The Births and the Dead

Letter 17 of the Book of Forgetting

The morning came in grey, and I was at my bench when the bell rang twice. I set down my screwdriver and walked to the plaza. Garrin Zohar stood at the town hall steps, his tablet under his arm, his thin glasses low on his nose. He looked tired.

“Four births,” he said. “Oren Erez, two children. Leah Navon, one. Gideon Zohar, one. Joel Nir, one. Six children in three houses.”

“Six,” I said.

“Six.” He paused. “And three deaths. Ariel Kedem, the nurse. Eighty-one. Leah Sharon, the network technician. Seventy-six. Amos Zohar, the potter. Eighty.”

“All in their sleep?”

“All in their sleep.” He looked at me. “The old ones are going quiet now. No one hears them go. They just don’t wake.”

I walked to the square. Jethro Ronen was setting chairs out at his cafe, moving slow. He straightened when he saw me.

“You heard,” he said.

“I heard.”

“Oren’s daughter woke this morning saying words.” He wiped a chair with his sleeve. “Elisheva. ‘The fog does not measure the same twice.’ That’s what she said. A baby, Fernando. A day old.”

“I know,” I said.

“And Leah’s son said the other one. ‘The fog is just fog.’ And Gideon’s daughter, same. And Joel’s daughter, same.” He shook his head. “Four children, three houses, two sentences.”

I sat down at a table. “And Caleb?”

“Caleb? Oren’s son?” He nodded. “Caleb said it too. ‘The fog is just fog.’ Five children now.”

“Six,” I said. “Leah’s son is Perez.”

“Six.” He sat down across from me. “And the dead are quiet, and the newborns are talking.” He paused. “My wife said it’s a sign. I told her a sign of what. She didn’t know.”

I walked to the mill. Oren Gefen was there, the farmer, standing at the water’s edge. He had a child in his arms, wrapped in a plain cloth. He turned when I came near.

“Fernando,” he said. “You came to see her.”

“I came to see her.”

He folded back the cloth. Elisheva. A small face, dark eyes open, looking at me. She made a sound, then settled.

“She said it this morning,” Oren said. “Clear as anything. ‘The fog does not measure the same twice.’ I was holding her. She looked at me and said it.”

“You heard her yourself?”

“I heard her myself.” He looked at the water. “I don’t know what it means. But she’s my daughter, and she said it.”

A woman came down the path from the square. Rivka Raz, the network technician, a thin woman of about forty, her dark hair pulled back. She nodded at Oren, then at me.

“You heard about the dead,” she said.

“I heard,” Oren said.

“Ariel was measuring till the end,” she said. “The nurse. People said she was still measuring. Holding up her hand to the window, like she was checking the light.” She paused. “Leah Sharon and Amos just slept. No one heard them go.”

“And the babies talk,” I said.

“And the babies talk.” She looked at Elisheva. “She’s a pretty thing, Oren.”

“She is,” he said.

I walked back to my workshop. The rangefinder lay open on my bench, the lens clean. I sat down and looked at it a long time. The numbers were the numbers. The line was the line. But the children were speaking, and the old ones were quiet, and I did not know what it meant.

I opened the Book of Forgetting and wrote: Six children born to three houses. Five speak the sentence. One speaks a new sentence. Three old ones died in their sleep. A nurse measured till the end.

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