When Clara arrived in the town, the first thing she noticed was the station.
It was a fine old building with a clock tower, four platforms, a ticket office, and a sign above the entrance.
The sign said:
WELCOME TO BELLWETHER
Underneath, in smaller letters:
THIS IS NOT A STATION.
Clara stopped.
A porter was standing beside the door.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Is this the station?”
“No,” he said.
She looked behind him.
There were railway tracks.
“Yes, but—”
“This is a railway station.”
“Isn't that the same thing?”
“No.”
“What's the difference?”
He pointed at the building.
“That is a building.”
She looked at him.
“Of course.”
“The railway station is the place where trains arrive and depart.”
“Yes.”
“And this building is not a place.”
“It isn't?”
“No. It is a building.”
Clara decided not to pursue this.
She bought a ticket.
The clerk handed it to her.
She looked at it.
“Where does this train go?”
The clerk pointed to the printed destination.
“Melchester.”
“Yes. But where is Melchester?”
“That's written on the ticket.”
“I can see that. I mean, where is it?”
The clerk frowned.
“You have asked two different questions.”
“How?”
“You asked where the train goes. Then you asked where the name goes.”
“I didn't.”
“You did.”
Clara looked at the ticket.
She decided to leave.
Outside the station she found a man sitting on a bench.
“Excuse me. Could you tell me where the town centre is?”
The man pointed towards the square.
“Thank you.”
She took a few steps.
“Wait,” he called.
She turned.
“You're going the wrong way.”
“You just pointed that way.”
“Yes.”
“Why is it wrong?”
“Because you asked where the town centre is.”
“Yes.”
“And I pointed at the town centre.”
“So?”
“You are going there.”
“Yes.”
“That is not the same as knowing where it is.”
Clara stared at him.
“Are you telling me I shouldn't follow your directions?”
“No.”
“Then why did you say I was going the wrong way?”
“Because you haven't arrived yet.”
She looked towards the square.
It seemed perfectly ordinary.
She walked on.
The first shop she found was a bookshop.
A bell rang as she entered.
The bookseller looked up.
“Can I help you?”
“I'm looking for a map.”
“Certainly.”
He led her to a shelf.
There were maps of the town, the county, the country, and the surrounding region.
She picked one up.
“This is what I need.”
The bookseller shook his head.
“That's not the town.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you want it?”
“To find the town.”
He looked puzzled.
“You're already in it.”
“I want to know where it is.”
He took the map from her.
“You're holding it.”
“No. I'm holding a map of it.”
“Yes.”
“So where is the town?”
The bookseller pointed at the map.
“There.”
Clara stared at the tiny printed streets.
“That's the map.”
“Yes.”
“Not the town.”
“No.”
She put it down.
“Do people here always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Confuse things with what they are representations of.”
The bookseller smiled.
“Ah.”
“You understand?”
“Of course.”
“Good.”
He handed her the map.
“Here is the town.”
She looked at it.
“No. That's the map.”
“Yes.”
She put it down again.
The bookseller looked disappointed.
“You're making this unnecessarily difficult.”
Clara left.
In the square she found a café.
A waiter approached.
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
He wrote something in his notebook.
“Black?”
“Yes.”
He wrote:
BLACK.
“That's not coffee.”
“No.”
“So why did you write it?”
“To remember your order.”
“Then what is the coffee?”
“The coffee is what I bring you.”
“And the word is the order?”
“No.”
“Then what is the order?”
He looked at her.
“You are.”
She sat down.
The waiter walked away.
After a moment she called him back.
“I don't think I understand this town.”
He smiled.
“That's all right.”
“Why?”
“Understanding is not a town.”
She stared at him.
“What?”
“It's something you do.”
He walked away.
Clara decided she needed to find someone sensible.
She went to the library.
The librarian was arranging books.
“Excuse me. Could you tell me what a category is?”
The librarian smiled.
“Certainly.”
She pointed to a shelf.
“Books.”
Clara looked.
There were dozens of books.
“Yes.”
“They are all books.”
“Yes.”
“So that's a category?”
“Yes.”
“What makes them a category?”
“They are books.”
“But that just repeats the word.”
“Yes.”
“Doesn't a category have to include different things?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then how can all these books be a category?”
“They are different books.”
“So the category is the sameness?”
“Partly.”
“And the difference?”
“Also.”
Clara sat down.
“I think I'm beginning to understand.”
The librarian smiled.
“That's dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because understanding is not a thing.”
Clara looked at her.
“Neither is confusion.”
“Correct.”
“So what are they?”
“Relations.”
Clara was silent.
The librarian returned to her books.
After a while Clara asked:
“What is a person?”
The librarian looked at her.
“A person is a person.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It is in this town.”
Clara stood.
“Is a person a category?”
“No.”
“Is a category a person?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She turned towards the door.
Then she stopped.
“What about a name?”
The librarian looked puzzled.
“A name is a name.”
“Is it a person?”
“No.”
“Then why does everyone keep treating words as though they were things?”
The librarian smiled.
“Because sometimes they are.”
Clara frowned.
“That makes no sense.”
“It does if you stop asking what a word is and ask what it is doing.”
Clara thought about this.
The librarian continued:
“A name can identify someone. It can call someone. It can describe someone. It can be quoted. It can be written down. It can be forgotten.”
“So the same name can do different things.”
“Yes.”
“And a thing can be related to its name in different ways.”
“Yes.”
Clara looked at the shelves.
“Then the problem isn't that people here confuse everything.”
“No.”
“They confuse different relations.”
“Yes.”
“By treating them as if they were the same kind of thing.”
The librarian smiled.
“Now you're getting somewhere.”
Clara left the library.
By evening she had stopped asking questions.
She walked towards the edge of town.
There was a sign.
BELLWETHER
She touched it.
It was made of wood.
She looked at the word.
Then at the town behind her.
The word was not the town.
The sign was not the town.
The map was not the town.
The description of the town was not the town.
And yet each had something to do with it.
She smiled.
Perhaps the town was not so strange after all.
She turned to leave.
A voice behind her said:
“Goodbye, Clara.”
She turned.
The librarian was standing in the road.
“How do you know my name?”
“You told me.”
“I did?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Earlier.”
Clara thought.
“I don't remember.”
“That doesn't matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because remembering you told me is not the same as knowing your name.”
Clara looked at her.
“Is my name a thing?”
The librarian smiled.
“No.”
“Is Clara a person?”
“Yes.”
“Then what is 'Clara'?”
The librarian considered.
“A way of getting the person to answer.”
Clara laughed.
“That sounds like a command.”
“Sometimes it is.”
“And sometimes?”
“A description.”
“And sometimes?”
“A question.”
“How can the same word be all those things?”
The librarian shrugged.
“It isn't.”
Clara waited.
“You are,” said the librarian, “confusing the word with what the word is doing.”
Then she walked away.
Clara stood alone.
She looked at the sign again.
BELLWETHER
She reached out and touched the letters.
For a moment she wondered whether the town was still behind her.
She turned.
It was.
She laughed.
Then she noticed something written on the back of the sign.
She read it.
THIS IS NOT A TOWN.
She turned around again.
The town had disappeared.
There was only a road.
And a sign.
The sign said:
BELLWETHER
Clara stared at it.
Then she heard footsteps behind her.
“Excuse me,” said a voice.
She turned.
A man was standing there.
“Could you tell me where the town is?”
Clara looked at the sign.
Then at the empty road.
Then back at the man.
She thought for a moment.
Finally she pointed at the sign.
“No,” she said.
“But it says Bellwether.”
“Yes.”
“Isn't that the town?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
Clara smiled.
“A sign.”
The man looked relieved.
“Thank goodness.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought it was a town.”
Clara looked at the sign again.
The letters seemed to shift slightly.
For just a moment, she could have sworn they read:
THIS IS A SIGN.
Then:
THIS IS NOT A SIGN.
Then:
THIS IS BELLWETHER.
She blinked.
The sign was ordinary again.
She walked on.
Behind her, the man remained standing beside it.
After a while he touched the sign.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“Where is the town?”
And the sign, very quietly, pointed.
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