stuttered way—the least are not so different, he had said.
He was wrong.
First of all, the opulence of the least houses was overwhelming. My mind couldn’t comprehend the size—each home was three times larger than the courtyard, with windows and sturdy walls and doors in frames. They were lined with elegance itself: held together with nails rather than rope and glue.
All houses everywhere changed in shape, but there they changed in colour. Some wore pink-and-purple tiles, some were lavished with green paint. Each had a garden, ornaments jutting from the ground and marking a territory. Each garden too was draped in eye-clutching colours: red posts; blue ornaments.
One had pillars on either side of the front door— front door, Frederick had told me, there was very often more than one door. There were two small windows on either side of either pillar, glass gleaming in the afternoon sun. Frederick stepped to one of the side walls and pressed his ear to it.
I tugged at his sleeve. We couldn’t listen to them, not in these rich homes, surely? But he folded his arms about my waist and we listened. They were quieter, those voices, muffled by their many walls.
Here was the second major difference: like the moderates they talked of rations and weather—but they also talked about the book and they talked far more of their neighbours. Frederick had smiled silently the whole time.
I enjoyed the warmth off his stomach.
Another house was clad in crimson boards and lined with small trees—living trees which were once scattered all over the world, which had been transported to the land of the minors. Frederick told me that this was Pilsner’s home, one of the largest, one of the most elegant. We peered in through the window.
It was a palace. I’d had no idea how far it was flung, running backwards and backwards, at minimum the length of fifteen minor huts. In the centre squatted an actual coffee table with four legs. The walls were adorned with torn satin and silk. There were two unbroken mugs and a private water tap, which stood in the very centre of his home, surrounded by a mosaic of colourful chipped tile, proudly wrapped in orange rust. There were chairs, chairs which actually had backs.
I could see one of the mugs read ‘World’s Best Dad,’ though most of the letters were worn. Why did he need two mugs?
“Do you live in a place like this, Frederick?”
He didn’t reply.
He would come to my triangle hut, but always after it was dark or a little before the light—he would whisper my name through the fabric of my door, and I would whisper his name in return. Now and then he would enter the hut and we would spend time with our arms wrapped around one another, though that was the full extent of it.
We had spent some days exploring the land of the least before he turned up, a little before light, and said my name. He didn’t enter—instead he asked if I wanted to see something truly new.
Of course.
We journeyed out of sight, in and around the backs of huts. He sped slightly, his bare feet kicking soil and sand in small flurries. His feet were burned black on the soles. We wound past more impossibly-large huts before leaving them behind. We came to a tangle of trees and bushes.
We passed through the scratched embrace of red and green leaves, pushing and shoving forward for space, clawed at, branches black against the dim sky. And there was the far wall of the least land. This was their edge, their limit. As I walked toward the wall I felt water curl about my toes, licking my toenails then up to my ankles. I stumbled and fell, a splash as water rippled around my wrists. My arse was wet.
“See.”
The water stretched all the way over to the wall. He swept past me, small waves bobbing about his ankles, then shins, thighs, then his knees. I stood up and followed, watching him disappear from the bottom-up, waist then finally chest, up to the armpits.
“What is this?”
“Well, it’s water,”
He was wrong.
First of all, the opulence of the least houses was overwhelming. My mind couldn’t comprehend the size—each home was three times larger than the courtyard, with windows and sturdy walls and doors in frames. They were lined with elegance itself: held together with nails rather than rope and glue.
All houses everywhere changed in shape, but there they changed in colour. Some wore pink-and-purple tiles, some were lavished with green paint. Each had a garden, ornaments jutting from the ground and marking a territory. Each garden too was draped in eye-clutching colours: red posts; blue ornaments.
One had pillars on either side of the front door— front door, Frederick had told me, there was very often more than one door. There were two small windows on either side of either pillar, glass gleaming in the afternoon sun. Frederick stepped to one of the side walls and pressed his ear to it.
I tugged at his sleeve. We couldn’t listen to them, not in these rich homes, surely? But he folded his arms about my waist and we listened. They were quieter, those voices, muffled by their many walls.
Here was the second major difference: like the moderates they talked of rations and weather—but they also talked about the book and they talked far more of their neighbours. Frederick had smiled silently the whole time.
I enjoyed the warmth off his stomach.
Another house was clad in crimson boards and lined with small trees—living trees which were once scattered all over the world, which had been transported to the land of the minors. Frederick told me that this was Pilsner’s home, one of the largest, one of the most elegant. We peered in through the window.
It was a palace. I’d had no idea how far it was flung, running backwards and backwards, at minimum the length of fifteen minor huts. In the centre squatted an actual coffee table with four legs. The walls were adorned with torn satin and silk. There were two unbroken mugs and a private water tap, which stood in the very centre of his home, surrounded by a mosaic of colourful chipped tile, proudly wrapped in orange rust. There were chairs, chairs which actually had backs.
I could see one of the mugs read ‘World’s Best Dad,’ though most of the letters were worn. Why did he need two mugs?
“Do you live in a place like this, Frederick?”
He didn’t reply.
He would come to my triangle hut, but always after it was dark or a little before the light—he would whisper my name through the fabric of my door, and I would whisper his name in return. Now and then he would enter the hut and we would spend time with our arms wrapped around one another, though that was the full extent of it.
We had spent some days exploring the land of the least before he turned up, a little before light, and said my name. He didn’t enter—instead he asked if I wanted to see something truly new.
Of course.
We journeyed out of sight, in and around the backs of huts. He sped slightly, his bare feet kicking soil and sand in small flurries. His feet were burned black on the soles. We wound past more impossibly-large huts before leaving them behind. We came to a tangle of trees and bushes.
We passed through the scratched embrace of red and green leaves, pushing and shoving forward for space, clawed at, branches black against the dim sky. And there was the far wall of the least land. This was their edge, their limit. As I walked toward the wall I felt water curl about my toes, licking my toenails then up to my ankles. I stumbled and fell, a splash as water rippled around my wrists. My arse was wet.
“See.”
The water stretched all the way over to the wall. He swept past me, small waves bobbing about his ankles, then shins, thighs, then his knees. I stood up and followed, watching him disappear from the bottom-up, waist then finally chest, up to the armpits.
“What is this?”
“Well, it’s water,”
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