it was his idea to make a movie about it. My story's still alive, and now you're telling me my mother doesn't have the right to hear the rest of it." " _Our_ mother. Don't you dare talk about her that way." The anger in his eyes was gone. Instead, he was pleading. " _Our_ mother is dead." He felt as if he were trying to climb out of a deep, dark well. No matter how far he pulled himself out, he found himself on his back, reaching up, reaching up, his lungs desperate for air, hands clawing. His voice kept whispering the same words: "I want my mother." "Come," said the old man, leaning forward, cupping his hands. He took a step toward the old man, toward the dark well of the mind. He took another step. "Where is she? Where did she go? What happened to her?" "Come," repeated the old man, pulling him to his feet. He pulled him through the labyrinth of rooms, finally leading him down a narrow corridor. A small, bright light shone from around a corner. He led him to a room filled with bookshelves, a long table, and chairs. "Sit down. There are books here that will help you understand." "No, I want _my_ mother." He tried to push past the old man, but he could not move. "Tell me where she is." "No, you are here because of _her_ , for _her_ only." The old man sat down and opened a book. "Can you read?" "Yes, yes, I can read." He was confused and angry. Why did he have to sit down? His mother did not want to sit down and she would not be happy with what he had to do. The old man opened the book. "Listen, then. Your story begins with another story, one in which a motherless child is told that she does not need a mother to teach her how to play ball, but only how to read. She reads the words on the page, and begins to speak the words out loud, making a connection with words, which enables her to create worlds for herself. So it was with your mother and me. That story is about all of us." He closed the book and put it aside. "Read this." The old man handed him a book with strange, squiggly letters. "It is about a boy who lost his mother, but he can find her again by thinking of her. Now you can read to yourself. I'll be right here, but go and think." He stood and walked to the end of the table, watching as he sat down. The boy stared at the strange words. They made no sense to him. How could he make a connection with his mother? How could he find her? He did not know how to play ball, or how to speak. How could he speak, and reach out to her? How could he find her? Why couldn't she just tell him? The old man stepped closer. "Look, at the back of the book, there's a story. You'll need to read that one, too." The old man sat down and opened his own book. The boy stared at the cover, which depicted a man and a woman who looked very much alike. He couldn't help wondering how people could look so much alike. The man had hair covering his body, except for his arms and his head. The woman was naked except for a strange headdress with horns. He opened the book, looking back to the front cover. The words he'd read came back to him: _He who reads lives, he who does not read will be dead_. He looked down at the strange letters. How could he read those words? They were foreign, and he could not make sense of them. He closed the book and looked back at the old man, hoping for an answer. The old man put down his book and sat up straight, his eyes wide open and a smile on his face. "Now you're going to think about reading, and all the words that are out there." He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "Here are some words for you to begin with: you, your, mother, me, daydreaming. You can think of other words as you read those. Keep talking to yourself. Now, begin reading." He opened the book, leaning it on his stomach. He closed his eyes and began to read, the words floating off the page. "Here we go." He tried again. "Here are more words." He could feel his mind beginning to drift off again, but he thought of the words the old man had just said. He opened his eyes, looking around the room. The old man was sitting up straight with his eyes open. His eyes were glistening with excitement. "I thought I told you that you can find out about her, and in time, make her known." He turned his head and looked through the library door. "You will find out about her, but you must be patient, for her words are not what she says. So you will say to her: I know you are there, for you are my mind, and I cannot hear you. But she will say: You are there, but you are weak. And you will say: My mind cannot hear, but she will say: How could you be my mind? Then you will understand that the mind cannot hear what you say." He pulled his shirt over his head. "Say it again." He started to pull off his pants, taking them off and putting them on the chair. He went to the door. "You are there, but you are weak. My mind cannot hear you. How could you be my mind?" He walked into the small dark room at the back of the library. "Say it again, and again, and again. You are there, but you are weak. My mind cannot hear you." "I thought that was quite entertaining," said a young woman standing in the doorway. "You're not from the Ministry," said the old man, staring at the young woman, a mixture of horror and disbelief on his face. "That is forbidden to you." He picked up the boy's pants. "You have to go, now, now." "How could I go now?" asked the boy, and ran out of the room, not caring if he was in front of the strange woman. He ran through the corridors and out into the night, not stopping until he'd reached his room and locked the door. He didn't fall asleep, instead he thought of words. He thought of the old man's words about the words his mother had said. He thought of those words being able to make the world and the things it held into one place, and of being able to speak and feel. He looked at himself in the mirror. He thought he saw something, and it looked like his mother. He lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. He put his hands up to his ears, thinking about his mother and what she might say. # Chapter 15 The next morning, he got up early and ran to the library, but the old man was gone, a heavy piece of furniture had been placed at the back of the room, and a sign hung from a hook on the wall. The sign read: I HAVE THOUGHT IT WELL TO PUT THIS CHAIR ON THE OUTSIDE OF THE WALL OF THE REASONABLY GOOD. IT IS A GOOD THING TO HAVE SUCH A CHAIR, SO IT CAN HIDE ITSELF IN THE FOG OF YOUR MIND, WHERE IT CAN LIE IN WAIT FOR YOU TO MAKE A MISTAKE. IT IS THIS CHAIR THAT HAS SUFFOCATED YOU ALL YOUR LIFE, FOR WELL IT KNOWS YOU, AND KNOWS THAT YOU WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO LEAVE, EVEN WHEN YOU STOP THINKING OF IT. LEARN TO BEWARE. IF IT IS IN WAIT FOR YOU, BEWARE OF THINKING IT IS NOT THERE. IT IS ALWAYS THERE, KEEPING A WATCH OVER YOUR EVERY MOVE. I PROMISE I WILL NOT BE A BURDEN ON YOU. I'LL BE DEAD IN A FEW YEARS. # Chapter 16 The last few weeks of school he kept as busy as he could. When the weather was bad, he found himself in the labyrinth, walking through the corridors and into the library, reading all the books he could find. As he read and reread, he found himself speaking words he had never spoken, words he did not know were in him until he read them. When he spoke them aloud, they sounded odd to him, so he went out into the courtyard where there were no windows and looked up at the sky, where he heard things. His mother would not be worried if he'd spoken to her, but they were not words she would be interested in. All those other people who seemed to look like his mother were not there. They had no connection to him. Sometimes he had trouble sleeping, but he found that his mind was still at its best during the night. He often lay awake thinking of his mother's words. Sometimes she seemed real, but it felt like a movie, like watching something happen, but feeling only the breeze through the window