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chugging at his sides, looking to all like an athlete intent on winning the race. No one shouted for him to return, no one took a step in the direction he had taken. Only the warrior took note of his passing, his ear cocked to hear the inevitable sound of a bullet, but none ever came. Now the warrior is running himself, towards the enemy stronghold, as indicated by the maps. He no longer takes note of place names and political divisions -- they change so frequently that to commit them to memory would be fruitless. He can only remember lines, measurements of scale (one centimeter equals one li), green for land, blue for water, tan lines for altitude gradients. The first people who drew maps must have been children; they alone could forsake text for the simplicity of illustrated representation. Did he not tell someone long ago that he would see the  |
mountains, rivers, and lakes? Brilliant white smoke envelops him. Do not look down, and one can assume to be walking on the clouds. All the mythic heroes had clouds as their allies. Perch on one scarcely wider than yourself, hold a hand up to your eyes to shield them from the fierce sun, and you are off on your next adventure, the mist beneath you accelerating and bearing you away at your wish, whole continents unfurling below with their lopsided features. All the while the insane trumpet sounds. A man has caught up to him, one of his own, riding his cloud with him, a scared little boy with tiny, almost colorless whiskers for facial scruff. He shouts the name of a village on the coast. Platoon four is rendezvousing there! he says. We should --  |
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