There are some stories that are impossible to tell. One wonders where to begin, where to end. How to raise a curtain on events, where to place the intermission, when to dim the lights. Stories that resist the simple cut and thrust of narrative, that revolt against simple starts and happy endings. And yet, in these stories, maybe there is...an anchor, a hook. An elegant hand, holds a mask just so. The eyes of a naif, widen for the first time in wonder, in despair. A chink in the armor, a place where we may insert the blades of our narrative and pull, slicing the story open neatly gullet to gizzard. Somewhere, in the past of the story, of this story, there was a storm. A night of rain and fire, and a loss beyond words, beyond compassion. When a soul was traded away in a lightning flash, where a war started; a war that would take a dozen years for the first blow to fall. Somewhere in the future of this story there is an idyll, a moment of peace. Not perfect. Not an ending. Not even happy, but perhaps peaceful.
Be assured, dear reader, that even in such a neat surgery as we are performing here, there are bound to be irregularities. Haruspice has never been simple, and a story's got more guts than a sheep. Odd organs float up and flutter by, defy our best attempts to catalogue or suture. Every face is a mask, every mask is a face again. Perhaps we will save the patient, perhaps we will pin it to the operating table with a neat tag. But...perhaps not. We will have to look for them, then, these anchors. A hand, holding a mask. The bridge of a nose, eyes that widen in disgust, in glory, in horror. There is a third one, I know it. But I have not found it yet. I will go digging further, my elbows already caked with gore. It is in here somewhere. I will find it, and pull it out for you.
Be assured, dear reader, that even in such a neat surgery as we are performing here, there are bound to be irregularities. Haruspice has never been simple, and a story's got more guts than a sheep. Odd organs float up and flutter by, defy our best attempts to catalogue or suture. Every face is a mask, every mask is a face again. Perhaps we will save the patient, perhaps we will pin it to the operating table with a neat tag. But...perhaps not. We will have to look for them, then, these anchors. A hand, holding a mask. The bridge of a nose, eyes that widen in disgust, in glory, in horror. There is a third one, I know it. But I have not found it yet. I will go digging further, my elbows already caked with gore. It is in here somewhere. I will find it, and pull it out for you.
