Little Nothing (25 page)

A
t that very moment, the
final blast was ignited,
a blast so powerful that it not only bored laterally through the earth as was intended but ripped open a hole right in the center of the prison yard. Despite the enormous explosion, it took no time for the watermen to clear the debris using their handcar and turnstile. Their speed, it was said (and it was told and retold, down through the months and years and decades, passed on from grandmother to mother to child, until no one could say exactly when or where it had happened, only that it had happened because grandmothers and mothers for as long as anyone could remember said so), was due in no small part to the prodigious effort of the crew's young mascot who managed to clear more rubble than ten grown men, proving to all the envious watermen of the city that the boy was indeed the reason for Homulka's success. The watermen were paid a record sum for their effort, and at the christening ceremony of the new leg of the city's
waterworks, attended by the mayor as well as an official representing the recently elected president, who was also celebrating the fact that the tiny and unimportant country had, against all odds, managed to declare its independence, Boris and his crew were recognized for their part in bringing free-flowing water to the prison.

“We are a modern and enlightened country,” the official declared, “where even the lowest among us shall have the benefit of excellent plumbing!”

The crowd cheered.

But what of Markus and Danilo?

Even before the blast was cleared, Markus crawled through a gash in the earth, and Danilo followed. The boy ignored the prisoners and guards, who were stunned by the explosion, and ran toward a small building as if he knew all along who he would find there.

The door was open, the cell unguarded. When Danilo caught up, he found Markus alone.

“She is here!” Markus said. “I can smell her.”

Danilo looked around the horrible room, at the bucket, the mattress, the bloodstained shard of glass on the ground.

“There's no one here, Markus. I'm so sorry.”

“You're wrong!” Markus cried. “She is here!”

“You're the boy and the man,” a voice behind them said. Teardrop stood in the doorway. “The boy and the man. Just like she said.”

“Where is she?” Danilo said. “Is she—?”

“She was here. And then she was gone.”

“But she can't be dead,” Danilo said, suddenly overcome. “She doesn't die.”

“Not dead. Just gone. She just . . .” Teardrop rubbed his thumb against his fingers, studying his gesture as if he were trying to understand what he meant by it. “She just—vanished.”

—

M
ARKUS
WAS
REMAR
KABLY
CALM
. He and Danilo walked back through the prison yard, crawled through the blast area and back into the tunnel. The watermen were still working, but Boris didn't ask questions when Danilo and the boy walked all the long way to the mouth of the tunnel and then up and out of it, past Anuska as she worked the turnstile, past the wagon overflowing with rubble. They walked their familiar route. They watched the clock strike the hour, then crossed the bridge and climbed up to the castle where Markus didn't sneeze or cough or otherwise try to distract the sentries on duty. There were many hours until morning so, after walking back down the hill, they sat on the embankment by the river. They had not spoken since leaving the prison.

“Listen,” Danilo said finally. “I'm going to tell you a story and you will not believe it. You will tell me I'm an idiot or a fucker or a fucking idiot and while you might be right about that, I swear that what I am going to tell you is true.”

“I'm ready,” Markus said.

“Picture a flower,” Danilo said.

He told him everything he knew and everything she had ever
told him about her life before they met. He told him about a dwarf and a wolf girl and a wolf and about a pup who ran away. About stretching tables and jars filled with pygmy feet and beating hearts. About a man who could tie himself in knots and twins who were not really attached at the shoulder but whose parents glued them together each night to create the effect. He told him about murderers and madmen, the Twitcher and the Emperor of Ethiopia. Danilo told Markus about himself, too, about how he was brave and cowardly, a doubter and a believer, that he had love and also did not have love.

Markus was enraptured. His face registered wonder, disbelief, worry, fear, anticipation, delight, and pride, too, when he became a figure in the story, the one who finally had the courage to rescue her.

When Danilo finished, Markus was quiet for a long time.

“Am I real?” he said finally.

Danilo reached out to touch him, and then he gathered him to his chest. Surprisingly, the boy didn't resist. Danilo held Markus tight.

“You're suffocating me,” Markus said.

Danilo released him. “Then you're real.”

“Where is she now?”

“I don't know.”

“Will she ever come back?”

“I don't know.”

It was their same, dumb joke. Markus punched him lightly.

“What if I called to her?” the boy asked. “Do you think she would hear me?”

“You could try.”

Markus stood up. He lifted his face to the stars, opened his mouth, and sent out his sound.
Ahh-oohhh!
he cried, his voice high and thin and yet impossibly strong. It was as piercing and gorgeous a sound as Danilo had ever heard. Possibly, he thought, it was just now being listened to by someone who wondered where that unearthly howl was coming from. Or maybe someone heard it but thought it was only the noise of the passing wind and paid it no mind. Or perhaps there was someone, or something—who knows what she'd become—who would know that this was the sound of longing.

Markus fell silent. Danilo looked at the sky and watched the sound disappear into the vast emptiness where nothing and everything exists and where all stories
begin.

My deepest thanks go to David Rosenthal and Sarah Hochman, who are wise, bighearted, and true. You have given me the best of homes at Blue Rider and I am grateful for that. My thanks also to Aileen Boyle and Brian Ulicky, who launched the book into the world with care and determination. Jason Booher and Rachel Willey: thank you for the beautiful artwork. Thanks to Sonia Sachs and Terezia Cicelova for assistance with translations. Sarah Shun-lien Bynum, Mona Simpson, Amy Wilentz, and Kate Manning generously shared the process. Amy and Kate: thanks for cracking the daily whip. Teo Alfero allowed me to observe his magnificent animals at Wolf Connection. My conversations with Rachel Kushner about writing and life are essential. Ken Kwapis never tires of sorting through a tangle of wrong ideas and half-right notions with me and I love him for many more reasons than that. I'm grateful for my sons, Henry and Oliver, who are becoming the kindest of men, and whose journeys I now stand back and watch with awe and pride.

A version of
“
The Giant Turnip
”
is based on the folktale as recounted by Aleksei Tolstoy, and the excerpt from “The Elves
”
is a
slight alteration of the version told by Philip Pullman in
Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm.

This novel is dedicated to Henry Dunow, who understood what I was doing even before I did and who offered crucial suggestions and elucidations that helped make the book what it is. I couldn't have done it without you, Henry. I mean it.

M
ARISA
S
ILVER
is the author of the novel
Mary Coin
, a
New York Times
bestseller and winner of the Southern California Independent Bookseller's Award. She is also the author of the novels
The God of War
(a
Los Angeles Times
Book Prize finalist) and
No Direction Home
, and two story collections,
Alone With You
and
Babe in Paradise
(a
New York Times
Notable Book and
Los Angeles Times
Best Book of the Year). Silver's fiction has been included in
The Best American Short Stories
,
The O. Henry Prize Stories
, and other anthologies. She lives in Los Angeles.

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