The Ships of Aleph Read Online Free Page A

them along, hoping there was solid ground ahead. I had considered bringing a stick to deal with this problem, but had decided against it in case it made my intent too obvious. Though of course God should know what I was up to anyway.
    If He did, He made no move to stop me. Nine hundred and eighty steps, albeit the last dozen more of a shuffle. I found myself quaking, the urge to turn around growing stronger by the moment. I told myself it was a passing desire and I had risen above such feelings.
    Nine hundred and ninety. I imagined it was getting dark, then discarded the illusion. My body felt like wet clay. I visualised it as a vessel that was wholly subject to my will.
    One thousand. The darkness was complete and I could neither see nor hear anything. But I could still feel the ground beneath my feet. I forced myself to take another step, though my limbs shook and sweat oozed from me.
    One thousand and one. My breath deafened me, yet I carried on.
    One thousand and ten. What if there was no end, and I would just continue forever. What if I could never go back?
    On the one thousand and twenty seventh step, I stumbled. I do not know if the path was gone, or uneven, or whether my body had finally betrayed me. I do know that I did not feel myself hit the ground.
     
    ***
          
    I woke up in bed. It was only when my stomach contracted and rumbled that I remembered this was no ordinary morning. Memory returned in a rush that made me want to grasp my head. But, aside from hunger, I felt no ill effects from my attempted disobedience and subsequent punishment. On venturing downstairs, I found only the usual fare, which I devoured eagerly.
    I had timed my expedition mid-way between visits from the angel, but that evening I found it waiting for me in my cottage. It sat, as usual, at the table. I sat, as was my wont, opposite it. For once, I was unsure what to say.
    It saved me the effort. ‘If you are so unhappy, does that mean you wish to return now?’
    ‘Return to the world, you mean?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’m not sure. I’m not unhappy. I have been given access to the wisdom of ages, a treasure beyond any material wealth. It’s just ... sometimes I find it hard to bear, every day being the same, just me and my books, in a place I cannot leave.’
    The angel said, ‘You have an enquiring mind; it is only natural that you explore and question. But no matter how keen your mind, your body resents its captivity. This is understandable. Yet your choices remain as they were: stay here, or return to the world.’
    ‘I will stay.’
    Perhaps my foolish disobedience had relieved some hidden pressure, or perhaps my assertion to the angel made me see sense. Whatever the cause, I found myself accepting my situation, at least for a while.
    Then, on the first day of summer, I woke up knowing something had changed.
    It was no more than an intuition, formless and irritating as an unreachable itch. I went down to the kitchen muttering to myself. I was just breaking my fast when I heard noises from above: what sounded like a gasp, then the creak of a floorboard. I rushed to the bottom of the stairs just as a figure emerged from the room that, in the original cottage, my parents had slept in. Seeing me, the intruder recoiled, and I saw her head – it was a woman! – turn from side to side as though searching for an escape route.
    Without thinking I called out, ‘It’s all right – I’ll not hurt you!’
    She gasped again, and fled back into the room. Thinking she might try and jump from the window, I ran upstairs. But she had not jumped. Instead she had drawn herself into a tight ball in the far corner of the bed, from where she watched me with fearful eyes. Her clothes were tattered and torn, barely covering her in some places. She was my age, or perhaps a little younger.
    ‘It’s all right,’ I said again. ‘You’re in no danger here.’ When she neither moved nor spoke I said, ‘My name’s Lachin. What is yours?’
    For a