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her tracks, and presumably her life, ended within a stark,
white mystery. Across the side of a cliff was blazoned what
appeared to be a kind of white powder, only that it could not
be removed, even with effort. Within the irregular bloom of
bleached stone was framed the blackest shadow of a killing
woman caught off her guard. But by who?
Interestingly, I found another set of tracks, of both
a person and what I took to be a tripod. That’s when I
remembered—the strange photographer from the train to
Lastrygone. But perhaps what I did not realize was of even
greater importance—the lack of the Wolf’s body. What I
presumed was the photographer’s tread was no greater or
lesser wherever I encountered it, except where the camera
had been set out. Thus, I was forced to conclude that the
body was not carried out. Also, the shadow upon the stone
was not carbon scoring, but merely what seemed, perhaps
strangest of all, a natural discoloration of the stone. So, the
Wolf was also not reduced to ashes. This made for a pleasant
mystery, indeed.
The photographer’s steps were not difficult to follow,
for no effort was made to conceal them. Unlike the Wolf,
the tracks were not light, lithe, or exceptional in any way.
They were cold and unwavering, businesslike. I found the
disposition totally inconsistent with an artist, even though I
must confess that photography was not well known to me.
Not that I found the practice beneath me, quite the contrary,
really. I found it to be, when properly accomplished,
the purest sort of art—pre-art. To capture the very spirit
of a subject, the shadow and the caster all at once, was a
purely otherworldly composition. Of course, the beauty
wasn’t completely teased out, only hinted at—an exquisite
beginning.
Beginnings were often, although not always, more
beautiful than conclusions. So much was contained within the
beginning, likely too much. Most artists, ironically, started at
the end of things—sunsets, bones of the body, the moon, the
362 | Mark Anzalone