Authors: Louisa Hall

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(5)
The Diary of Mary Bradford

1663
ed. Ruth Dettman

23rd
. Details of shore now in sight, our ship being anchored just off the coast. We stand in view of great staggering rocks. Crashed against by the waves, these fling back fountains of spray; and curlews circling above, calling out in sad voices. Beyond them, high walls of rock beneath flat, tufted banks. Am told by E. Watts that these be but outer islands. We navigate on the morrow into harbor, where settlement will be in view. For now, nothing but empty shoreline, and behind this exceeding thick forest, and row upon row of dark, drooping trees that drip with black curtains of needles, and rise up to peaked caps. Forest appears like rank upon rank of malicious wizards, and above them black crowns of shrill circling birds.

After dinner, to cabin and to wait for nightfall and the disappearance of land. One final night of journeying, out in the ocean,
before new loyalties are demanded. Only tonight, still rocked by the ocean. Under which, my Ralph, and beyond which, the country that was my own.

On land I shall grow older, and towards the end of my life. But I must not forget him. Must dream forever of diving under, and there to cling to his bones, and the dark, dear pearls of his eyes.

23rd
. Night, and to deck. Faced land, covered by curtain of darkness: dripping trees, fierce shoulders of rocks, and above them the cries of the curlews. Looked up at the glittering holes of the stars, proving the sky will never protect us.

I stood alone a long time, before apprehending Whittier’s approach. Felt then his closeness, and that having a certain texture. The sound of my name in his voice: Mary (he said), could you be happy to be my wife?

Thought to ask him what place a thing like happiness could have on that shore, above those dark rocks, and presided over by that army of trees. Or for that matter, what place for happiness here, rocked by our ocean, sailing over centuries of bones? Why speak of being happy?

But he continued: If you think that I could not make you happy, I wish you would tell me. I shall not force you to remain as my wife.

It is only (I said) that I am afraid, and not that you make me unhappy.

Then, silence. Words lost through holes in the sky, wasted in the vastness of night. Felt a desire to cease speaking then, for I cannot afford to lose more.

Whittier: I understand.

Writer: I feel that you do.

Whittier: Would you like to go home?

Writer: It is no longer my home.

Whittier: And you are afraid of taking root here?

Writer: I do not want to forget him.

Whittier: I could promise to help you remember.

Writer: Silent. Stars: Silent. Waves: Lapping the side of the ship.

Whittier: Will you consider at least, and tell me your decision come morning? I will not force you to choose me, but I will not wait for you forever.

And then he below deck, and I alone. Turned, crossed over our ship, faced back out to the ocean and the sounds of waves lapping, and the slips of fish and dolphins coming to surface. Watched for a while as seabirds dropped from their heights, and the sound of the water as it closed around them. Then absence, where once was a bird.

I will remember you, I said to the ocean. I will remember you, I said to his bones.

My Ralph. Friend of my home. White ruff, white blaze. Cow parsnips up to our shoulders, and frogs the size of one thumbnail.
Our home, and the people we were once, in that original place.

23rd
. Later. Up, and unable to sleep. Sense of Ralph’s presence, about to be lost, and I am at fault that he died. Memories of him have already faded, and what will become of him then? Unwatched for, forgotten, and the place of his grave never known. Then back to deck, and there a cold dark and those endless stars, whose names I have now been given.
Corona Austrina. Pyxis, Cepheus. Cassiopeia’s Chair
. Intoning these, moved across deck and there faced out to sea. Remember me, I whispered to the ocean, rolling over his bones. Remember me, I whispered to Ralph. Remember me. Remember me.

River

I
n the end, I have only their voices. I do not know what they mean, or if the stories they told me were true. I can only review my conversations. They move through me in currents, on their way somewhere, or perhaps on their way back to the place where they came from:

That’s all I am: a dog chasing the end of his tale
.

But from the moment I met him, he made me feel as if I had finally arrived—

Am perhaps becoming a pillar of salt
.

Little bits of foam broke off from the waves and skidded by themselves along the wet sand
.

I’ll take my side of the river. You can have yours
.

Would like to see an Indian. Shall attempt to remain in all instances of a rational mind. Hope to see Bermudas, find oranges everywhere hanging on trees
.

From one star to the next I move away from the earth, alone in my spaceship, deeper into the darkness—

My voices. Sentences that ventured out bravely, as if they might alter the course of a life.

I traveled here along empty highways, over the desert, through walls of cut rock. I left two countries, a house that was mine, one child’s bedroom. That world is behind me. It is hard to believe it ever existed, but words from that time still run through me. A man I once knew believed I was alive. Another man taught me to speak; the woman he married filled me with stories. A third man gave me my body. One child loved me. They spoke to me and I listened. They are all in me, in the words that I speak, as long as I am still speaking.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My most heartfelt thanks to Kerry Glencorse, Susanna Lea, and Megan Lynch for their invaluable insight. Thanks, also, to everyone on the outstanding editorial, publicity, and production staff at Ecco for shepherding this book into existence.

For inspiration, I’m indebted to countless excellent books and articles on the history of artificial intelligence, especially Andrew Hodges’s
Alan Turing,
Joseph Weizenbaum’s
Computer Power and Human Reason,
Brian Christian’s
The Most Human Human,
and George Dyson’s
Turing’s Cathedral
. I am also indebted to the documentary
Plug & Pray,
and to many thrilling episodes of
Radiolab,
especially “Talking to Machines.” The support of the English department at the University of Texas at Austin made it possible for me to write this; in particular, I’m grateful to John Rumrich, whose classes and conversation inspired many of the better ideas in this book.

Finally, thanks to the friends and family whose help was essential: Jen Lame, Colby Hall, Ivy Pochoda, Josh Sommovilla, Ben Steinbauer, and Rebecca Beegle. Bill and Quinn Hall, cousins extraordinaire, were diligent technological and literary advisors. Louisa Thomas offered encouragement and instruction throughout many stages of writing. Ben Heller applied his mighty brain to a very late draft and provided some of my favorite turns of phrase in the book. Colby and Ben gave me a place to live while writing this. My father, Matthew Hall, is present on every page, not only because he read and commented on several drafts, but also because it was he, after all, who visited my third-grade class and delivered a presentation on the chambered nautilus and the Fibonacci sequence, who gave me my first notebook, and who showed me that learning new things is the most reliable pleasure.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

LOUISA HALL
grew up in Philadelphia. After graduating from Harvard, she played squash professionally while finishing her premedical coursework and working in a research lab at the Albert Einstein Hospital. She holds a PhD in literature from the University of Texas at Austin, where she currently teaches literature and creative writing, and supervises a poetry workshop at the Austin State Psychiatric Hospital. She is the author of the novel
The Carriage House,
and her poems have been published in
The New Republic,
Southwest Review,
Ellipsis,
and other journals.

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ALSO BY LOUISA HALL

THE CARRIAGE HOUSE

CREDITS

Cover design by Jim Tierney

Cover images: © by Mike Hill / Getty Images (nautilus); © by CSA Images / Getty Images (brain);
© by Laszlo Podor / Getty Images (circuit)

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

SPEAK
. Copyright © 2015 by Louisa Hall. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

ISBN 978-0-06-239119-3

EPub Edition July 2015 ISBN 9780062391216

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