Back at work. Mal, stock still, looking, scanning, her eyes once again, more than seeing, extracting, pupils pulsating, vibrating, adjusting to the flashing ribbons of light cutting through the darkness, their beams falling, reflecting. Mal looking down. Mal, high on the hill, positioned perfectly, her instincts taking her to that point, without thought or intent, that spot where everything was visible, everything visible, but not, not that she knew she would see it again this time, but knowing that if it were to become visible, this is where she would see it.
Mal listening this time too, listening to the man, far below, robes flowing, hands raised, voice completely out of context, body out of context, robes out of context; the man not caring, impelled by an internal madness to deliver a sermon to the wind, scream at the sky and the hills and the lights.
The ship on which the man stood, balanced, legs spread, ready for waves that had long since passed, past centuries ago, the ship, mammoth, a tanker, lay on its port side, the bottom half of the hull, buried deep in the blowing sand. Circling the ship were three helicopter, blades cutting through the air, drowning, or, it occurred to Mal, not drowning, not here, not in the middle of the desert, more like enveloping the man’s words, hugging them, intimately, at intervals carrying them gently lovingly closer while, at what seemed to be intentionally disruptive intervals, dragging the words, kicking, reluctant, away from her, as if the words had transgressed, broken some ancient code and needed to be banished away, not heard, suppressed.
It was not immediately clear to Mal, certain information was, for reasons having more to do with her analytic process than any matter of trust or security, whether she was there to observe the man, the ship, the helicopter, ribbons of light shooting out, three from each bird, beaming from their bellies, piercing the darkness, multicolored, or whether she was there to observe nothing or everything. Indeed, while Mal was used, in the main, for her eyes; it was her eyes that could without instrument see things that most would miss, understand things not readily understandable, perceive the inperceptable, this time she was not sure whether she was there to visually observe at all. Without knowing why, certainly not having been told, Mal suspected that the man’s incantations, his prayer, machine broken, wind broken, that this was what Mal needed to … she lacked the words, even though she did this as a matter of reflex, she lacked the words to define her role; but this time she wondered whether it was not her eyes but her ears that she needed; or both.
Mal also knew that specific concentration was not what was needed here, she would never be able to collect everything he was saying, to “decode” – and yes, that was close, that was to a degree how she would explain what she did, had explained what she did, when, helpless to avoid conversation, either with people who she genuinely cared about, or others, ones that she would need, when these people would ask what she did, where she was, how she paid for … well, there was not much these days that she did pay for or want, but, yes, that kind of question – she would not, even concentrating, be able to decode the cacophony of his urgings. It was only then, in fact, that she realized that she did not even recognize the language; and she knew many, and knew that he was not speaking a language native to where they were, where, as incongruous as it seemed, a ship lay on its side without a sea or any body of water for hundreds and hundreds of miles.
That did it. Her mind, or that part of her mind that performed under these circumstances, that part, began to collect, collate, process. It took only seconds and she knew she had what she needed, had what she was sent to see or hear or comprehend. And, again, as she had done before, so many times before, she felt … she felt that while she would take this information with her, she would be stealing something, removing something, and while it would not be missed, it would … a layer of what was would be gone, leaving something a little less, hardly noticeable, but diminished.
Behind her, he had finished his task at the precise moment she completed hers. She wondered about that. Wondered if his task was duplicative or supplementary. Wondered whether he too was without explanation or words; wondered why she could not talk to him, nor him to her, the two of them, two parts to a process, never alone, never without the other, but blocked nonetheless.
This time there was no reason to turn. This time they faced the direction they needed to go. They both started walking down the dune, down towards the ship, the man, the helicopters. “Malcolm.” “I know,” she said. “something is wrong,” he said. “I know,” said Mal, knowing that he knew that the words were not necessary, and were, in fact, superfluous, that regardless, they had to go, wordless and unspeaking.