside him, something that I was loath to release. I bit my lips together until they tingled for lack of blood, and finally said, "I...couldn't sleep. I was looking for you."
For a few long moments, the only sound was his quill-pen scratching urgently upon the page. Though I did not watch him write, I imagined the hand as scrawly, angular. I pushed myself up into a seated position. Finally, the scritch-scratching was interrupted by the tiniest of snapping sounds. The point had broken. My father sighed, took up his pen-knife, and turned in his chair to face me, the knife and broken pen loose in his hands. "I do not want you to ever look for me, do I make myself clear?"
I nodded, more of habit than any real understanding. He had given me the same instruction countless times before, but I was a curious child and he was a bit of a curiosity. He went to work upon the pen, carving it into a wicked point that would hold the ink and hopefully last a bit longer than his last effort. When he finally asked me, "What did you find in the cellars?" it was almost conversational.
I was not fooled, however. There was a sort of cold efficiency behind everything my father ever did, and I knew better than to think he was simply taking an interest in my adventure. I had watched him squeeze answers from clever men before, and I knew he was doing the same to me. "Dirt," I replied. "Spider-eggs."
"You opened no doors?" He looked up from the pen with an eyebrow raised.
"I listened at a few." That, at least, was truthful.
"What did you hear?"
I paused then. Part of me wanted to tell him about the sound, about the beautiful singing and the woman's white hand. But these thoughts lasted only a moment. They were put down as quickly as they had come. "Pretentious talking." Then, remembering my readings from that morning, "some gentlemen talking of Herr Leibniz's paper. They were talking of the 'chain rule' put forth, essentially that if you have a variable which is dependent upon another, which is dependent upon a third, then--"
He cut me off with a wave of his hand, as I had been hoping that he would. I hadn't been able to glean much actual knowledge from the paper. "Enough of that nonsense," he said. "You know I haven't a head for figures." I nodded. "Did you learn anything from listening to them talk?"
I shook my head. "When I am older I think that I shall understand more. For now I just listen and hope that it will make sense one day."
"It shall," replied my father, and laid the pen back upon the desk, seeming to give up on it. He stood, and crossed the room to ruffle my hair with a gloved hand. "Someday I think you shall be better learned than all those gagers in silly wigs talking of Herr Leibniz's discoveries." He moved over to the small wardrobe and began systematically to remove his outergarments until he was clothed only in his threadbare underclothes. "One day you shall make your own discoveries." He said this with a certitude that my child's brain found at once admirable and silly.
He climbed into the other bed in our room and extinguished the lanthorn. "Get some sleep," he instructed me. "There are few hours left without sun."
I nodded, though we were now in darkness, and tucked myself down under the covers again. I did not, however, sleep. My mind was too a-buzz to obey.