The Two Births

Letter 15 of the Book of Forgetting

The morning came in grey, and I was at my bench when Liesl Kfir walked in. She was the repair shop owner, a strong woman of about thirty-five, her dark hair tied back, sparks still fresh on her forearms. She held a bundle in her arms, wrapped in a plain blue cloth.

“Fernando,” she said. “I need you to look at her.”

I stood. She folded back the cloth. A small face, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Rina. Born three days ago.

“She spoke this morning,” Liesl said. “Clear as anything. ‘The fog is just fog.’ She’s three days old.”

I looked at the baby. She stirred, made a small sound, settled.

“Joel Nir’s daughter too,” I said. “Naomi. Same words.”

“I heard.” Liesl sat down in the chair by my bench, not waiting to be asked. She held Rina against her shoulder. “Ivo’s girl too. Yarden. Three of them now.”

I sat back down. The rangefinder lay open before me, its lens clean, its screws in a small dish.

“What do you make of it?” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “They’re babies. They make sounds. Sometimes the sounds come out like words.”

“She said it twice,” Liesl said. “I counted. Two times, same words, same order.” She looked at me. “I’ve repaired every instrument in this town. I know when something is working the way it should. That was working the way it should.”

I didn’t answer. I picked up a screw, turned it in my fingers.

“There’s something else,” she said. “Isaac tried to walk the south road this morning. Guard turned him back at the fog line.”

“Isaac?”

“My brother. He said he wanted to see what was out there. The guard reminded him the Council prefers people to stay at their work.” She paused. “Orpah Zohar tried the east road. Same thing.”

I set the screw down. “Two people, one morning.”

“Two people, one morning.” She shifted Rina to her other shoulder. “And Yarden Segal measured the north line again. Two hundred twelve going out. One hundred ninety-six coming back. Same as before.”

“Same as Tobiah,” I said.

“Same as Tobiah.” She looked at me. “The instruments are fine, Fernando. I checked them myself. The line is not moving. The fog is not moving. But the number changes.”

Rina opened her eyes. They were dark and clear. She looked at me for a long moment, then closed them again.

“She’s tired,” Liesl said. “She walked a long road before she got here.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” She stood up. “But she’s been here three days, and she already knows something I don’t.”

She left. I sat at my bench a long time. Then I walked to the mill.

Oren Gefen was there, the farmer, broad-shouldered and quiet, standing at the water’s edge with Shem Amir, who ran the grain store. They were talking low, their heads close. I didn’t interrupt. I sat on a bench by the wall and waited.

After a while Oren came over. He sat down beside me, his hands loose between his knees.

“You heard about the births,” he said.

“I heard.”

“Three babies saying the same thing.” He looked at the water. “Shem has a theory. He says the town is a place that was made, and the fog is the edge of the making. He says the babies remember the making, and what they say is true.”

“True?”

“That the fog is just fog.” He picked up a stone, weighed it in his hand. “I don’t know if he’s right. But he’s not wrong, either.” He tossed the stone into the water. It sank without a sound.

I walked back to my workshop as the light began to fail. Two women had come to blows at the mill that afternoon, Hannah Barak and Shai Ofer, over nothing anyone could name. Ivo had separated them. Dinah Kedem and Jael Yaron had fought at the same place an hour later. No one knew why.

I opened the Book of Forgetting and wrote: Two daughters born to the Kfir and Nir houses. Both speak the sentence. A third child speaks it as well. Two people turned back at the fog line. The north line measures different going out than coming back. Two fights at the mill over nothing. A farmer and a grain dealer talked long at the water and did not agree.

I closed the book. Outside, the grey pressed at the window. Somewhere a baby would wake and speak again, and I would not know what it meant.