FERDINAND AND THE SONG

© Dana W. Paxson 2005

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FERDINAND AND THE SONG

1529 4D

He’s huddled miserably in a misshapen corner of darkness, down in this unnamed stretch of the City, his tormented body a skeleton, his eyes sunken and closed, his breath coming in shudders. The stench of sweet urifa and the drug the humans call KPX surrounds him in a halo of odor.

Ferdinand,” I call gently.

His head rises in a single spasm. He stares around. I must not frighten him.

“Where are you?” he says.

Ferdinand, listen,” I say. I sing now to him, soft long words in tongues he’s never heard but knows; I caress him with the notes like fingers touching skin with healing.

He stands. It takes some time – his muscles are wasted and sick – but he stands and gazes off into the utter dark of this hopeless corridor. “More,” he says.

I sing Andrew, and Ezzar, and Jeddin, and Marra, and Arlen. And Grendel, and Timaina. Ferdinand‘s eyes soften. He gathers the shreds of his damaged clothing around him, and begins to walk toward the entrance to the spiral stair. His steps grow firm.

“Thanks,” he says, “Please, later, again.”

“Yes,” I promise him. “Yes.” He will remember none of this, which is a good thing, because a bad thing has happened.

A child took his place.

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