Cataclysm

 

Part One

 

We were sitting in our rows—alphabetically ordered, of course—studying our Individual Data Supply Apparatuses, when our newest Native Language teacher, Mr. Cambia, entered.  As one, as we had been taught since earliest life, we stored our IDSAs and stood, resting our right hands on our desks, straightening our left arms perpendicular to our shoulders, and nodding once.  Mr. Cambia, pushing his glasses up on his nose, waved his permission for us to sit down.  We did so with a subtle sliding of identical grey pants against identical brown plastic chairs.

 

The teacher seemed to sink into himself as he regarded us: back after back ramrod straight, pair of eyes after pair of eyes directed at a spot somewhere on the wall facing us.  Like the others, I crossed my ankles neatly, folded my hands on top of my desk, and found a patch of the flat projection screen I could claim as my own.  Somewhere in the back of my head, it registered that Mr. Cambia was trying to meet my eyes; more resolute than ever, I continued to watch the blank space.

 

"Health to you," said Mr. Cambia at last.  With a tiny rustle, the class relaxed, some students looking down at their interlaced fingers, others turning to watch our new teacher.  I joined the latter group in inspecting him.  Mr. Cambia wore a light grey suit with a white shirt and black tie, as was required of all teachers.  He stood straight, but not tall, certainly no taller than average.  His glasses rested on a rather prominent nose, offset by a pair of high cheekbones and a long sloped forehead that ended in a mass of light brown hair, graying at the temples.  He looked, I thought, just like a stereotypical male teacher.  How appropriate for our school to have chosen him.

 

This time I allowed Mr. Cambia to seek out my gaze.  He stared straight through me, his blue eyes tearing a ragged hole in my careful evasiveness.  I could hear everything my former teachers had ever written about me—defiant, reckless, single-minded, able to concentrate for extended periods of time only on subjects she deems appealing—and knew he could see every time I had talked back to my instructor, see every time I had been sent home in disgrace, see it all.  He held my eyes for a long time, refusing to look away.  Possibly for the first time, someone could withstand my glare, and I was forced to break eye contact first.  I shifted my frown toward my desk, glowering at the smooth plastic.

 

Mr. Cambia walked deliberately to the front of his desk and sat upon the edge.  He held up a book.  "This," he said, "is an anthology of poetry."

 

The class, stunned into silence not only by the appearance of a book, but by the appearance of a book of poetry, remained both absolutely still and absolutely quiet.  I felt my mouth open in an oval of disbelief, and shut my lips before Mr. Cambia could see my shock.  He continued, unruffled, "This book was written by a man, Robert Frost, who lived more than three centuries ago."  Running an affectionate hand over the cover, Mr. Cambia brushed dust from the spine and opened the book to a marked page.  "Iris, would you come up here and read for the class, please?"

 

I did not stop to wonder how Mr. Cambia had known my name.  With as little excessive movement as possible, I stood from my seat and took twelve straight strides to the front of the room, turned, took another three, until I stood next to my teacher.  He held the book out to me, and I grasped it with a lack of dread that astonished me.  Having never touched a real book before, I half-expected it to crumble in my fingers, disintegrate into a fine powder of processed wood.  When it did not, I focused my eyes on the page before me.

 

"Read the poem on the right," said Mr. Cambia.

 

"'A Question,'" I read.  "By Robert Frost.

 

"A voice said, Look me in the stars/And tell me truly, men of earth,/If all the soul-and-body scars/Were not too much to pay for birth."  I searched for more—there had to be more—but found that to be the end of the short poem.

 

Impassive, Mr. Cambia was looking out over the class.  "Can one of you tell me what that means to you?"  Silence.  "In this, there are no wrong answers."

 

A voice said, Look me in the stars

 

I creased my forehead at the words, but they remained fixed on the page, meaningless.

 

And tell me truly, men of earth

 

Was Frost asking me?  Or asking me to ask myself?  Or asking me to ask others?

 

If all the soul-and-body scars

 

Unbidden, memories of my first days of school rose through my thoughts.  I had been something of a rebel even then, refusing to sit still, refusing to listen, refusing to share equally.  Had those inclinations vanished or just disappeared under layers of conditioning?

 

Were not too much to pay for birth.

 

The Committee for Internal Family Affairs had once told my parents that I was an anomaly; that they did not know what had gone wrong during my mother's carefully monitored pregnancy to produce such a willful child.  They had recommended that I be watched carefully in a controlled environment, but Mom would not let them take me.  Shortly after my seventh birthday, my brother Philip had procured a job with the Committee Concerning the Content of News Broadcasting, and apart from occasional and heavily censored letters, we no longer heard from him.  In a way, I suppose I was Mom's last link to the world she had before Dad died.

 

"No," I said.

 

Mr. Cambia turned to me.  "I beg your pardon?"

 

"No," I repeated.  "The scars were not too much to pay."

 

For a moment, I thought I saw a flash of surprise in his eyes.  Before I could watch to see if it would return, he turned away, nodding to himself, and said, "Very interesting answer to the question, Iris.  You may return to your seat."

 

My stomach clenching in fear or incredulity or a combination of both, I retraced my steps to my desk and settled myself there.  Mr. Cambia did not again call on me.  He did not again open his book of poems.  He did not again ask the class for an interpretation of something he read to us.  But his clear gaze followed me as I took my required pages of notes, and as I asked the questions suggested by my IDSA.  It was not until after class that Mr. Cambia spoke to me directly.

 

"Iris, would you mind staying a moment?"

 

I did mind.  I did not tell him that.  "If you wish, sir."

 

He looked me over, and I straightened in slight trepidation, wondering if my collar had gone askew or if one of my shoelaces had come undone.  "Is there something you need, sir?"

 

"The other teachers warned me about you," he said.  "They told me that you would be something of a difficulty."

 

Not knowing his direction, I remained quiet.

 

"Do you know what they told me?"

 

Probably that I have terrorized the school since kindergarten and that I am not one of the students who will win a Nobel Prize twenty years from now, I thought.  "No, I don't, sir."

 

"You most likely do.  That's not the point.  Do you know what I think?"

 

I could not decide whether he insisted on asking me questions to make me uncomfortable or whether he simply enjoyed the rhetorical nature of his sentences.  Again, I refrained from answering.

 

"I think you're bored, Iris.  I think the teachers don't give you enough to do."  Reaching behind him to his desk, Mr. Cambia pulled his carrying case from the surface and opened it, rummaging inside.  I stood, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, until he produced a worn leather-covered book, at which time my discomfort became extreme apprehension.  Still, I did not refuse the volume when he handed it to me.

 

"That," he said, pointing at the book, "is another collection of Western poetry.  It includes poems from very early in humanity until the late twentieth century, just before the writing of new poetry was banned by the Committee for the Preservation of Democratic Ideals."

 

"Oh," I said.  The banning of new poetry had been one of the earliest and most controversial decisions of the Committee for the Preservation of Democratic Ideals.  As we had learned in world history, the Government had at last realized that new ideas were all but exhausted, and that the already overabundant poems that littered the earth like so many dry leaves were more than sufficient to sustain the population.  It had absolutely forbidden the writing of any new poetry, effective January 1, 2010.  Already published poets were given a small compensation; aspiring poets were left with their dreams and two empty hands.  Since then, the ruling had been revised until only the works of certain authors were permissible in schools.  Finally, the Committee for the Creation and Maintenance of School Curricula passed an informal ruling that discouraged all poetry in classrooms.  Following that pronouncement, poetry disappeared from the school systems, one teacher after another quietly persuaded that it was much easier to teach non-fiction than the dissident and uninformed views of so many dead poets.  Much in the way ISDAs replaced printed literature, essays and history replaced creative writing and novels.

 

And so it was that I had never been exposed to a printed book or a poem, and now Mr. Cambia wanted me to take both from him.  "I-I cannot accept, sir."

 

He frowned.  "Why not?  You're a bright student, are you not?"  A gleam came to his eye.  "Or is it that you are afraid?"

 

Now I knew what the teachers had told him.  They had told him that I had once stuck an older girl for telling her friends I was afraid of the darkness that comes with the weekly release of factory smoke into the dull brown sky.  Only once a week this happens—only once a week is there darkness.  "I am not afraid," I said.  "I will read the book if I must, sir."

 

"You don't have to read it, Iris," said Mr. Cambia.  "But I think you would like to."

 

"Thank you, sir."  I inclined my head in an appropriate gesture to bid farewell to a teacher and exited the room.

 

I enjoyed the walk home, as always, wondering to myself what the air tasted like outside the enclosed fiberglass walkways that led to each house throughout the city.  Inside, I could always tell where I was from the smells and tastes of the filtered oxygen, but outside…outside had to be different.  Outside had to be real.

 

Sometimes, to pass the time during the weekly blackouts, I tried to imagine the stars as they must have looked to humans hundreds of years ago.  Despite my best efforts, I could never quite picture a sky filled with glittering dots of burning gas.  For that matter, I could never quite picture a sky of blue with white clouds dancing through the air, changing form and blowing with the winds.  The sky came in two colors: brown and black.  Anything else was too difficult to envision.

 

The entrance to my house, like the others on my street, was rectangular and connected directly to the main walkway.  Once inside the private tunnel, I almost jogged to the door, free of the constricting arm of my school, free from the responsibility that would amass until I neglected to complete a homework assignment and the principal contacted Mom.

 

I opened the door.  "Mom, I'm home!"

 

No answer.  Not overly concerned, I threw my backpack onto my bed and shouted, "New messages, please," at the holomessage machine.  It lit obediently, whirred once or twice, and chimed.

 

"Welcome home from school, Iris.  You have two messages.  One is from Richard Parkson; the other is from your mother."

 

"Play both," I called, not paying any great deal of attention to the first.  Richard, my mother's latest boyfriend, seldom has anything worthwhile to say.

 

"Marie, Iris, this is Richard," he began, as if either of us would be unable to identify his holographic image.  "I'd like to take you both out to dinner, if you'd like to come.  We could go at seven o'clock, be back around nine.  Um…well, I guess you know my number.  So, yeah, call me back if you want to, uh, well, come.  Goodbye."  The tiny translucent version of the large opaque Richard Parkson disappeared.

 

"Would you like to retain the message for later viewing or would you like to delete it?" the machine asked.

 

"Delete it," I said.  To myself, I added, "Like I want to go out to dinner with you."

 

Mom appeared next, and I paused in the unpacking of my bag to listen to her.  "Iris, honey, I've gone for food before this week's blackout closes the grocery store.  Don't wait for me if you're hungry.  If you don't feel like fixing something for yourself, you can have Charles cook you dinner.  Please do your homework.  I love you, 'Ris.  Bye."

 

I erased Mom's message as well, then called Charles, our resident android, to make me a light meal.  Having finished organizing my school materials for the next day, I reached into my backpack, retrieved the book, and curled up on my bed to take a closer look.

 


 

Part Two

 

On the first worn page of the volume, there was a short note:

 

          Dear Reader,

         

You have chosen a book full of mystery, full of delight, full of the works of the masters of poetry, past and present.  Journey to your heart's content, from the ancient battlefields of Troy to the miraculous beauty of the wide oceans to the deepest recesses of the human mind.  Enjoy your visit, and don't forget to return.

 

The Editor

 

Smiling at the little paragraph, I turned several more pages, stopping at random to read a selection from Homer's Odyssey, a work that soon completely absorbed me.  I enjoyed the rhythms of the translation, the subtle ways the words rubbed against one another to find meaning.  Reaching the end, I flipped back through the book to read it again.  This time, Penelope appeared in my mind, her voice anguished as she told me of her grief at the disappearance of her husband Odysseus:

 

'Stranger, my looks,

my face, my carriage, were soon lost or faded

when the Achaeans crossed the sea to Troy,

Odysseus my lord among the rest.

If he returned, if he were here to care for me,

I might be happily renowned!

But grief instead heaven sent me – years of pain—'

 

Penelope sighed, hanging her head, a single tear escaping down one side of her face as she hugged her arms about herself.  When a slight breeze ruffled her long skirt, she smoothed the fabric with one hand, used the other to hold her graceful headband in place.  Her beautiful and aristocratic face stared through time, waiting only for her husband, waiting for the man she loved and would not forsake…

 

Gasping, I closed the book with a snap and pushed it away from me.  Penelope did not exist.  Homer had not invented the story I was now reading.  He had created a version, certainly, but he had come from Greece, where such epics were passed down orally and retained less factual information after each retelling.  Odysseus?  No more than a legend, and a poorly developed legend at that.

 

But in the back of my head, I could hear the whisper of a long-forgotten sea; feel the brush of a long-stilled wind.  I could see the rich green of orange and lemon trees, the lavender-grey leaves of the olive groves.  From the craggy hills came the musty smell of a herd of sheep, undercut by the sharp hint of wine.  I threw my arms up to the bright sun and blue sky, spinning, spinning—

 

"No," I whispered, clutching the edge of my desk to stop myself.  "This is not real.  This is not what our world looks like."  I talked loudly to myself, bringing my consciousness back into here and now.  "Greece, I've seen pictures of Greece.  There, they grow olives in greenhouses and in between there are sheep in barns and it looks a lot like here.  Their sun shines like ours, grey and beige and sometimes with the littlest hint of red in the evening before they turn the nightlights on."  Standing, I paced the length of my room twice before I again decided to sit on my bed.  This time, I did not open the little leather-bound volume, but watched it from a distance, as if it might again attempt to capture me.  Once again, I reached for it, this time with the intention of returning it to my backpack, but a tiny slip of paper fluttered from between the pages.  My fingers trembling, I opened the scrap and read:

         

          Dearest Gregorio:

 

I hope you enjoy this book of poems.  Your great-grandmother was a profound believer in the power of poetry, and she would have liked you to have it.  May you find someone special to whom you may pass it on.

 

Love,

 

Mama

 

Puzzled, I folded the scrap again, then opened it for a second reading.  The words remained as I had left them, simple and unassuming.  The simple message of love left me with only one question: Who was Gregorio?

 

I left the book on my bed and opened my door to peer out and see what had taken Charles so long to prepare my simple dinner.  The smell of smoke greeted my inquisitive nostrils and I grimaced.  Though he was programmed as a housekeeping android, Charles had occasional problems with his cooking protocols.  I rescued the rice he had left burn on the stove and dumped it into the waste disposal system, which ground the food and compressed it into tiny cubes.  These would stay in the enclosed storage area until the waste car came on Saturday morning.

 

Opening the refrigeration unit, I let my eyes wander aimlessly until they chanced upon an apple.  I took the fruit, bit into it, and slammed the door shut on the neat little packages of meat and vegetables.  Back in my room, I sat on one end of my bed and ate the apple slowly, one small bite at a time, staring at the innocuous and diminutive book.  Carefully, I laid a finger on the cover, tracing a design that was nearly invisible in direct light.  This time, when I opened it, I turned to a page near the end, reading:

 

          The night of a thousand and one nights,

          the shadow of a hundred shadows and a heartbeat,

          the water of a hundred waters falling,

          fire uncovering funnels,

          ashes dressed up like Medusa,

          the Earth's lamentation.

 

          I am a man.  Why was I born on Earth?

 

          Where is the shroud?

 

          Is this death?

 

I glanced at the title—'Cataclysm'—and at the author, Pablo Neruda.  Nobel Prize, I thought at once.  1971.  But this…no, at school we already knew who would win that coveted prize.  The teachers had us picked and on the path to the Nobel by the time we reached ten years of age.  How could they have known to send this man to the Committee for the Distribution of Nobel Prizes?  He wrote poetry.  His poems spoke.  I did a quick comparison in my head.  1971…that would have been just under forty years before the poetry ban.  And at the arguments for the abolishing of new poetry, the Committee had claimed no one had written anything truly unique in the past two centuries!  How could they say that?  How could they say that this was not unique?

 

Is this death?

 

What is happening to me?

 

For the second time, I closed the book, this time with a little tremor of excitement that started in my stomach and traveled up until it peaked in my throat.  I wanted to scream: why had I not been shown this before?  Why was this hidden?  Where had it gone?

 

Why am I asking?

 

There was, I reasoned, one good way to settle my curiosity.  I reached for the holophone sitting at my bedside and depressed a button to turn it on.

 

"Hello, Iris," said the phone.  "Who would you like to call today?  In the past, you have been inclined to call—"

 

"Cambia," I said.  "I don't know the first name, but he teaches twelfth grade Native Language at my school."

 

"Cambia," the phone repeated.  "Cambia, Gregorio.  Should I connect to his Hololine frequency?"

 

Gregorio?  Wasn't that the name on the paper?  "Yes, please."  My confusion only grew as the holophone connected; when Mr. Cambia answered I almost terminated the call.

 

"Mr. Cambia," I blurted, hating my voice, hating my lack of composure, "why did you give me that book?"

 

"Iris?"  Mr. Cambia sounded as if he had just woken from an afternoon nap.  "I take it you've read some of the selections?"

 

"They're not just selections, sir.  Why did you give it to me?  I thought we were not going to study poetry in our school."

 

My teacher gave a half-laugh.  "We're not.  That's purely extracurricular reading."

 

"But what is it supposed to mean?"

 

"The poetry?"

 

"Why did you give it to me?"

 

There was a long pause while Mr. Cambia contemplated his answer.  Finally, he said, "Because you'll know what to do."

 

"Because I'll know what to do?"  But I don't know what to do.  My voice hung thick with frustration.  What Mr. Cambia had given me was more than a book, more than a collection of pages and a leather binding.  It was a collection of joy and sorrow and wonder and love and hatred and everything I could not have.  It was a collection of words so powerful they bordered on heresy.

 

"Why did you call, Iris?" Mr. Cambia asked, interrupting my thoughts.  "I've told you all I know.  That book belonged to my great-grandmother, and she treasured it like a child.  I hope you'll derive the same pleasure from reading it.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a rather urgent call waiting.  Perhaps we'll see one another at school?"

 

I forced a smile.  "Of course we'll see each other, sir.  Thank you for taking my call."  A nod, and his image blinked out of existence.

 

Curling up on my bed, I reached for the book a third time, my mind slowly turning around what had happened.  I suppose there's an answer to everything, I thought.  But then where are they—the answers?

 

The answers did not choose that moment to appear, for my mother swept in through the door and brought with her dinner and dessert.  "Dinnertime, 'Ris!" she called.  "I brought your favorite—lumpia and pancit from the Filipino deli."  She poked her head in my room.  "'Ris?  Iris, honey, let's eat."

 

I scrambled up, guiltily shoving the book behind me, but she had already gone to the kitchen.  The clang and clatter of dishes told me that she had started to set the table for our meal.  With a reluctant step, I walked out to join her.

 

We sat across from one another, watching each other across the small square table.  People often tell me that I look a great deal like my mother.  I do not see the similarities beyond our jet-black hair, round faces, and miniature noses.  Where my mother is rounded and flexible, I am thin and angular; where she is petit and graceful, I am tall and awkward.  She wears contact lenses to correct her near-blindness, but I have excellent eyesight.  When Mom enters a room, everyone knows she has arrived.  There is no question as to who she is.  Everyone in our community knows Mom.

 

"So what did you do at school today, 'Ris?"  Mom pushed her fork into the pancit and twirled it like spaghetti.  "Anything interesting?"

 

"Not much," I lied.  "We have a new Native Language teacher, though: Mr. Cambia."

 

Mom's lips pressed together.  "Cambia?  Do I know that name from somewhere?"

 

"Probably not, Mom.  He's just a teacher.  He seems nice."  And strange, I added to myself.

 

"What were you reading when I came in?" she asked.  "I don't think I've ever seen a real book in the house before.  Is that part of your class?"

 

"In a way," I said, evading the question.  "It's just a collection by different authors."

 

Mom smiled at me.  "Well, I'd like to see it.  It's always nice to know what my daughter's studying in school."

 

She looked so unsuspecting, so unassuming, that I whispered, "It's a book of poetry, Mom."

 

"What?" inquired my mother, the smile still on her face.  "I didn't quite catch that."

 

"I said it's a book of poetry."

 

The happiness in Mom's expression drained away in the space of a second.  "A book of poetry?" she repeated carefully, as if doubtful she had heard correctly.  "I thought poetry wasn't going to be part of your course this year."

 

I grimaced.  "It's not.  Mr. Cambia gave the book to me for a sort of extra reading."

 

A shadow crossed her face, and though my mother's eyes remained open, the emotion behind them closed in a way I had never seen before.  "That is unacceptable.  I sent you to a private school to prevent this from happening."

 

"There is nothing wrong with reading a few poems."

 

"Yes, Iris, there is plenty wrong with 'reading a few poems.'  What will this Mr. Cambia give you next, some politically dissident fiction?"  The muscles around her mouth tightened into little flat planes.  "You will not be going back to that class, and that is final."

 

Her words hit me like a blow to the chest.  Not go back?  But if I did not go back, how would I ever find the reason Mr. Cambia had given me the book in the first place?  How would I ever know the answer?  How would I know what to do?  Suddenly, going back to that class seemed very important.  "Mom, you can't do that.  Please say you won't take me out of his class.  I promise I won't take any more literature from him.  I won't even talk to him after class, but Mom, I want to go back."

 

Creasing her forehead, Mom said, "I need you to tell me you won't accept anything from him."

 

"Fine.  Nothing.  I won't take anything.  I just don't want to be the different one again."  I added some fabricated sorrow to the tone of my words, playing on Mom's concern for my mental well-being.  In fourth grade, I had been the only student transferred from one class to another.

 

Mom watched me with pity and fear for me in her eyes, but nodded at last.  "I'll just talk to the principal.  He should be able to tell Mr. Cambia to stop giving students poetry."

 

But it's so wonderful.  What's wrong with poetry?  "All right, Mom," I said, agreeing with her for the sake of maintaining her trust.

 

"Good."  We finished our dinner in silence; I announced that I was ready to take a shower and retire to bed.  Immediately after we had stacked the dirty dishes for Charles to clean, I retrieved the book, hid it under my pajamas, and carried it to the shower room with me.  I turned the water on, then closed the door and sat on the smooth plastic floor with my back against one of the white walls.  The crisp pages of the volume were cool against my fingers as I opened to another random selection and began to read, surrendering to the now-familiar rush of excitement as the words came together in a crested wave.

 

          The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

          The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

          The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

          And the highwayman came riding –

                   Riding – Riding –

          The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door....

 

I read the story with a shiver of delight: the story of hidden loves and betrayals, of good and evil twisted and warped until it was difficult to tell one from the other.  I listened to the highwayman's words with a thrilled knot in my stomach.  "Then look for me by moonlight:/Watch for me by moonlight:/I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."

 


 

Part Three

 

It was not until the next afternoon that I mustered enough courage to talk to Mr. Cambia, to ask in person why he had given me the book.  Though I had resolved at the beginning of the day to meet with him at lunch, the designated time flowed by without my approach of his spare desk.  After school, however, I stopped in his room, almost hoping that he had gone home.

 

"Mr. Cambia?" I asked after opening his door hesitantly.  "Are you here?"

 

"Yes?" he said, turning from his desk-clearing efforts to regard his visitor.  "Oh, hello, Iris."

 

"Sir, I thought it appropriate to return the book," I said.  "My mother did not think it wise for me to accept such material from you.  She disapproves of poetry in all forms."

 

A frown crossed Mr. Cambia's face.  "There is no rule prohibiting me from teaching what I see fit."

 

"No, sir, but my mother—"

 

"Iris," he interrupted, "did you read any of the poems?"

 

Though I tried to stop them, I know my eyes shone at his mention of the works.  "Yes, sir, I did."

 

Mr. Cambia gestured for me to sit down at one of the unoccupied desks and seated himself across from me.  "Which one did you like best?"

 

My mind began to calculate furiously.  'The Highwayman,' for its beautiful story and tragic conclusion?  The Odyssey, for my deep comprehension of Penelope's thoughts?  'Cataclysm,' for Neruda's profound metaphors?  Or one of the others I had read late at night, with only the light from my alarm clock to illuminate the page?  Something by Whitman, perhaps, or maybe Langston Hughes.  Or Poe, or Dickinson, or….

 

"I don't know," I said finally.  "I liked them all."

 

For a moment, Mr. Cambia just watched me; then a smile flickered across his mouth and rested in his eyes.  "Would you like another book?"

 

I almost said yes; I almost said I'd love to read more—give me everything you have, but Mom's disapproving words at dinner the night before held me back.  "No thank you, sir.  My mother doesn't want me bringing home books anymore."

 

"Ah," he said, and his face seemed to lock itself.  "Well then, I'm glad you enjoyed this one."

 

"Thank you for the book," I said.  "I'm sorry I'm not the special person to whom you will pass it on."

 

He smiled.  "I see you found the note.  Don't worry—occasionally even teachers make mistakes."  There was something in his voice that contradicted his words, though, some undercurrent of but I did not make a mistake in giving the book to you.  Or maybe I just imagined it.

 

Well, I thought, I suppose there's an answer to everything.  The idea rang with a strange feeling of déjà vu, and I mulled over it as I counted the steps on my way home.  It was not until I reached my room that I placed the phrase.  That's what I was thinking yesterday.  Impulsively, I sat at my desk, switching the light on and pulling my notebook from the drawer.  The screen of my notebook lit as I powered it up, and I retrieved a stylus from my backpack as I waited for it to ready itself for data entry.

 

At the top of a fresh page, I wrote my name and the date, then skipped two lines and wrote the thought: I suppose there's an answer to everything.  Stopping any conscious ideas from entering my mind, I added another line under that: in this age of science, there must be.  Biting my lip, I gripped the stylus in my hand and continued, word by agonizing word, until the flow of impressions stopped.  Then I slowly opened my awareness to the outside world and took a critical look at what I had written.

 

          I suppose there's an answer to everything –

                   in this age of science, there must be –

          But then where are they

                   the answers

          When I whisper, ask, plead, scream?

                   Where are they?

          Silence.

 


 

Later that night, I ate alone.  Mom had gone out to dinner with Richard after scolding me for deleting the message he had sent the day before, and I had cooked myself a bowl of soup.  Charles was at the repair shop for his programming problem, and was not expected back for a period of at least two days.  So it was a surprise when someone rang the doorchime.  I checked the caller identification screen, and noted the white bands around the arms of three of the uniformed men at the door.  Committee police.  More confused than frightened, I opened the door.

 

"May I help you?" I asked.

 

The first man in the group flashed a holographic badge in my face, accompanied by an IDSA.  "This is a search warrant for your house.  You are Iris Tracey, are you not?"

 

I stood my ground, refusing to let him in until he explained why he had interrupted my dinner.  "Why are you searching my house?"

 

The second man in the group spoke up this time.  "We received a transmission from an electronic notebook here.  It seems that the notebook recognized the components of a poem it had not before encountered and sent the entire thing to our headquarters, that is to say, the headquarters of the Committee for the Investigation of Original Poets.  The document was red-flagged and compared to our comprehensive databanks.  No poem exists that exactly matches the one from this house.  You are aware, miss, that the writing of new poems is a crime punishable by a ten thousand dollar fine and up to ten years in jail?"

 

"Yes," I said, feeling the blood draining from my face.  "I'm aware of that."

 

Stunned into cooperation, I stepped back and let the group in.  "We'll need access to every portable notebook in the house," said the first officer, looking down at a list he held in front of him.  "And I'd recommend calling your parents.  Though you are eighteen years of age and therefore an adult in your own right where this is concerned, they should be here to bear out our legal procedures."

 

"The notepads my mother and I own are in our desks," I told the man.  "And I'm calling my mother now."  Swallowing the tears of pain and fear I felt pushing from behind my eyes, I set the holophone to Mom's portable frequency, but instead of Mom, an attractive young woman appeared.

 

"I'm sorry, but the frequency you have tried to contact is unreachable at the moment.  Please—"  The message cut off as I deactivated the machine.

 

Breathing hard, I wrapped my arms around myself and leaned back against the wall.  My eyes closed, and my head began to spin.  Stop.  Breathe.  Think.  Who can help?

 

I turned back to the holophone.  "Call Mr. Cambia," I said aloud.  "Gregorio Cambia."

 

The machine complied with no complaint, and I waited for it to connect, forcing air in through my nose, out through my mouth.  Please be home.

 

When the little image of Mr. Cambia appeared on the holophone, I almost cried out with relief.  "Mr. Cambia," I began, my voice tinged with panic, "I need help."

 

He was instantly concerned.  "What is it, Iris?"

 

"A poem," I said.

 

The expression on his face changed a hundred times in the next second, from thrilled to understanding to fearful to pitying.  "Have you tried to contact your mother?"

 

"She's eating out at Ruggero's, and her holophone link is unreachable.  Could you find her for me, and tell her to come home?"

 

"I'll be right there, Iris.  Iris?  Listen to me."  His head grew larger, as if he had come closer to his holocamera.  "Whatever you do, don't say anything.  Remain absolutely silent.  And don't lose control of yourself.  I'll be there as quickly as I can."

 

"Thank you," I whispered.  Shutting down the holophone, I sat on the floor beside it, my knees hugged to my chest, shivering.  Please come quickly.

 

One of the younger officers was standing in front of me, then crouching.  "Hey kid, are you all right?"

 

I looked up at him, beyond him, through the tears that clouded my vision.  "Will there really be a morning?" I asked.

 

"What?"  His eyebrows rose in confusion.

 

"Will there really be a morning?/Is there such a thing as day?/Could I see it from the mountains/If I were as tall as they?"

 

His eyes held nothing but compassion.  "We'll have this cleared up in no time."

 

"Sure," I murmured.  "I—"

 

"Here it is!" shouted one of the men.  "It was transmitted from this notebook, found in the girl's desk."

 

The first officer gestured vaguely in my direction.  "Somebody read her the Miranda warnings.  And call into headquarters: we've found what we were looking for."

 

"You have the right to remain silent," began the young policeman, reading from his IDSA.  "Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law."

 

I won't deny what I did, I thought, the idea entering my head and running in tiny giddy waves throughout my brain.

 

"You have the right at this time to an attorney of your own choosing and to have them present before and during questioning and the making of any statement."

 

I will admit what I did.  Even better, this would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that what I had done was right.

 

"If you cannot afford an attorney, you are entitled to have an attorney appointed for you by a court, and to have them present before and during questioning and the making of any statement."

 

I am proud of what I did.  This last realization soared through me as if I had just taken flight, relieving the weight I had felt pressing down on my heart and leaving me with an irrational joy.

 

"You have the right to exercise any of the above rights at any time during any questioning and the making of any statement.  Do you understand each of these rights I have explained to you?"

 

I looked up at him; saw the dark spheres of my eyes reflected in his blue ones.  "I understand perfectly.  Thank you for reading those so poetically."

 

Confusion swirled across his expression.  "Thanks, I guess…"

 

Spontaneously, I reached up and hugged him.  "You're welcome."  I held out my hands.  "I suppose you'll have to bind me."

 

"Uh, yes miss, or ma'am…maybe, yeah, I could get one of the other officers to do that."

 

"That would be fine," I said, spinning on the ball of my foot.  When the doorchime rang for the second time that evening, I skipped to answer it and was greeted by Mom's anguished face.  For a second, regret passed through me, but then I saw Mr. Cambia standing behind her and grinned impishly.  "I did it.  I wrote one."

 

Though his blue eyes filled with worry, Mr. Cambia smiled back at me.  "I thought you might."

 

Turning back to Mom, I said, "I'm sorry.  I couldn't stop it, though.  It's wrong, what they've done, and I won't be the next one to support that.  I'm eighteen.  I can do what I want."

 

Mom did not smile at me.  "Why did you write one?" she asked, her voice hard and unstable at once.  "Couldn't you just read them?"

 

"No, Mom, can't you see?"  I struggled to find some comparison, some way to express the jubilation I felt.  "Didn't you ever just want to throw your arms up and spin until you're dizzy?  That's what it's like."

 

One tear slipping down her face, Mom shook her head.  "I never wanted to do that.  All I wanted was someplace safe for you to grow up—"

 

I touched her face with my hand.  "They say jail is the safest place on earth."

 

"Don't joke!" she shouted.  More softly, she added, "This is not the time for that, Iris."

 

"Sorry," I said.  "But Mom, this is right.  I'm doing this because I decided to.  I'm going to be tried and convicted and sent to jail and fined because I did something.  It wasn't suggested by my IDSA or assigned by my teacher.  I did something I wanted to do.  I did something new."

 

By this time, the officers had found a set of wrist binders and were busy pulling my hands behind my back so they could fasten them.  I smiled through my sudden tears, smiled at my mother and behind her at Mr. Cambia, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

 

Outside sat the police cruiser, lights flashing.  The police crew set me inside with a minimum of difficulty, but before they closed the door I wedged a foot in the opening.  "I love you, Mom.  I'll see you soon."

 

I heard my mother demand to follow me; Mr. Cambia second her command.

 

As a policeman slammed the door, muffling all outside noises, I thought I could hear a voice say,

 

          Look me in the stars

And tell me truly, men of earth,

If all the soul-and-body scars

Were not too much to pay for birth.

 

No, I thought.  Definitely not too much to pay.

 

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