I used to wonder how he could forget. Billy hadn't told me then. Hadn't told me about the Hand or the Jailers. I was just an unlucky kid living a lucky life. I spent my time in the Library, exploring the stacks. In some ways, the Library is more my home than anywhere on Earth. I used to wonder how he could forget, and Billy would tell me that it wasn't his fault, that he'd had an accident. He'd tell me that it wasn't fair and that he'd done everything he could to stop it. He looked pained. I used to wonder if he'd ever recognize me again.
Billy didn't know that I knew. When he talked about accidents it was so generic… so clean. I think he wanted me to assume my parents were dead. I'm not sure if that's better. But I snuck out once. I found a door near my old house and walked back. As I stood on the other side of the street and looked into the window, I saw my father look right back at me. There was no recognition on his face. Nothing. I don't know why I didn't run up to the front door, or scream, or shout, or anything. I just… turned and I walked away. I walked out of his life again.
When Billy told me later, he told me that it was the jailers. They have ways of making people forget. They move like shadows in the night. He said he was pretty sure they could drive a tank down Pennsylvania Avenue, and no one would ever be the wiser. I believed him then. Hell, I believe him now. I've had it happen to friends who get caught. The ones who come back, they don't come back different. It's not the vacant expression you see in the movies, or anything. They just don't remember. At all. There's no trace of memory. Billy says in the earlier days, they kidnapped someone and went delving deep into their mind. The memories were gone. Not repressed— just gone.
Later, when I was older, I went to my father's favorite pub. He was there. He wasn't really irish, not really. Not enough blood in his veins or culture in his head. But he used to go to the pub often, I remember. I sat next to him for a long time, trying to muster up the courage to talk, to do anything. He didn't say a word to me. Eventually, I left. I didn't even have a drink. It was too much for me.
Do you know what it's like? When your own father doesn't remember you? Of course, Billy was good to me. But he's not a father he wasn't ready to be one, and I was too old anyway. I don't blame him. It wasn't right for either of us. What's worse is that my mother doesn't remember me either and it hurts but… not as much. Not as much by half. I don't know why, and deep down, I hate myself for it. Just a bit.
The garden was a huge, sprawling thing. From his spot on top of the hill, next to the Way, it flowed out in all directions like a pool of shadow. Huge, twisted trees hung high in the sky, and he could see things scurrying in the darkness. The sun - or what passed for a sun here - was dead and brackish. The whole garden smelled of salt and reeked of hatred. Behind him he heard Crokus giggle. "This is th'Garden, Master. I told you, all it does is hate. Hate everythin', Hate you an' hate me, an' hate hate hate untill it ain't nothin' but hate. We used t'feed it once a year, 'till we ran out 'f cows."
He turned, looking at Crokus, confused. "Why are you showing me this?" Crokus giggles again. "last time we fed it was a year ago, s'far as I can tell." And then before he could react, Crokus jerked his head back and slammed the door. He pounded his hands against it, smashed them until they were bloodied, but in vain. The Way was closed and he did not know the Knock.
After a long time, he turned around leaned against the door with a thump. It was a plain white farmhouse door. Totally innocuous and totally out of place in the Garden. He gazed out the Garden, and shivered. The pale sun cast no light on it, leaving the whole land bathed in darkness. He hadn't realized it earlier, between the pale sky and the light spreading from the Way, but it was almost impossible to see.
Despair shook him, wracked him with sobbing, for a long while. The Way was closed and he knew of no other way out. He did not know how long he cried there, on the ground. He long he pressed bloody fists to his face and screamed until his throat was raw. All he knew was that when he finally calmed, the brackish sun had not moved from the sky.
Slowly, he stumbled to his feet. He would find his way out. He had a wife and child. An estate to get back to. Servants to care fo- Crokus. The name occurred to him suddenly. When he got back… He'd fire him, first of all. See what he could do about putting him in jail… traitorous swine. The authorities would hear about it. They'd know he was missing. They'd take care of Crokus. Come looking for him. For now, he had better find shelter.
He looked at the sky, worried it would rain for a moment. Foolish. The sun stared down at him, a hollow eye. It never rained here. It was never anything here, just dark and dank, and upside down. He skittered down a treebranch, spear raised. Ahead of him was a cow. It did not see him, dull-eyed and emaciated as it was.
Praise be to Crokus for leaving these cows here. When he got back, he would thank him in a multitude of ways. Starting with the eyes, prob- No. He had to stay on task. His nostrils flared. He could smell the scent of the cow. It's bitter, dull, bovine hatred of the place man had left it in. Delicious. He licked his lips and crept further down the branch. The bark was slick and damp with salty-smelling sap, but he did not mind. The extra hands and claws he had been gifted with made it easy.
Muscles rippled under mottled skin as he threw the spear, and the cow fell, pierced straight through the heart. Perhaps when he had come here he would not have been able to do that, but the garden had made him strong, yes. He scurried over and inspected his kill, lapping at the ichor leaking slowly from it's chest in his eagerness. His nostril's flared at the salty taste, welcome. A good kill, yes. He hooked three claws into the creature and began the long process of dragging it back to his camp. He skinned it, and drained the ichor, potting it in hollowed branches for fermentation. He hated the stuff. It was all he had to drink. Better than going thirsty. He hated going thirsty.
After his work, he slowly chewed on the cow-flesh, thinking. Perhaps he could break the Way down. He hated the Way, keeping him away from his stupid wife and sniveling children. He would tear it down one day, and return home. Home was terrible, but better than here, at least. At home he was well liked. Respected. He would find Crokus and eat him, and live out his days among the stupid people of his village1 and never have to eat cow-flesh again.