Echo of the Conch: Vol. 2

A story long told in this place of children who speak with a conch in hand on empty frontier waste—by now no one knows who first wrote it…

"You knew all along it would come to this…"

When the girl with glasses found the short boy again, and the worried children opened a path—

At the end the handsome youth sat slumped on a seat of piled heavy things; pale-blue skin made his features more sharp, lips dark purple, the flaring firelight like a strange veil blown by wind.

The youth's body had no outer wounds; his hands hung limp—had hung so long they held a plaster-statue stiffness.

The blade he had once been proud of lay there.

No one picked it up.

"Things always come to this—but I didn't think it would be so fast."

The boy picked up the blade. It was hard; in the felling it had already gained many chips and rolls.

The youth would not care for this strength, yet it was his only reliance, so he would not let others know the blade needed care.

Of course he grew suspicious, sleep short and thin, quicker to anger; fear of showing cracks like the adults made him show more cracks—and the end naturally became this.

Most stories… only need more patience.

"From when did you see this scene?"

"From when he asked me for the conch, I suppose."

"Asked for the conch?"

"What is a conch? A conch is nothing—just a toy we picked up on the beach. He either throw away the conch or throw away that rolled-edge blade. Conch in one hand and blade in the other—even swinging the blade gets dull."

A pair of hands—their owner holding the conch—walked out from among the boys and girls and held the conch out before the boy.

Under the conch, in those palms, the boy saw red marks left by rough grass rope drawn tight.

"Then what will you do?" asked the girl with glasses.

He took the conch, wanting to sound it like in picture-book stories—but without working, breath through a conch only makes a silly puffing.

Then he put his ear to it; inside the conch came the surge of waves.

"We will build here a town of our own—a paradise of boys and girls. From now the conch will not belong to one alone; all may raise it in turn, say any words they wish, make any speech they wish."

"But we will always grow up—become the adults we don't want to be."

"It's all right, it's all right—because in this world there is always tomorrow, and always new boys and girls. If they don't like the adults we become, they too should smash our world with their own hands."

The plain-looking boy, the short boy, the clever boy.

He threw the rolled blade into the waves.

He set the conch among all the children.