TOM: Oh, yes, it is there.

CLAIRE: Then why do we never-go it?

TOM: If we went it, it would not be there.

CLAIRE: Is that true? How terrible, if that is true.

TOM: Not terrible, wonderful-that it should-of itself-be there.

CLAIRE: (with the simplicity that can say anything) I want to go it, Tom, I'm lonely up on top here. Is it that I have more faith than you, or is it only that I'm greedier? You see, you don't know (her reckless laugh) what you're missing. You don't know how I could love you.

TOM: Don't, Claire; that isn't-how it is-between you and me.

CLAIRE: But why can't it be-every way-between you and me?

TOM: Because we'd lose-the open way. (the quality of his denial shows how strong is his feeling for her) With anyone else-not with you.

CLAIRE: But you are the only one I want. The only one-all of me wants.

TOM: I know; but that's the way it is.

CLAIRE: You're cruel.

TOM: Oh, Claire, I'm trying so hard to-save it for us. Isn't it our beauty and our safeguard that underneath our separate lives, no matter where we may be, with what other, there is this open way between us? That's so much more than anything we could bring to being.

CLAIRE: Perhaps. But-it's different with me. I'm not-all spirit.

TOM: (his hand on her) Dear!

CLAIRE: No, don't touch me-since (moving) you're going away to-morrow? (he nods) For-always? (his head just moves a.s.sent) India is just another country. But there are undiscovered countries.

TOM: Yes, but we are so feeble we have to reach our country through the actual country lying nearest. Don't you do that yourself, Claire? Reach your country through the plants' country?

CLAIRE: My country? You mean-outside?

TOM: No, I don't think it that way.

CLAIRE: Oh, yes, you do.

TOM: Your country is the inside, Claire. The innermost. You are disturbed because you lie too close upon the heart of life.

CLAIRE: (restlessly) I don't know; you can think it one way-or another. No way says it, and that's good-at least it's not shut up in saying. (she is looking at her enclosing hand, as if something is shut up there)

TOM: But also, you know, things may be freed by expression. Come from the unrealized into the fabric of life.

CLAIRE: Yes, but why does the fabric of life have to-freeze into its pattern? It should (doing it with her hands) flow, (then turning like an unsatisfied child to him) But I wanted to talk to you.

TOM: You are talking to me. Tell me about your flower that never was before-your Breath of Life.

CLAIRE: I'll know to-morrow. You'll not go until I know?

TOM: I'll try to stay.

CLAIRE: It seems to me, if it has-then I have, integrity in-(smiles, it is as if the smile lets her say it) otherness. I don't want to die on the edge!

TOM: Not you!

CLAIRE: Many do. It's what makes them too smug in allness-those dead things on the edge, died, distorted-trying to get through. Oh-don't think I don't see-The Edge Vine! (a pause, then swiftly) Do you know what I mean? Or do you think I'm just a fool, or crazy?

TOM: I think I know what you mean, and you know I don't think you are a fool, or crazy.

CLAIRE: Stabbed to awareness-no matter where it takes you, isn't that more than a safe place to stay? (telling him very simply despite the pattern of pain in her voice) Anguish may be a thread-making patterns that haven't been. A thread-blue and burning.

TOM: (to take her from what even he fears for her) But you were telling me about the flower you breathed to life. What is your Breath of Life?

CLAIRE: (an instant playing) It's a secret. A secret?-it's a trick. Distilled from the most fragile flowers there are. It's only air-pausing-playing; except, far in, one stab of red, its quivering heart-that asks a question. But here's the trick-I bred the air-form to strength. The strength shut up behind us I've sent-far out. (troubled) I'll know tomorrow. And I have another gift for Breath of Life; some day-though days of work lie in between-some day I'll give it reminiscence. Fragrance that is-no one thing in here but-reminiscent. (silence, she raises wet eyes) We need the haunting beauty from the life we've left. I need that, (he takes her hands and breathes her name) Let me reach my country with you. I'm not a plant. After all, they don't-accept me. Who does-accept me? Will you?

TOM: My dear-dear, dear, Claire-you move me so! You stand alone in a clearness that breaks my heart, (her hands move up his arms. He takes them to hold them from where they would go-though he can hardly do it) But you've asked what you yourself could answer best. We'd only stop in the country where everyone stops.

CLAIRE: We might come through-to radiance.

TOM: Radiance is an enclosing place.

CLAIRE: Perhaps radiance lighting forms undreamed, (her reckless laugh) I'd be willing to-take a chance, I'd rather lose than never know.

TOM: No, Claire. Knowing you from underneath, I know you couldn't bear to lose.

CLAIRE: Wouldn't men say you were a fool!

TOM: They would.

CLAIRE: And perhaps you are. (he smiles a little) I feel so desperate, because if only I could-show you what I am, you might see I could have without losing. But I'm a stammering thing with you.

TOM: You do show me what you are.

CLAIRE: I've known a few moments that were life. Why don't they help me now? One was in the air. I was up with Harry-flying-high. It was about four months before David was born-the doctor was furious-pregnant women are supposed to keep to earth. We were going fast-I was flying-I had left the earth. And then-within me, movement, for the first time-stirred to life far in air-movement within. The man unborn, he too, would fly. And so-I always loved him. He was movement-and wonder. In his short life were many flights. I never told anyone about the last one. His little bed was by the window-he wasn't four years old. It was night, but him not asleep. He saw the morning star-you know-the morning star. Brighter-stranger-reminiscent-and a promise. He pointed-'Mother', he asked me, 'what is there-beyond the stars?' A baby, a sick baby-the morning star. Next night-the finger that pointed was-(suddenly bites her own finger) But, yes, I am glad. He would always have tried to move and too much would hold him. Wonder would die-and he'd laugh at soaring, (looking down, sidewise) Though I liked his voice. So I wish you'd stay near me-for I like your voice, too.

TOM: Claire! That's (choked) almost too much.

CLAIRE: (one of her swift glances-canny, almost practical) Well, I'm glad if it is. How can I make it more? (but what she sees brings its own change) I know what it is you're afraid of. It's because I have so much-yes, why shouldn't I say it?-pa.s.sion. You feel that in me, don't you? You think it would swamp everything. But that isn't all there is to me.

TOM: Oh, I know it! My dearest-why, it's because I know it! You think I am-a fool?

CLAIRE: It's a thing that's-sometimes more than I am. And yet I-I am more than it is.

TOM: I know. I know about you.

CLAIRE: I don't know that you do. Perhaps if you really knew about me-you wouldn't go away.