Que lifted himself from the ground calmly, and at a leisurely pace. He took a moment to look around, as if surveying the area from this new vantage point, before dusting off his sweats with sharp, stale gestures of his boyish hands. When the seat of his muddled, snow-colored pants had turned from a murky, mottled brown to more of a subtle sandy appearance, the fourteen-year-old crossed his hands behind his back and marveled, a little less surly now, about how solid the ground felt, and how his foolishly deceived feet finally seemed to understand the basic principles of balance again. The queasy feeling had been vaporized from his belly in a way that long lengths of time often cause, and Que was rather content to never think of it again.
"That would be me as well," the boy uttered at length, as if the fact was so simple that explaining was unnecessary and a waste of breath. His voice was not flat, but rather it was sterile. It slithered through the air with the solemn pitch of a cello, no emphasis on any word or syllable, but simply a single, uniform stroke of the bow. It had no pitch, it was neither angry nor annoyed but simply matter-of-fact, as if the boy were stating that two plus two made four. As tempting as the description might sound, his voice was not mechanic. He was not a machine. He was very much alive, very much human. To be sure, the boy's heart still beat against its cage, his breast still rose and fell in the manner of bellows never set to rest, for fear that the fire will go out. Yes, he was very much alive, very much human, certainly not a machine. His voice was not mechanic, simply stale, matter-of-fact, a uniform stroke of the bow. Perhaps, if that had been Que's wish, his voice could betray excitement, or pleasure, or a surly demeanor, just as, on his slate of a face, he could easily draw a picture of mood.
But why should he, if he didn't see the point? If he didn't feel enough to care?
No amount of effort in that field would ever untie the knots. Only calm, simple, meticulous thought could draw him up a pure solution, fit together another piece until at last, the devious riddle was vanquished, the hurricane subdued, the cyclone melted into harmless little drops, until the wind whipped another frenzy of thought into motion, another knot unconquerable onto the platter of riddles that he so joyously consumed, twirling the world on the twines of his stark, childish fork.
"That would be me as well," the boy uttered at length, as if the fact was so simple that explaining was unnecessary and a waste of breath. His voice was not flat, but rather it was sterile. It slithered through the air with the solemn pitch of a cello, no emphasis on any word or syllable, but simply a single, uniform stroke of the bow. It had no pitch, it was neither angry nor annoyed but simply matter-of-fact, as if the boy were stating that two plus two made four. As tempting as the description might sound, his voice was not mechanic. He was not a machine. He was very much alive, very much human. To be sure, the boy's heart still beat against its cage, his breast still rose and fell in the manner of bellows never set to rest, for fear that the fire will go out. Yes, he was very much alive, very much human, certainly not a machine. His voice was not mechanic, simply stale, matter-of-fact, a uniform stroke of the bow. Perhaps, if that had been Que's wish, his voice could betray excitement, or pleasure, or a surly demeanor, just as, on his slate of a face, he could easily draw a picture of mood.
But why should he, if he didn't see the point? If he didn't feel enough to care?
No amount of effort in that field would ever untie the knots. Only calm, simple, meticulous thought could draw him up a pure solution, fit together another piece until at last, the devious riddle was vanquished, the hurricane subdued, the cyclone melted into harmless little drops, until the wind whipped another frenzy of thought into motion, another knot unconquerable onto the platter of riddles that he so joyously consumed, twirling the world on the twines of his stark, childish fork.
