Warlight

by Michael Ondaatje

Around us were untranslatable sounds, something in flight, a series of footfalls. I could hear Rachel’s breath but there was no sound from Olive Lawrence. Then in the dark she began to talk, to distinguish the barely heard noises for us. “It’s a warm evening…and the pitch of those crickets is in D….They have that sweet quiet whistle, but it’s made with the rub of their wings, not by breath, and this much conversation means there will be rain. That’s why it’s so dark now, the clouds are between us and the moon. Listen.” We saw her pale hand point near us, to the left. “That scrape is a badger. Not digging, just his paws moving. Really, it’s something tender. Perhaps the end of a fearful dream. Just the remains of a small uneven nightmare in his head. We all have nightmares. For you, dear Rachel, it might be imagining the fear of a seizure. But there need not be fear in a dream, just as there’s no danger from the rain while we are under the trees. Lightning rarely comes during this month, we are safe. Let’s walk on. The crickets might move with us, the branches and underbrush appear to be full of them, full of high C’s and D’s. They can reach as high as an F at the end of summer when they are laying eggs. Their cries seem to fall on you from above, don’t they? It feels like an important night for them. Remember that. Your own story is just one, and perhaps not the important one. The self is not the principal thing.” Hers was the calmest voice I knew when I was a boy. There w...