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 reminisce