第96章 The Old Bus

And the welcome station's bell, which had been carried up from the drowned country's deepest tower and hung in the station's roof, rang the count at the turning hour every day, and the ringing of the count at the seam was the whole of the station's voice, and the voice was the count, and the count was the welcome, and the welcome was the station, and the station was the old bus, and the old bus was the door, and the door was open, and the open was the keeping, and the keeping went on, at the center of the two worlds, forever. The station's roof was replaced in the fifth year by the drowned country's carpenters, who worked the roof with the same tools they had used for the drowned country's own, and the roof they built was neither the lit world's nor the drowned country's but both, and the both was the whole of the station's meaning, that a roof built by two peoples' hands is a roof that keeps the rain off both, and the keeping off of the rain was the whole of the station's keeping, and the keeping was the station, and the station was the seam, and the seam was the center, and the center was the two worlds, and the two worlds were one, forever. And the old bus, parked at the seam with its doors open and its engine still warm, became the welcome station, and the welcome station was the first building the two worlds had ever built together, built by no one in particular and by everyone at once, the lit world's mechanics passing their tools and the drowned country's carpenters passing theirs, and the station was a door and a bench and a roof and a board, the door open and the bench worn and the roof sound and the board reading, in two hands, both accents of the same sentence, whichever door you stand in, welcome, and the welcome station was the whole of the old bus's keeping, and the keeping was the station, and the station was the seam, and the seam was the center, and the center was the two worlds, and the two worlds were one, and the one was the welcome, kept at the center of the two worlds for as long as there were two worlds to keep, forever. The old bus's last Saturday was the whole of the third spring's hardest day, and the hardest day was also the busiest, the schoolyard full of the two worlds' children and the parents who had come down the long route and up the long route to see the bus that had brought them together, and Kevin, who had driven the bus for more than a decade and had never once been the center of anything, stood at the wheel of the old bus in the middle of the schoolyard and did not know what to do with the being the center, because his whole life had been the keeping of the edge, the driving of the line between the kept and the unkept, and the line had been, through the two roads, the very thing that had brought the two worlds together, and the bringing together was the whole of his long route, and the long route was the bus, and the bus was the whole of the third spring. The mechanics of the lit world, who had kept the old bus running through the assessment and the two roads and the seasons after, examined the engine in the week of the last Saturday and delivered their verdict in the flat tones of mechanics everywhere, that the bus was too old to be saved and too honest to be scrapped, and the verdict was the whole of the third spring's dilemma, a vehicle too old for the road it had become and too full of meaning to be retired, and the dilemma was solved, in the end, not by the mechanics but by the children, who proposed that the old bus be parked at the seam, at the exact place where the two roads crossed, and be kept with its doors open as the welcome station, a permanent open door at the center of the two worlds, and the proposal was the whole of the children's answer to the old bus's asking, and the answer was the keeping, and the keeping was the bus, and the bus was the door, and the door was open, and the open was the station, and the station was the seam, and the seam was the center, and the center was kept, and the old bus, parked forever at the seam with its doors open, was the whole of the two roads' monument, not to the assessment or the answer or the route but to the small truth the bus had carried all along, that a door held open long enough becomes the home, and the home is the open door, kept forever at the center of the two worlds, forever. The old bus, which had carried the children of the lit world to school for more than a decade and had carried the children of both worlds to each other for three seasons, began, in the third spring, to show its age, the way all honest vehicles show their age, in the small creaks and the slow starts and the particular patience of an engine that has been asked to do one more season than it was built for, and Kevin, who knew the bus the way a driver knows his vehicle, by the sound of it, understood that the bus was asking, in its own mechanical way, to be allowed to stop, and the stopping of the bus was the whole of the third spring's hardest question, because the bus had been the door, and the door could not be allowed to close. The children of both worlds, hearing that the old bus might stop, did the thing children do when a thing they love is threatened, which is to refuse to let it go, and they rode the long route on the last Saturday of the third spring in a full bus, every seat taken, the Ferry in the aisle, the coals in the children's hands, the count going on, and the riding of the full bus on the last Saturday was the children's whole argument, that a bus that has carried the two worlds to each other should not be allowed to stop until the two worlds have learned to walk, and the walking was not yet learned, and the bus, creaking and patient and carrying the full weight of both worlds' children, rode the long route one more time, and the riding was the whole of the argument, and the argument was the whole of the third spring, and the third spring was the old bus, and the old bus was the door, and the door was open, and the open was the riding, and the riding went on, creaking, patient, forever.