Treasures untold

Sparks of ideas. Free-writing that I am quite intrigued by, because we all know what I really want to do with this fancy education:

I shall live a long time. I shall live past the point of understanding how the world works. I am nearly there already, and still my heart thumps on and I haven’t had to replace my glasses in three years. Mama Zuri once told me that in death even the old and wise tremble under the newness of the world like a newborn dik dik. Perhaps she is right, which is why I don’t watch the television except for David Attenborough documentaries and Jane Austen, and only if Mary is nearby to turn it off when I am through.

Aubyn Hall is quiet these days, save for Tuesdays and every third Saturday when the west wing and great hall are opened to the public as is our agreement with the wretched Trust. My days are now kept by dust-covered portraits and the damn dogs and memories of warm corridors and people of my own blood. I have filled my Bible with their names, and this is what is left.

As for man, his days are as grass. Mama Zuri wrote it with a square carpenter’s pencil in block letters on the back of a tin label. As a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. When the rains came and all the boys from the quarters danced in the streambed by the north pasture. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone. Starkers, shock, said Alfie. In a state of nature, said Kate. You just keep writing, girl, said Mama Zuri. I didn’t mind not being allowed outside to see the dancing boys. The orphaned dik dik had been allowed inside and to be given a name. This made all the difference. And the place thereof shall know it no more.

I first met him in my final year at small dinner party of a mutual tutor, Professor Llangyden, a boisterous Welshman who liked to surround himself with students who would perhaps one day prove an advantageous contact. I knew from the moment I set eyes on him that he would not have received an invitation had it not been for his friend, Mr. Will Barrett, a young man destined for a seat in government. His evening jacket was obviously borrowed from a man several inches thicker and a good deal taller.

Memory and truth, running parallel, sometimes intersecting—I cannot remember, for instance, if we left Mama Zuri behind or if she left us behind. Which direction did she walk on the road from Sibilo Station to Mombasa? She must have walked while Mother and Father drove because this is the way of things. Those who could have told me have gone on and taken their secrets with them. I have a dream which in which the smells of Aubyn Hall and monsoon-rotted straw linger in my mouth and nose as I walk through an unfamiliar passageway, guided along by strange portraits and paisley wallpaper, crumbling at the seams and corners. Sometimes Mama Zuri is standing there at the end of the hall, holding a wax candle from the hives at Sibilo. Sometimes Lieutenant Richardson with a black and red stained telegram. Sometimes Peter with an ageless smile and an atlas opened to the Dead Sea. Sometimes you are there with your easy courage.