The Crane Wife(29)
Author: Patrick Ness

‘Someone who’s actually kind–’

‘Fallen in love with her.’

‘You were so nice to me, George. Hardly anyone is.’

‘Well, you weren’t exactly nice yourself.’

‘I know I wasn’t that nice to you–’

‘No, nice to yourself. You didn’t treat yourself well.’

‘You were the first person to ever suggest that could even be a possibility, George. And I’ve been dating this Wally, who’s really, really cute and all but–’

‘Rachel, I have to–’

‘But I just keep thinking, He’s not as nice as George.’

‘It was a fling, Rachel, and I think we both know what a mistake it was. I’m too old for you. I’m too boring for you. You said so yourself. I’m not even that good-looking–’

‘So what if all that’s true? Sometimes you need more than that.’

‘And this has nothing to do with me being with someone else? Nothing to do with me being in the news a little bit?’

‘You’re being mean again, George. And it doesn’t suit you?’

‘I’m genuinely going to go. I’m going to wish you well–’

‘See? Niceness.’

‘But I’m really going to go now.’

‘I’d like to see you.’

‘Rachel–’

‘Just for old time’s sake?’

‘No, I don’t think–’

‘I could show you a proper good time.’

‘. . .’

‘You know I can, George.’

‘I’m so sorry, Rachel.’

‘You will be if you don’t let me–’

‘I’m so sorry you’re this lonely.’

‘George–’

‘I wish happiness for you. I listen to you and I hear hurting and I hear cries of how much you want to–’

‘Wait just a second–’

‘–connect with someone, really connect.’

‘I do, though? I–’

‘And I’m sorry it can’t be me. But it can’t. It really can’t.’

‘George–’

‘And I wish you well–’

‘George–’

‘But I have to go now–’

‘I’m pregnant.’

‘. . .’

‘. . .’

‘. . .’

‘. . .’

‘Except, of course, you’re not.’

‘George–’

‘Goodbye, Rachel, and I’m sorry.’

‘George, I just–’

8 of 32

The lady flies for a lifetime and more, landing when the growing earth calls to her, flying when it does not. Both are enjoyable, and enjoyment is, despite her tears, something she seems to have an aptitude for. She grants absolution wherever she lands, piercing hearts with her forgiveness, for of what do we ever ask forgiveness if not our offences against joy?

The world enters its adolescence, the land stitching itself together into a recognisable whole, though not without its pains and eruptions. She does not avoid the volcanoes when they spew, recognising in them the same anger as the water, of effort directed outward, into nothing.

‘Not long,’ she tells the volcanoes. ‘Not long before your reach will dig its long muscles into the earth, binding it tightly as a world. One arm clasping another clasping another, holding the burden of life on your collective shoulders. Not long.’

And the volcanoes believe her, calming their angry flows, directing them more usefully, dragging the world together.

9 of 32

All volcanoes, save one.

‘I do not believe you, my lady,’ says the volcano, his green eyes flashing in a malevolent merriment she finds puzzling. ‘The point of a volcano is anger,’ he says. ‘A calm volcano is merely a mountain, is it not? To calm a volcano is to kill it.’

Lava and heat and destruction flow from him in waves, the denizens of this young earth fleeing before his burning laughter. She flies away in distaste, before circling around again to confirm her distaste. Then circling round again.

‘The purpose of a volcano is to die,’ she says. ‘Is this not what you strive for?’

‘The purpose of a volcano is to die, my lady,’ says the volcano, ‘but as angrily as possible.’

‘You do not seem angry,’ she says. ‘You smile. You jest. You speak from desire, from flirtation. I have seen it the world over.’

‘I speak from joy, my lady. Angry joy.’

‘Is such a thing possible?’

‘It is that which creates us all. It is that which fires the magma of the world. It is that which drives the volcano to sing.’

‘Is this what you call your destruction? A song?’

‘I do, my lady. And a song can never lie.’

‘Unlike you,’ she says and flies away.

The volcano casts a sail of lava after her retreating form. It does not reach her. It is not meant to. ‘You will return, my lady,’ he says. ‘You will return.’

10 of 32

She returns. She is older, wiser. The world is older, too, though surprisingly not that much wiser.

‘You still erupt,’ she says, flying a wide circle around the volcano.

‘And you still forgive,’ says the volcano, atop his chariot of horses, ‘where forgiveness is not warranted.’

‘You have become an agent of war,’ she says, keeping beyond his reach, for she has learned more about volcanoes in the passing time, learned as we all must to stay out of range of their exertions.

‘I am a general now,’ says the volcano. An army spreads out before him, swarming over the world, consuming forests and cities and deserts and plains.

‘You have not died like all the others and become a mountain.’

‘I have not, my lady. There was no future in it.’

He raises his whip, a long chain of glowing white heat, and lashes his great and terrible horses. They whinny in agony and trample farms and bridges and civilisations under their hooves, his innumerable, ravenous armies flowing like burning rivers in their wake.

She flies with him for a time, watching in silence as he grinds this corner of the world to ruin. She says nothing to him. He says nothing in return, save for the occasional glance in her direction. Those green eyes, tracing her path.

‘I will forgive you,’ she says, ‘should you ask.’

‘I will not ask, my lady,’ says the volcano.