DAY 41

“You made the miracle child like your own. Tobias.”

The Man is impressed by this little trick and he ­understands why it is significant that the miracle child has Down syndrome.

“The extra chromosome. It makes all of the difference in the blood, in the cloning of the race. It isn’t perfectly strong, which is why they value Kashif’s.”

I am anxious for the story to return to Bsharri, but I don’t want to rush it. The funnel is getting tighter near the bottom and the speed of the water in the drain is increasing too rapidly. I have passed the deadline I first set for myself before I began the story. But that doesn’t matter anymore. I understand now that my reader is far more patient with me than I ever imagined. That he or she listens in the room, often sharing the theatre with The Man. Unlike him, my reader doesn’t seek a spotlight on stage, in the story. Instead, my reader appreciates the silence in the act of writing, as it is reciprocated in the pleasure of reading. On that similar ground, I have come to realize with all humility that my service, where it concerns this story, applies to you and you alone, reader.

So I decide to write the last scene tomorrow. I need a day away to revive the juice. I want to come at the ending with a vengeance, like an arsonist possessed on burning an inhabited building. As I promised in the preface, the story hasn’t resolved itself and there is little hope it will. It is time to burn it down but the act doesn’t feel natural now that I’ve built it from the ground up from my idea. And what about the rewrite? It’s not like I could burn the story without giving it a chance at renovation? Is that what I’m becoming? Have I indeed grown more grey hairs as a result of writing this book, and with those hairs, a newfound wisdom?

I can honestly say I am not as angry as I was when I first started this novel. And like Kashif, I feel empowered by a new faith in my storytelling instincts.

So I have the matches in my pockets and I’m afraid I’m not ready to burn this story down to the ground just yet. I’m stalling, can you tell? I’m trying to find reason not to leave this story unresolved, or worse yet, unfinished.

An unlikely discovery, I feel like I am reading myself a story while I write it, in an out-of-body type of way. I am enjoying the act of listening as much as I am enjoying the creation of the voice.

The Messenger, Kashif and the miracle child are on their way to Bsharri. The place of the poet. And Kashif has already promised he will return to the council. He will sacrifice himself once again to save his daughter’s life and serve his own creation. He will perpetuate terror, personify fear (rather literally), and be the prophet of a new age of terror. It seems like the perfect scenario for him. Save his daughter, go back to creating his living art, become reclusive within the council.

Something doesn’t feel right in my gut. I am nervous about the ending. I don’t know why. I can’t figure it out either. Kashif will be heroic. He will save someone other than himself. He will sacrifice what he truly wants, which is to get to know his other creation, a beautiful daughter, for the sake of sustaining her life. He will contribute his blood against his own will to a cause he doesn’t believe in anymore, which makes his plight tragic. And best of all, this tragic hero of mine will continue to suffer for his sins in this choice, which will justify his penance for past sins. Who knows, I may be able to reunite Kashif and his daughter in a sequel. Or have them as characters who find themselves inadvertently in another novel’s world.

The possibilities are there and yet something still doesn’t feel right. I feel like I am working against my own fictional instincts.

I have heard nothing about my grievance at school. The board and my union representative have put it on the back burner as a result of our contract negotiations stalling. We have been working without a contract for two years now and the Board seems more interested in not making a deal approved by the province.

My wife and I have found a balance in our expectations. We struggle some days with the frustration of teaching Tobias to walk and talk and eat real food, but we are happy our other children are affectionate to him. There is a lot of love to go around, enough to convince me I don’t have to kill myself with work to forget the reality of disabilities.

I am also pleased in the classroom. I worry every day I will lose my ability to care, and as a result, lose my passion to teach, but it hasn’t happened yet. I continue to entertain, amuse and educate with energy, day in and day out, and sometimes I wonder if teaching is my destiny and writing my delusion.

Furthermore, I am not as angry as I used to be. This novel has fleshed it out brilliantly and therapeutically. I suppose I can attribute some of the therapy to my sessions with The Man, but even he doesn’t seem to mind not re-entering the story. I believe he understood this would happen in the end, and that he was only serviceable at the beginning in an intangible way.

It is peaceful on my walks in the dead of winter. The air is sharp and the silence is reticent. There is a belief in the air and a very serene calm to everything I do. I walk with no rush. I drive with no speed. I take my time explaining in class and I don’t hurry anything anymore.

I look forward to the next day when I go to sleep and I pray when I end this novel tomorrow, this peace will not go away.