Jim was a good storyteller. In three villages, no, in three hundred villages could not be found such a weaver of tales, a purveyor of dreams, a painter of colorful yarns.
Children and adults alike pursued him. Open evening campfires drew instant crowds when word got out that he was reviving his craft once again at the behest of every influential person in the town and at the insistence of every eager youth.
Once of these evenings began in a particularly pleasant way, which is often a sign of impending turbulence. One would not have guessed from the way it began that the night would end as it did.
A gentle breeze swayed the limbs of an ancient apple tree against the backdrop of a deep blue sky spaced with final sunset streaks shot between the night's first and boldest stars.
The words of the storyteller drifted out above the hush and the hickory smoke. The enthralled crowd hung on every word. Imagination lit every animated expression. Behind them a golden coach led by golden horses came to an abrupt stop. The insignia on the door was a star intertwining a crown. A young man, hardly more than a youth, strode out with a kingly gait and listened silently with fire in his eyes.
The weaver's tale came alive as though he were creating real and living worlds with the depth of his imagery. Every brushstroke of vocal intonation conveyed unrivaled passion and sincerity. Nobody breathed for fear of missing a single syllable.
Jim paused. His eyes opened widely. The crowd had parted to allow the stranger's approach, and they were shyly ducking their heads and looking away. Some were bowing.
The stranger looked him in the eyes.
"Why do these people listen to you?" he said.
"Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but I seem to have a knack for spinning a tale," he replied with a modest blush.
"You're hired. Come with me," said the prince.
"Begging His Highness's pardon again, but I have a shop to run, a home to tend, and a pet canary to feed..."
"Sed," called the monarch-to-be over his shoulder. A muscular servant appeared from the direction of the coach.
"Sed," repeated the prince, "escort this golden tongued word weaver home to fetch his canary. Have them both at the palace by morning."
With a slightly arrogant parting glance the prince was gone, leaving a disappointed dispersing crowd and a stunned storytelling storekeeper.
"Why me?" moaned Jim. The servant rode a horse slowly beside him as he made his way down a graveled path.
"You'll be paid well," said Sedrick. "Good food, too."
Jim held his forehead and groaned.
The shop was set in order and locked. The storyteller packed a few clothes and removed a wicker canary cage from its hook. Its yellow occupant flittered excitedly inside it. He hooked up a cart to a brave little donkey and set off with the tall guard towering alongside on his steed.
It was extremely late when they reached the palace gates. Sentries let them in and took their conveyances to the stables. Jim was shown to a small room with a single window and a sofa with red velvet cushions.
"Have a good night," said Sedrick. "And don't try to leave," he added. "The doors are guarded, and so is your window."
The next morning dawned gray and foggy. Jim found himself wearing stiff new clothes and sitting in the billiard room among a crowd of nobles. Some were smoking enormous cigars. Some were feasting on pie and pastry. Some yawned and stared blankly out the window.
"Gentlemen," said the prince. Every eye looked his way.
"I have endeavored to bring you, at great expense to myself, some enlightening entertainment. This peasant, a mere shopkeeper, has the gift of a golden tongue. Let us listen."
He promptly seated himself on a rounded royal blue silk cushion and proceeded to help himself to a small portion of roasted corn.
Jim missed his home. He missed his freedom. He felt as trapped as a canary, with the exception that a tame canary could never fend for itself in the wild.
Neither could these nobles. Jim told himself that he had never seen people more lonely, more bored, and more completely helpless than these overfed, underworked, pompous men.
He fired his imagination to full steam and took them on a journey through forests, over valleys, past flowing rivers, across plains, into the midst of dragons and sword fights; and by the time he'd finished every mouth gaped in utter astonishment at his skill. They rose and applauded as the last phrase fell on grateful, enlivened ears.
Jim was paid good wages through the years. Generations of noble children learned both traditional tales and new ones. He was a walking library of literature, as beloved and respected a figure as ever had walked the halls before or since.
He kept many generations of canaries in his room, and they always reminded him of the life he'd lived before. He missed his freedom, but he recognized that by accepting his post as the "royal canary" and bringing life into the palace through his ideas and words, he was setting others free. The nobles, the children, and all servants within earshot were enabled to look forward to life with courage, kindness, and contentment. This in turn trickled down to all the rest of the people, who had a much easier lifetime under rulers that were well educated in things like morals and empathy for others.
When at last his stories were no more, and he awoke to the gracious freedom for which he'd always longed, those left behind mourned respectfully and deeply, and buried him with honor among the graves of valiant knights. A large aviary was built for his canaries, with a servant assigned to attend to them. They live there to this day, and the notes of their songs still cheer and comfort the lonely and sore of heart who pause to listen and observe.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Legend of Firebelly
Deep in the dimness cast by craggy rocks lay a cavernous expanse filled with smooth pebbles. Nestled in among the warm, sheltered bed of gentle gravel lay three eggs.They were large eggs, as blue as a robin's.
Within this cavern stood someone who played flippantly with the cords of his life just by being there. Standing beside him, someone who did not want to be there. His servant had done many menial tasks without complaining, but this time he wished to do so now more than he ever had in his life. Great self-restraint kept his lips muzzled and barred the exit of the words that demanded they vacate the place.
It was not for fear alone that Albert wished to be going. Sure, he did not fancy being alit with dragon's flames, nor did he especially treasure the notion of being its lunch. But there was another reason eating at him from the inside.
"Carry two under your arm and let's be going," instructed his superior in clanking gold-plated armor. (Whenever the gold plating scratched in battle, Sir Douglas would simply have it refinished. He would have made the pieces of solid gold if it had not been for the fact that gold is such a very soft metal.)
Albert lay his hand gently on an egg. It was extremely warm, and the gravel held the heat well.
"Might die if we move them?"
"Good," came the reply.
"What good are they to us dead?" said Albert, trying to appeal to the nobleman's greed on behalf of saving these most unusual somethings.
"They will harm no one, and I can display them in my parlor."
A lump rose in Albert's throat.
"No," he said for the first time in his entire life, and because it was the first time, Sir Douglas dropped his jaw in gaping surprise.
"Albert, you are obligated to help me wherever I request it."
"If the Creator didn't want dragons to live he wouldn't have created them," replied Albert.
"I'll pretend you didn't just say that," said the knight generously, scooping an egg out of the ground with his leather gloved hand.
The pebbles below their feet began to tremble and hop.
"C'mon!" said Sir Douglas. "Grab those eggs and run!"
Albert could not bring himself to disturb the remaining two eggs. He sat down in the empty space left by the first egg and put his head in his hands.
"Okay, fine," said Douglas. "You're finished. Don't come back home anymore."
He lifted one leg and then the other arrogantly out the entrance, and was gone.
Screams pierced the air, wild strange animal screams mixed with those of the knight. Albert froze with surprise. The screams bled into quiet, and the egg that Douglas had displaced returned through the opening, followed by his armor, one piece after another. Then a head, a long, narrow head lit by two orange and glowing eyes, looked in. It surveyed the lair with satisfaction, blew fire on the armor one piece at a time, and entered. The long, scaly tail was the last to come in, and took longer than anything else.
Once inside it stowed the armor pieces in an overhead hole that reminded Albert of a cabinet. He noticed a glint of more than just the armor where the lit eyes of the dragon reflected in the hole. Seemingly satisfied, it turned back to its egg, which it now clutched to its heart.
Albert dreaded being noticed but could not wait to get it over with, so he deliberately moved out of the space where the egg belonged, feeling sure this would grab the beast's attention. It seemed not to notice, however, and it carefully replaced the egg into its warm socket of earthy heated pebbles.
"You been here long?" it said.
Albert jumped in surprised, but he promptly recovered and spoke.
"Not long."
"You know how medicine?" it said.
"Yes," he replied.
"Medicine this," it commanded, pointing to a gash beneath its left arm.
The servant removed a clean handkerchief from his pocket and soaked it with wine from a little canteen. He pressed and dabbed very gently at the ooze between the missing scales till he was sure it was quite well disinfected by the alcohol.
"Smells good," it said. "Good medicine."
Albert hesitated.
"You should do this again tomorrow," he said. "Every day for a week."
"You do good medicine tomorrow then," it said. "Stay right here."
With a swish of its tail the dragon turned about and reached inside its storage hole. When it returned it held out a glittering diamond as big as a hickory nut.
"You keep this," it said. "Good pay for good medicine."
It's a test, said a voice from somewhere in Albert's head. He thought he'd heard that voice before, but he couldn't remember where. He began to reach out.
It's a test, came the voice again. Don't take it.
He closed the dragon's scaly hand over the gemstone and gently pushed it away.
"No, thank you," he said. "I don't care much for those."
A curved smile played upon the giant toothsome mouth.
"Me treasure's safe, then," it said, putting it back.
"You sleep," said the dragon, turning itself round about and curling into a ball. It rested its head on its tail, but he couldn't be sure if it was asleep or awake because the glowing eyes remained open.
With the shock of all that had happened, Albert quickly found himself void of energy, and he gradually succumbed to the sleepy warmth of the cave.
He was awakened by a small stirring. Something nearby was pulling at him, pinching him. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and saw two tiny coals glowing up at him. At least, that's what they looked like. The baby dragon had been trying to get his attention. He held out his hand to it, and it climbed up in his lap like a puppy and fell asleep. After a few short blinks Albert dozed again, thinking himself to be in a very strange dream.
Near dawn he was again awakened, this time by all three dragons pulling at his legs and feet. He chuckled and tolerated the pinching, although their teeth felt like pins.
Two years later, tales arose and circulated of a hero who rescued the downtrodden, riding through the sky on the backs of dragons. He was said to breathe the fire himself, although this could not be confirmed. He was known by all simply as, "Firebelly."
He persistently defended the innocent. All the knights said he was evil and pledged to kill him, but he was far too wary to be caught. Whenever he'd been in the vicinity, food somehow showed up on the porches of poor houses. Prisoners who'd been jailed unjustly would be routinely freed. Those who'd put them there were often found to have been placed in their cells instead, alive and mad as hornets.
If you, however, find a large blue egg in a cave surrounded by warm, smooth pebbles, I would suggest that you leave it alone.
Friday, January 8, 2010
The Lioness
It wasn't possible that the she-lion's eyes looked so familiar. Elizabeth had been lost eleven years ago, yet somehow this animal's gaze reminded him of her. It padded silently ahead, urging him forward with its unspeaking eyes. The glare of hundreds of torches lit the valley below and reflected like gleaming gold through the retinas of this large and soundless creature. The rock ledge was easy enough for a cat's paws to negotiate, but his clumsy human stride knocked rocks and sticks down at every turn. She had long since quit giving him reproachful glances, knowing that he couldn't help it.The ledge turned a sharp corner and abruptly ended. Here, it seemed, was their destination. A large cave stood five feet above. She leapt in, then peered over the edge.
"I can't jump that far," he quivered.
The lioness sighed. He heard rustling up above him, and with a thud a large stick landed at his feet. It was quite thick, and at first he didn't see the use of it, but presently he leaned it against the rock, carefully balanced one foot upon its end, and hauled himself upward while grasping into the cave for something to grab onto.
Soft breath and a wet tongue took hold gently of his wrist. He felt his weight move forward as easily as if he were a rag doll. Kyska couldn't believe the terrible size of her teeth, which did but barely touch him.
Just as though his entry into safety had signaled it, it started to rain. Thunder split the sky into shards as the torrential hot water drops flashed in the oft lit night. The lioness lay undisturbed among a heap of rabbit skins, breathing gently as her great sides fell and rose.
Cautiously he crept nearer as the urge to sleep overcame his sense of fear at the sudden loss of his freedom and his pride. He didn't think that sleep would come to him in such strange surroundings, but come it did. In the morning he'd be able to tell them all he'd spent the night with his back to a lion.
When the evening rains had passed, the blazing tangerine dawn echoed with the raucous calls of many brilliantly colored birds. Kyska rubbed his eyes sleepily and was surprised to find a large red parrot, dead, before his nose. He arose with a start. The lioness was busily consuming what was left of a green parrot. Her translucent fiery eyes stared at him. He picked up the bird.
"Uh--um--thank you."
She purred softly and began to wash the finished meal from her paws.
"Um..."
The lioness paused in mid lick, her eyes once again fixed on him.
"I can't--that is--I need to cook this," he said, holding up the bird, beautiful but stiff, by the tail.
As if to shrug she went back to her washing, leaving him to figure out his quandary. He piled dry twigs and strips of old moss together and struck two white stones upon each other again and again until the numerous sparks lit them. After pulling out the quills and down as best he could, Kyska held the bird by one long tail feather over the flames.
Breakfast done, the lioness seemed to think that he also needed a bath, which he did not enjoy, especially the time or two he squirmed uncomfortably and received a scratch for doing so. He began to wonder if this was really Elizabeth, or if he had wandered into the custody of a truly wild beast that would eventually consume him. He kept his thoughts to himself, however, and clambered clumsily out the entrance where she'd signaled him to follow.
The trail led into the mountains. They were warm, weepy, full of trees. No where was there a hint of any snow, and the trail went only upward. Finally they stopped to rest in a treehouse that had been made by some villagers ages ago. Kyska shuddered at the runic carvings on the tree supports, for he knew what they meant, and what they meant was ugly. He tried not to think about it.
There was scarcely room in the treehouse for both him and his companion, but somehow they arranged to sit and rest a while. Kyska dozed with his chin buried in fur.
Suddenly he sat up. The lion's fur bristled. Green eyes glowed from the shadows below. A hundred black wolves appeared and encircled the tree. They made no sound except for the scratching of their paws against the dirt and rocks below.
Kyska stood sadly and readied to venture down to them. He could not ask one lone lioness to fight a hundred wolves. He knew they'd come on his account, for it had been this way in the past, whether they be villagers with spears or elephant tusks.
Sharp claws grabbed him between his shoulder blades and threw him flat on the floor of the structure. He tried to protest but was soundly slapped by her weighty fur paw.
Her growls seemed to imitate the tone and spacing of human speech, and the tallest wolf looked up at her and barked out a reply. She leaned again and assured him with an earnest huff that she hadn't seen any other humans that day other than the one she intended to eat (that's what it seemed like she was saying when Kyska listened hard). The wolf leader thanked her cheerfully and bounded out into the surrounding bushes, followed by his avid frisky pack.
The journey resumed. Slowly their ascent seemed to reach some sort of plateau near the top, in the middle of which stood a structure made of brass in the shape of a giant box. When they drew near he ascertained it had a door, and the lioness disappeared inside it. A moment later she reappeared and signed for him to follow. The inside was dimly lit, with a terrible reeking haze that stung his nose and limited his view. He kept his eyes on her steadily rising and falling shoulders and tried not to succumb to the smell all around him.
The ground inside seemed to rise, and he soon found himself stumbling wearily up a golden staircase. Occasionally his foot slipped because the strange haze made everything moist, but he persisted with the determination of a hundred heroes. And now, it seemed, they were at the top.
A single tree made of glass glimmered in the misty cavernous dusk. At its base rested a serpent coiled as if at rest. The lioness stepped over it and went up the trunk in a single bound. Her gaze rested on him as if she expected him to follow.
"Same problem as before," he said. "I can't climb or leap like you can."
She growled at him insistently, and to his surprise the glass was not slick. He ascended with ease as though magnetized by the tree, and followed her into a little glass canyon inside the trunk.
A little old man with a wrinkled face and a very long beard sat in the midst of it, and he seemed to be deep in thought.
"What you say is true," he said to the lioness. "They do exist."
"What do?" said Kyska.
"Good humans," he replied. "I was afraid there were none."
Kyska blushed.
"How do you know if I'm good?"
The old man smiled.
"There is little, if anything, that I don't know about humans. Your soul windows tell me everything."
"Are you a human?" he ventured.
"Alas, I am. It was a terrible burden to be the only living virtuous human."
Kyska was quiet for a moment. Then he began anew.
"The snake sleeping outside..."
"...is old and toothless," the wise man finished for him. "He will only harm those who lend him an ear."
"And now?" said Kyska.
"And now I will return Elizabeth to human form. You and she will be permitted to go back to wherever you came from, provided you stay there."
"You changed her into a lioness? But why?"
"So she could defend herself against the villagers. It worked, didn't it? And now she's brought you to me to prove there is someone I can trust to send her home with. But as I said you must stay where I am about to send you, and never come back."
"Stay there? How can I stay there if I don't even know how I got here?"
"Stay out of those books," the old man glowered. "They were not supposed to be read by human eyes."
Kyska hesitated.
"Books, books..." he muttered to himself. "I can't remember any books."
"Go!" the old man thundered. "And remember what I said."
Everything faded. Soft sun poured through the tree limbs onto a large green hammock where Kyska dozed lazily.
"Tea time," Elizabeth called cheerily, waving her hand towards the house.
"Books," he moaned, half asleep.
"Oh, yes!" she replied. "Those first edition magic and conjuring lesson books arrived today in a big box. Shall I open it?"
Kyska gasped.
"No!" he said, then more calmly, "No, thank you."
Elizabeth tilted her head back and laughed. She slapped him through the hammock and grinned.
"Up, you lazy thing, and come drink your tea."
As they walked hand in hand towards the waiting refreshments, Kyska thought he heard the faintest hint of a lion's purr. He looked all around him. There was no one but Elizabeth, and she was smiling warmly. He would definitely destroy those books, and soon.
Friday, December 18, 2009
The Concert
"Should we call Bumblebees With Migraines?"
"No, Mangy Wolves are my favorite!"
"New Stiff Shoes, they're the greatest."
"What about The Bad Eggs?"
The Fourth of July was to be a celebration to top all others. They were to have a carnival, a dunking booth, several concession stands, and a singing group. The council couldn't agree on what singing group to invite. A decision was finally voted upon by some extra and impartial tie breakers, whose opinions were that all four rock groups should be called, and that the lowest priced one was to be hired without further discussion.
Bumblebees were called first, but it turned out their manager was buzzed and unavailable.
Mangy Wolves were then tried, but the curt and surely answering service said they were completely booked through August.
New Stiff Shoes had a very polite office manager who very politely told them that there was no way a group as great as they would play in such a very small town for anything near what they were offering to pay.
The Bad Eggs said they had a previous booking for that day, and that it was unlikely they'd be able to make it on time.
A real fuss and flutter arose among the council members, and some said there would be no music at all or that they would have to use recorded music instead of a live band.
One lowly man suggested that they ask some local high school talent, four kids who played in their garage, to do the honors, while also explaining (with much adjustment of his glasses) that the kids would probably not ask for money, and would be glad just to gain a little recognition.
Once agreed upon, the youths were solemnly greeted by the aforementioned bespectacled fellow who visited their hangout while they were in the act of their weekly practice. The idea was accepted with cheers, hoots, and slaps on the back, and they promised to show up early.
The holiday came, and the kids played their hearts out. Everyone paused many times to hear the prodigies share their united sound, even amidst the browsing of many other attractions. All but their parents and teachers were astonished, and the ones who knew their abilities were nearly bursting with pride at such accomplishment. A steady beat, full of pep and attitude, swept the whole town off their feet.
Then, and only then, did The Bad Eggs arrive. They had been told by their manager that a small town had offered decent pay for their services, and that since their previous engagement canceled they may as well make their way down to the area. They stood around watching the kids, and the unshaven spokesperson for the group, a certain Lee White, mentioned that the group would require a kill fee of 50%.
"You'll get no such thing," said the atypically short-winded mayor.
The music continued to tap in the feet of the listeners, and the Egg group got another bright idea. Lead guitarist Melvin Y. Oak decided they needed to add this talent into their own mix and offered to hire the kids to go with them on the road.
The kids, when a break came, were motioned over to speak with the group's manager, amid many sighs and cautioning glares from those who knew them.
"No way," said Ken. "I'm going to be a doctor. Music is for the weekends and such."
"Me neither," said Brent. "I'm already half owner in my ranch, and I've got stock to raise."
"I'm going to law school as soon as I can," added Gus. "I can't go on the road."
"Culinary arts are my practical side," chimed Oliver. "Musical arts are an additional plus, but I'm going to be a chef, thanks the same."
So The Bad Eggs, disappointed and without recourse or contract, slid off in their bus to help someone else enjoy the afternoon.
"No, Mangy Wolves are my favorite!"
"New Stiff Shoes, they're the greatest."
"What about The Bad Eggs?"
The Fourth of July was to be a celebration to top all others. They were to have a carnival, a dunking booth, several concession stands, and a singing group. The council couldn't agree on what singing group to invite. A decision was finally voted upon by some extra and impartial tie breakers, whose opinions were that all four rock groups should be called, and that the lowest priced one was to be hired without further discussion.
Bumblebees were called first, but it turned out their manager was buzzed and unavailable.
Mangy Wolves were then tried, but the curt and surely answering service said they were completely booked through August.
New Stiff Shoes had a very polite office manager who very politely told them that there was no way a group as great as they would play in such a very small town for anything near what they were offering to pay.
The Bad Eggs said they had a previous booking for that day, and that it was unlikely they'd be able to make it on time.
A real fuss and flutter arose among the council members, and some said there would be no music at all or that they would have to use recorded music instead of a live band.
One lowly man suggested that they ask some local high school talent, four kids who played in their garage, to do the honors, while also explaining (with much adjustment of his glasses) that the kids would probably not ask for money, and would be glad just to gain a little recognition.
Once agreed upon, the youths were solemnly greeted by the aforementioned bespectacled fellow who visited their hangout while they were in the act of their weekly practice. The idea was accepted with cheers, hoots, and slaps on the back, and they promised to show up early.
The holiday came, and the kids played their hearts out. Everyone paused many times to hear the prodigies share their united sound, even amidst the browsing of many other attractions. All but their parents and teachers were astonished, and the ones who knew their abilities were nearly bursting with pride at such accomplishment. A steady beat, full of pep and attitude, swept the whole town off their feet.
Then, and only then, did The Bad Eggs arrive. They had been told by their manager that a small town had offered decent pay for their services, and that since their previous engagement canceled they may as well make their way down to the area. They stood around watching the kids, and the unshaven spokesperson for the group, a certain Lee White, mentioned that the group would require a kill fee of 50%.
"You'll get no such thing," said the atypically short-winded mayor.
The music continued to tap in the feet of the listeners, and the Egg group got another bright idea. Lead guitarist Melvin Y. Oak decided they needed to add this talent into their own mix and offered to hire the kids to go with them on the road.
The kids, when a break came, were motioned over to speak with the group's manager, amid many sighs and cautioning glares from those who knew them.
"No way," said Ken. "I'm going to be a doctor. Music is for the weekends and such."
"Me neither," said Brent. "I'm already half owner in my ranch, and I've got stock to raise."
"I'm going to law school as soon as I can," added Gus. "I can't go on the road."
"Culinary arts are my practical side," chimed Oliver. "Musical arts are an additional plus, but I'm going to be a chef, thanks the same."
So The Bad Eggs, disappointed and without recourse or contract, slid off in their bus to help someone else enjoy the afternoon.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
My New Best Friend
It was a very dark night and the moon was hidden, but I found the cool of the outdoor bench to be a soothing relief from steamy indoor laundry work. I had grown up in the country, so my eyes were quite used to seeing in very low light. Chores on farms (as you know) are done before dawn.
It was not unusual to take my break alone. The other ladies sometimes joined me, but this time their shifts kept them busy. Sometimes also they skipped their midnight meals, but I needed the energy boost, so there I sat enjoying the late picnic and admiring the stars.
An odd fellow with a limping gait sat down beside me. In the dim light his extremely pale features made his face sort of glow, and his empty eyes stared gloomily ahead into space.
I ignored him and proceeded with my snack. The steaming smell of soup from my insulated food container wafted into the air. My silent companion sat bolt upright, a puzzled expression visiting his face.
"What..." he began. His voice was deep and mysterious.
"Go on," I said. "I won't bite you."
Again an odd look crossed his face, and he choked slightly like there was something stuck in his throat.
"What..." his voice whispered hoarsely, "...is in that bottle?"
"Oh, it's just my soup. It's my breaktime, and I must finish my late evening snack before returning to work in that hot old laundry room."
"What kind?" he persisted. A faint breeze picked up the ends of his long, lightweight coat and made it flutter.
"Chicken and roasted garlic," I said. "Want some?"
He looked like he was going to be sick.
"No," he said.
I ate in silence for a while, and studied my neighbor curiously between bites. He had deep red lips and dark outlines around his eyes like he was wearing eyeliner. Maybe he's into goth culture, I thought. It was not my business to judge, however, so I continued to sit and eat.
Continued, that is, until I accidentally spilled it. Spilled it right on his leg. I was so embarrassed! I apologized all over myself and began to soak it up with napkins. The man seemed to be beyond anger, though, and bit his lip in delirious pain.
"It's not that hot, is it?" I said. I handed him some napkins. "Be a man," I continued. "Don't be such a baby."
The strange person dried up the mess, adjusted his position, and sighed deeply. He wrapped his black cloak around him and rested his chin upon his hand. I noticed he was still biting his lip, however. I noticed also that his teeth seemed a bit long and sharp.
"You know, they can do something about that overbite," I said. He looked at me curiously.
"I don't mean to make personal remarks," I continued, "and you might feel just fine about how your teeth look, but I used to have the same problem and braces helped considerably."
He smiled saucily without answer.
"Here, let me get you the number of my orthodontist," I said, rummaging through my purse. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him watching the back of my neck, but I was already beginning to get used to his oddness, so I didn't pay it much heed.
"Shucks, so much junk in this purse," I muttered. "Here, hold this for me." I handed him some makeup compacts, my empty keychains, and the crucifix necklace I carried with me at all times. (It had been a gift from a very dear friend.)
The man rose straight up off the bench with a yelp as though his posterior had discovered a very large thumbtack. I was afraid he wasn't going to return my belongings, so I gave up the search and threw my stuff back in the bag.
"Sorry," I said. "I must have left it at home."
"That's all right," he said stiffly.
"So much at stake when one leaves for work in such a hurry," I said.
The man again became rather alarmed.
"What did you say?" he said.
I shrugged. "I said I had to hurry to get to work, and I may have dropped my phone book out of my..."
"No, the other part. What was that about stakes?"
"No, I don't like steaks at all. They're too tough and tasteless. I much prefer chicken or fish. I still think you should try some of this soup. It's great stuff!"
I pulled a very strong flashlight from my pocket and began making sure that my effects were in order. My companion squinted in the bright light and seemed to become very annoyed.
"Well, I think I've got everything. My break's almost over. It was nice meeting you."
He nodded sullenly and remained on the bench, staring off into space.
"It's so nice to meet new people," I added as I arose to leave. "I hope we meet again. Let me tell you though, those laundry rooms can suck you dry. Leaves you void of energy. I don't know how I do it sometimes."
A rustling of leaves answered me. Somehow he had left in the blink of an eye.
It was not unusual to take my break alone. The other ladies sometimes joined me, but this time their shifts kept them busy. Sometimes also they skipped their midnight meals, but I needed the energy boost, so there I sat enjoying the late picnic and admiring the stars.
An odd fellow with a limping gait sat down beside me. In the dim light his extremely pale features made his face sort of glow, and his empty eyes stared gloomily ahead into space.
I ignored him and proceeded with my snack. The steaming smell of soup from my insulated food container wafted into the air. My silent companion sat bolt upright, a puzzled expression visiting his face.
"What..." he began. His voice was deep and mysterious.
"Go on," I said. "I won't bite you."
Again an odd look crossed his face, and he choked slightly like there was something stuck in his throat.
"What..." his voice whispered hoarsely, "...is in that bottle?"
"Oh, it's just my soup. It's my breaktime, and I must finish my late evening snack before returning to work in that hot old laundry room."
"What kind?" he persisted. A faint breeze picked up the ends of his long, lightweight coat and made it flutter.
"Chicken and roasted garlic," I said. "Want some?"
He looked like he was going to be sick.
"No," he said.
I ate in silence for a while, and studied my neighbor curiously between bites. He had deep red lips and dark outlines around his eyes like he was wearing eyeliner. Maybe he's into goth culture, I thought. It was not my business to judge, however, so I continued to sit and eat.
Continued, that is, until I accidentally spilled it. Spilled it right on his leg. I was so embarrassed! I apologized all over myself and began to soak it up with napkins. The man seemed to be beyond anger, though, and bit his lip in delirious pain.
"It's not that hot, is it?" I said. I handed him some napkins. "Be a man," I continued. "Don't be such a baby."
The strange person dried up the mess, adjusted his position, and sighed deeply. He wrapped his black cloak around him and rested his chin upon his hand. I noticed he was still biting his lip, however. I noticed also that his teeth seemed a bit long and sharp.
"You know, they can do something about that overbite," I said. He looked at me curiously.
"I don't mean to make personal remarks," I continued, "and you might feel just fine about how your teeth look, but I used to have the same problem and braces helped considerably."
He smiled saucily without answer.
"Here, let me get you the number of my orthodontist," I said, rummaging through my purse. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him watching the back of my neck, but I was already beginning to get used to his oddness, so I didn't pay it much heed.
"Shucks, so much junk in this purse," I muttered. "Here, hold this for me." I handed him some makeup compacts, my empty keychains, and the crucifix necklace I carried with me at all times. (It had been a gift from a very dear friend.)
The man rose straight up off the bench with a yelp as though his posterior had discovered a very large thumbtack. I was afraid he wasn't going to return my belongings, so I gave up the search and threw my stuff back in the bag.
"Sorry," I said. "I must have left it at home."
"That's all right," he said stiffly.
"So much at stake when one leaves for work in such a hurry," I said.
The man again became rather alarmed.
"What did you say?" he said.
I shrugged. "I said I had to hurry to get to work, and I may have dropped my phone book out of my..."
"No, the other part. What was that about stakes?"
"No, I don't like steaks at all. They're too tough and tasteless. I much prefer chicken or fish. I still think you should try some of this soup. It's great stuff!"
I pulled a very strong flashlight from my pocket and began making sure that my effects were in order. My companion squinted in the bright light and seemed to become very annoyed.
"Well, I think I've got everything. My break's almost over. It was nice meeting you."
He nodded sullenly and remained on the bench, staring off into space.
"It's so nice to meet new people," I added as I arose to leave. "I hope we meet again. Let me tell you though, those laundry rooms can suck you dry. Leaves you void of energy. I don't know how I do it sometimes."
A rustling of leaves answered me. Somehow he had left in the blink of an eye.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Furballs
The first time I found a furball I was not the least surprised, although I should have been. The morning paper hit my door at approximately 6 a.m., and I was there to answer it.
It was pink, about the size of a softball, and covered with thick fur.
"Some kids lost their toy," I muttered to myself. I kicked it off the doorstep.
It whimpered.
"Oh, great," I said. "What have I done now?"
I picked it up cautiously and turned it over. It had two yellow eyes that blinked at me sadly, and a small, flat, toothless mouth. The creature appeared to be breathing through two tiny holes in the place where one might expect ears, and it didn't appear to have any sort of feet. I rather liked it, and wondered where it had come from.
While I wondered, a tremendous rustling of leaves in the maple tree overhead suggested that I step aside, and another one plunked down into the grass. It was light brown with white spots, and its eyes were bright green.
"Two of them!" I said, scooping it up.
--------------------------------------
Every few minutes I looked up from my newspaper to see what these creatures were up to. I had left them on the floor mat near the door, and I had given them each a sweet roll which they were devouring eagerly.
"City pound? I have two furballs... What? No, they're not cats. No, not dogs, either. They're round and look like a tennis ball... Hello? Hello?"
I began to ponder what to do with them.
"Where'd they go?" I said out loud to myself.
Though they seemed to have no feet, both things were crawling up the wall in a snail-like fashion.
It occurred to me they might be some new exotic pet that escaped from a pet store, so I boxed them up in a dog carrier and took them in the front door of the nearest shop and marched right up to the service desk.
"Here for grooming services?" asked a softspoken, pleasant young man.
"No," I said. "I've found these creatures outside my house, and..."
"Wild animals or tame? You're not supposed to keep them if they're wild. If they're tame and you don't own them, the pound..."
"I've already called the pound, and they won't listen to me," I interrupted.
I opened the cage and dumped the contents on the desk: three furballs! The new one was a sleek black with bright blue eyes that glowed cheerily.
"Eek!" yelled the clerk while making tracks for the nearest exit. I sighed, packed them back up, and left the store with a shrug.
It was pink, about the size of a softball, and covered with thick fur.
"Some kids lost their toy," I muttered to myself. I kicked it off the doorstep.
It whimpered.
"Oh, great," I said. "What have I done now?"
I picked it up cautiously and turned it over. It had two yellow eyes that blinked at me sadly, and a small, flat, toothless mouth. The creature appeared to be breathing through two tiny holes in the place where one might expect ears, and it didn't appear to have any sort of feet. I rather liked it, and wondered where it had come from.
While I wondered, a tremendous rustling of leaves in the maple tree overhead suggested that I step aside, and another one plunked down into the grass. It was light brown with white spots, and its eyes were bright green.
"Two of them!" I said, scooping it up.
--------------------------------------
Every few minutes I looked up from my newspaper to see what these creatures were up to. I had left them on the floor mat near the door, and I had given them each a sweet roll which they were devouring eagerly.
"City pound? I have two furballs... What? No, they're not cats. No, not dogs, either. They're round and look like a tennis ball... Hello? Hello?"
I began to ponder what to do with them.
"Where'd they go?" I said out loud to myself.
Though they seemed to have no feet, both things were crawling up the wall in a snail-like fashion.
It occurred to me they might be some new exotic pet that escaped from a pet store, so I boxed them up in a dog carrier and took them in the front door of the nearest shop and marched right up to the service desk.
"Here for grooming services?" asked a softspoken, pleasant young man.
"No," I said. "I've found these creatures outside my house, and..."
"Wild animals or tame? You're not supposed to keep them if they're wild. If they're tame and you don't own them, the pound..."
"I've already called the pound, and they won't listen to me," I interrupted.
I opened the cage and dumped the contents on the desk: three furballs! The new one was a sleek black with bright blue eyes that glowed cheerily.
"Eek!" yelled the clerk while making tracks for the nearest exit. I sighed, packed them back up, and left the store with a shrug.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The Ugly Convention
The highway passed beneath the car no faster than it ever had, and I grew impatient. Tim, half asleep, sat beside me. He was supposed to be helping, but I knew I'd be doing most of the work.
"We're almost there," I said, hoping to wake him up a little and maybe inspire him to get his camera ready.
"Mmph," he said. Tim always said "mmph". It must have meant something on the planet he came from, I chuckled silently to myself.
Two merry guards talked briskly at the gate and asked to see my pass. One frowned at the other and said something in his ear.
"Mr. Gruffy said I had permission to do a story on this place," I explained, hoping they would remember and not bar me from entering.
"Gruffy, the owner of the Daily Satellite," Tim put in. They looked him over carefully and nodded to one another in approval. The gates swung wide, and I drove on through.
"Wonder why they were questioning me. Thought we had this all set up."
"Easy," croaked Tim. "You're not ugly enough."
I had decided not to wear makeup, and instead of fixing my hair I had just tied it in a lazy ponytail. I had dressed in my oldest clothes for the occasion, but I guessed that it hadn't done enough good.
Tents and campers lined up for many aisles. Everyone was out milling around, talking and laughing, playing games, eating refreshments, and watching me park with critical eyes. I strode right up to one man who seemed particularly good at lawn bowling and opened my notebook.
"What's is it you like best about this convention?" I asked. "I'm Laney Brown from the Daily Satellite," I added with a smile.
The man frowned a bit. "I liked it just fine until you showed up," he said. I turned and walked away to find another person to interview. A senior citizen was walking her dog, so I pulled a treat biscuit from the pocket of my coat (an old trick I had learned for getting dog owners to talk), and introduced myself. Tim followed, camera in hand, typical lazy attitude afoot.
"Hello, I'm Laney Brown..." I began.
The woman picked up her dog, went into her camper, and slammed the door shut.
I went for a walk and looked around. Everyone here was definitely in the lowest 2% of the population as regarded external looks, but none of them seemed to care too much about it. They were a community of ugliness, but at the same time many of them seemed to be hard working, clean, friendly, and intelligent. Farmers with holes in their gloves waved at Tim as we went by. Broad shouldered, sensible women were chatting about sewing and cooking. Dog owners were petting their dogs and comparing notes on breeding and nutrition. Everyone had something to do, and no one saw his or her life as useless. I put all this in my notebook as I walked. Then I thought of something.
"Tim, these people seem to like you better than me. It must be your friendly appearance."
"You're not fooling me, Laney. I know why they like me better," he said with a pout.
"No one's going to talk to me," I insisted, "so maybe you can get them to talk. Especially if I take the camera and hide behind it so they can't see my face. See?" I held up the camera as a mask and smiled.
"Yeah," said Tim, swallowing the last of his coffee and stowing the cup in his shoulder bag. "Okay, what do you want me to ask them?"
"Here's the list of questions Mr. Gruffy gave me." I handed over my list and notebook.
We got several fine interviews that day, and I witnessed a depth of humanity that I personally will not forget. It seemed that when society had thrown them out, they took each other in. When no one met their need for comfort and friendship, they were there for each other instead. The rejects in turn rejected those who rejected them. The doors that got slammed in my face made me wonder how many had been slammed in theirs. Inner beauty and wisdom were prized by those who couldn't win the game of good looks. I envied them, although I knew that I didn't particularly want to change places. They had something automatically given to them that the rest of us had to work harder for: that something escaped my attempts to name it, so I just wrote it up as a "unique and mysterious quality."
My article won an award. I named Tim as co-author for the first time ever. Lazy or not, I couldn't have gotten it done without him.
"Where are we going now?" said Tim as we climbed into my car.
"To cover a beauty pageant," I replied.
"We're almost there," I said, hoping to wake him up a little and maybe inspire him to get his camera ready.
"Mmph," he said. Tim always said "mmph". It must have meant something on the planet he came from, I chuckled silently to myself.
Two merry guards talked briskly at the gate and asked to see my pass. One frowned at the other and said something in his ear.
"Mr. Gruffy said I had permission to do a story on this place," I explained, hoping they would remember and not bar me from entering.
"Gruffy, the owner of the Daily Satellite," Tim put in. They looked him over carefully and nodded to one another in approval. The gates swung wide, and I drove on through.
"Wonder why they were questioning me. Thought we had this all set up."
"Easy," croaked Tim. "You're not ugly enough."
I had decided not to wear makeup, and instead of fixing my hair I had just tied it in a lazy ponytail. I had dressed in my oldest clothes for the occasion, but I guessed that it hadn't done enough good.
Tents and campers lined up for many aisles. Everyone was out milling around, talking and laughing, playing games, eating refreshments, and watching me park with critical eyes. I strode right up to one man who seemed particularly good at lawn bowling and opened my notebook.
"What's is it you like best about this convention?" I asked. "I'm Laney Brown from the Daily Satellite," I added with a smile.
The man frowned a bit. "I liked it just fine until you showed up," he said. I turned and walked away to find another person to interview. A senior citizen was walking her dog, so I pulled a treat biscuit from the pocket of my coat (an old trick I had learned for getting dog owners to talk), and introduced myself. Tim followed, camera in hand, typical lazy attitude afoot.
"Hello, I'm Laney Brown..." I began.
The woman picked up her dog, went into her camper, and slammed the door shut.
I went for a walk and looked around. Everyone here was definitely in the lowest 2% of the population as regarded external looks, but none of them seemed to care too much about it. They were a community of ugliness, but at the same time many of them seemed to be hard working, clean, friendly, and intelligent. Farmers with holes in their gloves waved at Tim as we went by. Broad shouldered, sensible women were chatting about sewing and cooking. Dog owners were petting their dogs and comparing notes on breeding and nutrition. Everyone had something to do, and no one saw his or her life as useless. I put all this in my notebook as I walked. Then I thought of something.
"Tim, these people seem to like you better than me. It must be your friendly appearance."
"You're not fooling me, Laney. I know why they like me better," he said with a pout.
"No one's going to talk to me," I insisted, "so maybe you can get them to talk. Especially if I take the camera and hide behind it so they can't see my face. See?" I held up the camera as a mask and smiled.
"Yeah," said Tim, swallowing the last of his coffee and stowing the cup in his shoulder bag. "Okay, what do you want me to ask them?"
"Here's the list of questions Mr. Gruffy gave me." I handed over my list and notebook.
We got several fine interviews that day, and I witnessed a depth of humanity that I personally will not forget. It seemed that when society had thrown them out, they took each other in. When no one met their need for comfort and friendship, they were there for each other instead. The rejects in turn rejected those who rejected them. The doors that got slammed in my face made me wonder how many had been slammed in theirs. Inner beauty and wisdom were prized by those who couldn't win the game of good looks. I envied them, although I knew that I didn't particularly want to change places. They had something automatically given to them that the rest of us had to work harder for: that something escaped my attempts to name it, so I just wrote it up as a "unique and mysterious quality."
My article won an award. I named Tim as co-author for the first time ever. Lazy or not, I couldn't have gotten it done without him.
"Where are we going now?" said Tim as we climbed into my car.
"To cover a beauty pageant," I replied.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
The Unscripted Script
"I can..."
The stage echoed.
"I can..."
The director and assistants watched from the front row.
"I..."
The dark, empty theater waited.
"Well, Cecil?" said the director.
The young actor threw his hat on the floor and stomped defiantly.
"Who wrote this script?" he demanded. "It's ridiculous!"
"Many scripts are," the director assured him.
"Find me one that isn't!" he snapped.
If he hadn't been blessed with unnatural good looks he might not have said that. The fact was that in a town of 1,800 Cecil Drifter was the only man for the job, and Cliff knew it.
"Be reasonable," said Cliff. "No one could do this play as well as you."
"No one would want to," replied his employee.
"Okay, fine," said Clifford in an easy tone. "Let it go. Let the whole town miss the production. Theater and art aren't so important, right?"
"Of course they're important!" thundered Cecil. "My kid sister's in the ballet, my big brother's paintings are on half the walls in town, and my mom teaches sculpting. Art's in my blood whether I like it or not."
"And drama is an art, right?"
"An art. A fine, precise art. A delicate rose."
"And does this not include comedy? That which produces laughter and great happiness?"
Cecil's arms hung loose and limp at his sides in surrender.
"Yes," he sighed.
"Then please read the script. I promise this will be the last rehearsal. Next Friday's for real."
Cecil shifted his feet to a more steady stance, blinked twice, took a deep breath, and resolutely spoke.
"I can just taste that blackberry pie right now!"
Instantaneously a large pie splattered his countenance. The assistant cheered his own good aim, and all broke out in smiles.
"Thank you, Mr. Drifter."
A muffled mouth of berries managed, "You're welcome," and with a great sweeping distinction, he bowed.
Friday night opened with a full house. Cecil's eyes twinkled extra brightly as he took the stage and winked at the assistant director, who winked back.
The curtain rose, the audience clapped, and the play commenced. There were many good punchlines, and Cecil delivered them all with skill. He interacted naturally with the cast, and when the final act arose he stood tall with pride, eyes still twinkling, wearing a handsome grin.
"Well, boys, it's time we headed home. Auntie Jo said she was going to bake today."
Cecil glanced downward. Just as planned, the chairs on either side of their beloved director were empty. He continued.
"Cliff can just taste blackberry pie right now!"
......................................................................
Clifford, now drenched in pie, joined the cast up on the stage. With half the town on Cecil's side there was but one thing to do: play along. He scraped a glob of fruit from above his ear and plastered it against Cecil's forehead. Cecil laughed.
Auntie Jo bounced heavily across the floor boards and set five more pies on the table. Both men's eyes gleamed. As one they rushed for the stack. The curtain slowly lowered on the trembling stage, awash in flying purple pies. The comedy's new ending brought loud cheers and uncontrollable laughter from the crowd, who vowed to return and see it again next season. Seven cast members later headed for the dressing room, warm with laughter and covered in purple splotches.
In time Cecil did get to do more than comedy, and in time bigger companies offered him roles. Cliff stayed with the small town theater until he passed away, and though no one could replace him several kept his shows alive for younger generations to enjoy.
Oh, and one more thing: Cliff wrote that script.
The stage echoed.
"I can..."
The director and assistants watched from the front row.
"I..."
The dark, empty theater waited.
"Well, Cecil?" said the director.
The young actor threw his hat on the floor and stomped defiantly.
"Who wrote this script?" he demanded. "It's ridiculous!"
"Many scripts are," the director assured him.
"Find me one that isn't!" he snapped.
If he hadn't been blessed with unnatural good looks he might not have said that. The fact was that in a town of 1,800 Cecil Drifter was the only man for the job, and Cliff knew it.
"Be reasonable," said Cliff. "No one could do this play as well as you."
"No one would want to," replied his employee.
"Okay, fine," said Clifford in an easy tone. "Let it go. Let the whole town miss the production. Theater and art aren't so important, right?"
"Of course they're important!" thundered Cecil. "My kid sister's in the ballet, my big brother's paintings are on half the walls in town, and my mom teaches sculpting. Art's in my blood whether I like it or not."
"And drama is an art, right?"
"An art. A fine, precise art. A delicate rose."
"And does this not include comedy? That which produces laughter and great happiness?"
Cecil's arms hung loose and limp at his sides in surrender.
"Yes," he sighed.
"Then please read the script. I promise this will be the last rehearsal. Next Friday's for real."
Cecil shifted his feet to a more steady stance, blinked twice, took a deep breath, and resolutely spoke.
"I can just taste that blackberry pie right now!"
Instantaneously a large pie splattered his countenance. The assistant cheered his own good aim, and all broke out in smiles.
"Thank you, Mr. Drifter."
A muffled mouth of berries managed, "You're welcome," and with a great sweeping distinction, he bowed.
Friday night opened with a full house. Cecil's eyes twinkled extra brightly as he took the stage and winked at the assistant director, who winked back.
The curtain rose, the audience clapped, and the play commenced. There were many good punchlines, and Cecil delivered them all with skill. He interacted naturally with the cast, and when the final act arose he stood tall with pride, eyes still twinkling, wearing a handsome grin.
"Well, boys, it's time we headed home. Auntie Jo said she was going to bake today."
Cecil glanced downward. Just as planned, the chairs on either side of their beloved director were empty. He continued.
"Cliff can just taste blackberry pie right now!"
......................................................................
Clifford, now drenched in pie, joined the cast up on the stage. With half the town on Cecil's side there was but one thing to do: play along. He scraped a glob of fruit from above his ear and plastered it against Cecil's forehead. Cecil laughed.
Auntie Jo bounced heavily across the floor boards and set five more pies on the table. Both men's eyes gleamed. As one they rushed for the stack. The curtain slowly lowered on the trembling stage, awash in flying purple pies. The comedy's new ending brought loud cheers and uncontrollable laughter from the crowd, who vowed to return and see it again next season. Seven cast members later headed for the dressing room, warm with laughter and covered in purple splotches.
In time Cecil did get to do more than comedy, and in time bigger companies offered him roles. Cliff stayed with the small town theater until he passed away, and though no one could replace him several kept his shows alive for younger generations to enjoy.
Oh, and one more thing: Cliff wrote that script.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Jinx
"Don't make him mad," she whispered.
"Why not?" I said. "I'm not afraid of him."
"It's not him," she continued softly. "It's things."
"Things?" I said, getting louder. "What sorts of things?"
"Shh!" she cautioned, glancing back at Werner, who was busy busing tables.
"What do you mean?" I insisted, more hushed.
"Things will happen to you if you make him mad," she said.
A bucket splashed dingy gray slop water all over the entrance. I turned just in time to see Werner stepping clumsily away, his leg soaked to the knee.
"Werner!" I said. Annette grabbed my elbow in begging restraint, but I shook her off.
"Now look," I continued, marching in his direction. "I'm not going to fire you on my first day as manager, but we can't have the patrons slipping. Clean that up!"
Werner nodded, mouth open, and began hurriedly throwing large amounts of the customers' supply of napkins into the pine scented wash water, which did nothing to remove the spill and wasted the napkins.
"Werner!" I said sharply.
"Shh!" pleaded Annette.
"Werner," I continued more evenly, "please go get the super absorbent disposable mop kit from the supply closet. Do not ever waste napkins."
Werner slowly shuffled to the closet, leaving a trail of wet footprints all the way.
"Werner!" I hollered after him.
"Shh!" warned Annette.
"Annette, what's he going to do? Quit? Why should I be afraid of that?"
"No, he never quits."
"Why shouldn't I show him how to be a more efficient employee? What harm is in a little scolding now and then?"
"He doesn't mean to," she said.
"Doesn't mean to what?" I insisted.
Werner returned with an armload of supplies in his same slow deliberate gait. He passed me without a word and began mopping up the floor, this time correctly.
"See?" I said to Annette. "He's making himself useful. He doesn't appear angry in the least, and it's getting done."
I turned confidently toward the grill. The scent of warm, inviting food was still fresh in my mind when I saw stars upon stars eminating from a central focal point. I landed on the floor in a sitting position and held my head, too breathless to speak.
"Ms. Flare, Ms. Flare!" said several employees.
"What happened?" I mumbled incoherently. I looked beside me and realized that a ceiling fan is really quite ornate, especially when there are stars dancing upon the blades. I also realized it had fallen on the floor amid a crumble of ceiling pieces.
Next morning I was back at work with a head bandage peeking out from under my visor. Everyone went about business as usual, including Werner. He seemed to bear no ill grudge for yesterday's incident, but neither did he seem to have learned anything. When he knocked over a customer's drink with his sleeve, he immediately piled napkins in the mess and wasted them. He also ignored the customer--policy was to replace the drink.
"Werner!" I said sternly. "Go apologize and offer to replace what you spilled."
He shuffled to the table and proceeded to speak in a thick but distinct voice.
"I'm sorry your drink got in my way."
"Werner!" I shouted. I smiled appeasingly at the very large unhappy man and his hungry family.
"I'm sorry," I said to them. "New employees don't understand things. I'm going to replace your drink with the same thing but in a larger size, on the house."
I turned to Werner.
"Go get the mop kit!"
The family continued eating until at some point Werner poked one of the children in the eye with the mop handle, resulting in a black eye. Our insurance costs would be going up.
"I'll fire him!" I roared from the break room.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Marie, another good worker who was freshening her hair and makeup at a small corner mirror.
"Why not?" I asked.
As if in answer the mirror fell off the wall. I rushed to catch it, did so, and hung it back on the peg.
"He's a jinx," she said, "The real thing."
"There's no such thing," I laughed.
"That bump on your head would say otherwise," she warned.
"This is serious," I said soberly. "There are no jinxes."
................................................................................................
"What is it that makes him that way, Dr. Travis?"
"Some people were born with mental wavelengths that we don't yet fully understand. They have used them accidentally, but some have learned how to direct them, how to focus them. These are the people who pose the greatest threat."
"And Werner?"
"No. He doesn't know how. I am convinced he is benevolent. But somewhere inside him is a deep residual rage. Contact this, and his talent awakens. Make him angry, and it will point in your specific direction. I don't think it is something he can help, or even knows about. But it is real, and you're going to have to find ways to deal with it."
I sighed, picked up my crutch, and went back to work.
"Why not?" I said. "I'm not afraid of him."
"It's not him," she continued softly. "It's things."
"Things?" I said, getting louder. "What sorts of things?"
"Shh!" she cautioned, glancing back at Werner, who was busy busing tables.
"What do you mean?" I insisted, more hushed.
"Things will happen to you if you make him mad," she said.
A bucket splashed dingy gray slop water all over the entrance. I turned just in time to see Werner stepping clumsily away, his leg soaked to the knee.
"Werner!" I said. Annette grabbed my elbow in begging restraint, but I shook her off.
"Now look," I continued, marching in his direction. "I'm not going to fire you on my first day as manager, but we can't have the patrons slipping. Clean that up!"
Werner nodded, mouth open, and began hurriedly throwing large amounts of the customers' supply of napkins into the pine scented wash water, which did nothing to remove the spill and wasted the napkins.
"Werner!" I said sharply.
"Shh!" pleaded Annette.
"Werner," I continued more evenly, "please go get the super absorbent disposable mop kit from the supply closet. Do not ever waste napkins."
Werner slowly shuffled to the closet, leaving a trail of wet footprints all the way.
"Werner!" I hollered after him.
"Shh!" warned Annette.
"Annette, what's he going to do? Quit? Why should I be afraid of that?"
"No, he never quits."
"Why shouldn't I show him how to be a more efficient employee? What harm is in a little scolding now and then?"
"He doesn't mean to," she said.
"Doesn't mean to what?" I insisted.
Werner returned with an armload of supplies in his same slow deliberate gait. He passed me without a word and began mopping up the floor, this time correctly.
"See?" I said to Annette. "He's making himself useful. He doesn't appear angry in the least, and it's getting done."
I turned confidently toward the grill. The scent of warm, inviting food was still fresh in my mind when I saw stars upon stars eminating from a central focal point. I landed on the floor in a sitting position and held my head, too breathless to speak.
"Ms. Flare, Ms. Flare!" said several employees.
"What happened?" I mumbled incoherently. I looked beside me and realized that a ceiling fan is really quite ornate, especially when there are stars dancing upon the blades. I also realized it had fallen on the floor amid a crumble of ceiling pieces.
Next morning I was back at work with a head bandage peeking out from under my visor. Everyone went about business as usual, including Werner. He seemed to bear no ill grudge for yesterday's incident, but neither did he seem to have learned anything. When he knocked over a customer's drink with his sleeve, he immediately piled napkins in the mess and wasted them. He also ignored the customer--policy was to replace the drink.
"Werner!" I said sternly. "Go apologize and offer to replace what you spilled."
He shuffled to the table and proceeded to speak in a thick but distinct voice.
"I'm sorry your drink got in my way."
"Werner!" I shouted. I smiled appeasingly at the very large unhappy man and his hungry family.
"I'm sorry," I said to them. "New employees don't understand things. I'm going to replace your drink with the same thing but in a larger size, on the house."
I turned to Werner.
"Go get the mop kit!"
The family continued eating until at some point Werner poked one of the children in the eye with the mop handle, resulting in a black eye. Our insurance costs would be going up.
"I'll fire him!" I roared from the break room.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Marie, another good worker who was freshening her hair and makeup at a small corner mirror.
"Why not?" I asked.
As if in answer the mirror fell off the wall. I rushed to catch it, did so, and hung it back on the peg.
"He's a jinx," she said, "The real thing."
"There's no such thing," I laughed.
"That bump on your head would say otherwise," she warned.
"This is serious," I said soberly. "There are no jinxes."
................................................................................................
"What is it that makes him that way, Dr. Travis?"
"Some people were born with mental wavelengths that we don't yet fully understand. They have used them accidentally, but some have learned how to direct them, how to focus them. These are the people who pose the greatest threat."
"And Werner?"
"No. He doesn't know how. I am convinced he is benevolent. But somewhere inside him is a deep residual rage. Contact this, and his talent awakens. Make him angry, and it will point in your specific direction. I don't think it is something he can help, or even knows about. But it is real, and you're going to have to find ways to deal with it."
I sighed, picked up my crutch, and went back to work.
Miss Lacey's Good Sandwiches
Her peanut butter was never dry. Her bologna and cheese was perfect. Her ham, with pickles and mustard, was famous. There was no sandwich that passed her butter knife without her complete attention, nor was there a recipient of such work that did not appreciate her talent.
Parties called her for a tray,
Weddings had her in their plans.
No one let her get away
Without introduction.
Beef tenderloin was the central topic, and all adored her delicate handling thereof.
Many were fed by her unrivaled skill,
Ranch and cold chicken rejoiced at her touch.
Long were the orders she scrambled to fill,
While crowds gathered where there were rumors of lunch.
In time she was noticed by famed Big Bucks Bill,
Who tried in his time every marvel to buy.
He told of a restaurant he wanted to build,
But when he asked Lacey, his quest was denied.
He flaunted his money in large waving fans
But still Lacey's gifts were for little or free.
If anyone asked for more food than she'd planned,
She'd offset the cost with a nominal fee.
And so she continued, the talk of the town,
Until she expired at age 93.
And still ever after for miles around,
They talk of Miss Lacey, the legendary.
Parties called her for a tray,
Weddings had her in their plans.
No one let her get away
Without introduction.
Beef tenderloin was the central topic, and all adored her delicate handling thereof.
Many were fed by her unrivaled skill,
Ranch and cold chicken rejoiced at her touch.
Long were the orders she scrambled to fill,
While crowds gathered where there were rumors of lunch.
In time she was noticed by famed Big Bucks Bill,
Who tried in his time every marvel to buy.
He told of a restaurant he wanted to build,
But when he asked Lacey, his quest was denied.
He flaunted his money in large waving fans
But still Lacey's gifts were for little or free.
If anyone asked for more food than she'd planned,
She'd offset the cost with a nominal fee.
And so she continued, the talk of the town,
Until she expired at age 93.
And still ever after for miles around,
They talk of Miss Lacey, the legendary.
Friday, August 21, 2009
The Incredible Power of Soap
It was neither storming nor sunny when the wide wheeled jeep rolled around the dusty corner and into the unmarked driveway. Grass patches stubbornly claimed their territory despite being driven on, and the inhabitants of the jeep didn't bother to tell them otherwise. Chickens roamed about behind a fence that kept them more or less behind the house, although an occasional escape went unnoticed by all except the neighbor's dog.
A flabby, slovenly woman emerged. Her jeans were torn, and her feet were black with grime atop her minimal foam shoes. Her over sized shirt besmirched with food completed the ensemble, and her short, greasy hair hung in clumps atop a pimpled and unwashed face.
She waddled lazily to the porch, followed by two overweight and very dirty children. Her grocery bags were full of airy new packages of sweetened, flavored, oil-soaked chips upon which they would all feed for the rest of the afternoon.
The cluttered house gave one the feeling of being in a pack rat's den. Crooked window hangings, caked with dust, let in a small amount of daylight, and the dim glow of the television allowed them to see what they were eating.
A knock at the door brought one of the children to see whom it could be, for her laziness did not yet outweigh her sense of curiosity.
A saleswoman, brightly dressed, stood beaming a smile through freshly applied red lipstick.
"Would you like a sample?" said the lady.
"Who is it?" bellowed the woman on the couch.
"A pretty lady," said the girl.
"What does she want?" grunted the woman.
"What do you want?" echoed the girl.
A look of extreme compassion washed across the saleswoman's face.
"I'll be right back," she said.
She disappeared to her car for a moment, then returned with a heavy looking paper bag.
"Here," she said, handing it to the girl. "You can tell me how you like these the next time I come."
The young girl closed the door and began to peek inside the bag.
"What did she want?" repeated her mother, not looking up from the talk show.
"She left," said the girl. "She wanted to sell perfume."
"Ain't got money for it," grunted the woman, who filled her mouth full of chips beside her son who did the same.
The girl looked in the bag and tip toed to her room. There was a bar of soap, a small bottle of shampoo, some powder makeup, and some earrings. She carefully placed them in the corner of her top dresser drawer and covered the bundle with a wrinkled handkerchief.
The next school day the girl held her head up high. She was still overweight, but her whole outlook had changed. She was clean for once, cleaner than she'd ever been in her life, and it felt good. She made her mind up then and there: she would grow up to be like that pretty lady.
She began to try harder at some of her school studies, and found that she really was smarter than she'd formerly realized. Her grades were noticeably higher--noticeable by colleges who scouted scholars.
She left her mom and brother when she turned eighteen and rented a small apartment, which she kept clean--not pristine or spotless, but clean. Her weight problem was never perfect, but it did go down several sizes. She stayed busy and got several job offers when college was finished. The pretty lady kept in touch with her and they often exchanged short notes. Eventually she became involved with politics and ran successfully for a local position several times.
She never married, although she'd turned down a few dates. In a joint project the pretty lady and she raised a large sum for medical research.
She felt fulfilled in life, useful, a valued community member; and when she retired, she often visited houses in poor districts at Christmas time, bringing gift baskets composed of shampoo, bath oils, and soap.
A flabby, slovenly woman emerged. Her jeans were torn, and her feet were black with grime atop her minimal foam shoes. Her over sized shirt besmirched with food completed the ensemble, and her short, greasy hair hung in clumps atop a pimpled and unwashed face.
She waddled lazily to the porch, followed by two overweight and very dirty children. Her grocery bags were full of airy new packages of sweetened, flavored, oil-soaked chips upon which they would all feed for the rest of the afternoon.
The cluttered house gave one the feeling of being in a pack rat's den. Crooked window hangings, caked with dust, let in a small amount of daylight, and the dim glow of the television allowed them to see what they were eating.
A knock at the door brought one of the children to see whom it could be, for her laziness did not yet outweigh her sense of curiosity.
A saleswoman, brightly dressed, stood beaming a smile through freshly applied red lipstick.
"Would you like a sample?" said the lady.
"Who is it?" bellowed the woman on the couch.
"A pretty lady," said the girl.
"What does she want?" grunted the woman.
"What do you want?" echoed the girl.
A look of extreme compassion washed across the saleswoman's face.
"I'll be right back," she said.
She disappeared to her car for a moment, then returned with a heavy looking paper bag.
"Here," she said, handing it to the girl. "You can tell me how you like these the next time I come."
The young girl closed the door and began to peek inside the bag.
"What did she want?" repeated her mother, not looking up from the talk show.
"She left," said the girl. "She wanted to sell perfume."
"Ain't got money for it," grunted the woman, who filled her mouth full of chips beside her son who did the same.
The girl looked in the bag and tip toed to her room. There was a bar of soap, a small bottle of shampoo, some powder makeup, and some earrings. She carefully placed them in the corner of her top dresser drawer and covered the bundle with a wrinkled handkerchief.
The next school day the girl held her head up high. She was still overweight, but her whole outlook had changed. She was clean for once, cleaner than she'd ever been in her life, and it felt good. She made her mind up then and there: she would grow up to be like that pretty lady.
She began to try harder at some of her school studies, and found that she really was smarter than she'd formerly realized. Her grades were noticeably higher--noticeable by colleges who scouted scholars.
She left her mom and brother when she turned eighteen and rented a small apartment, which she kept clean--not pristine or spotless, but clean. Her weight problem was never perfect, but it did go down several sizes. She stayed busy and got several job offers when college was finished. The pretty lady kept in touch with her and they often exchanged short notes. Eventually she became involved with politics and ran successfully for a local position several times.
She never married, although she'd turned down a few dates. In a joint project the pretty lady and she raised a large sum for medical research.
She felt fulfilled in life, useful, a valued community member; and when she retired, she often visited houses in poor districts at Christmas time, bringing gift baskets composed of shampoo, bath oils, and soap.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Stubby Pony
The others all rushed ahead, looking back at her with gloating. Sara cantered quietly on her fat, ungainly pony. She was not that far behind, and couldn't figure what they had to gloat about. She had not tried to be first, furthermore did not want to be first. Being first must be fought for with undignified pushing. By contrast, the last one in the group could take more time to notice things.
Cinderella could not help that she had a broad build and short, stubby legs. She was a reliable horse full of good sense, and that was all Sara cared about.
Their daily group rides were always the same: rich kids on fast, long-legged horses fought each other for the lead. The trail was crowded near the front, sparse at the rear. Sara and Cinderella paused to nibble berries and clover (respectively), still able to catch up with ease.
Pretty soon the rich kids began noticing Sara's complete antipathy toward them. They began calling her names and insulting her pony, sometimes even slowing down to make sure she could hear them. Sara, however, was gifted. She could tune them out completely or act like their words never registered. Her mind was so full of flowers and meanderings that she had no room for their boring words.
One day someone threw a rock at her horse. It bounced off the hindquarters, but the reliable pony only sidestepped a little and continued.
Several now began to bedeck their steeds in rhinestone breast collars and embroidered saddle blankets, but Sara still paid them no mind. She rode with the group, happy in their company though excluded from their highest circles.
Kids that were not able to be first or had tried and failed at it began keeping their ponies with Sara. She didn't like crowds but understood why they did this. It was too beautiful to ignore the sunlight on the leaves, which could be glimpsed but not soaked in when one goes fast.
The rich kids could not make her jealous on any level; she simply did not want what they had. They could make her sad, lonely, or hurt, but they could never force Sara to be truly and genuinely envious.
After several weeks most of them slowed down. The few that hogged the front no longer had to fight for it. The last place was now coveted, and some started arguing about who would get to ride there.
Sara moved her horse to the middle. It was quieter. The stops for clover came less often, but it was a small price to pay for breathing space.
I could say that one day all the flighty ponies scampered, throwing their riders. I could say that the avalanche of baseball sized rocks left several on the ground, and that the remaining riders, including Sara, went for help. I could say her patience, which seeped into everyone else, made her and others into heroes.
I could say it, but modesty forbids.
Cinderella could not help that she had a broad build and short, stubby legs. She was a reliable horse full of good sense, and that was all Sara cared about.
Their daily group rides were always the same: rich kids on fast, long-legged horses fought each other for the lead. The trail was crowded near the front, sparse at the rear. Sara and Cinderella paused to nibble berries and clover (respectively), still able to catch up with ease.
Pretty soon the rich kids began noticing Sara's complete antipathy toward them. They began calling her names and insulting her pony, sometimes even slowing down to make sure she could hear them. Sara, however, was gifted. She could tune them out completely or act like their words never registered. Her mind was so full of flowers and meanderings that she had no room for their boring words.
One day someone threw a rock at her horse. It bounced off the hindquarters, but the reliable pony only sidestepped a little and continued.
Several now began to bedeck their steeds in rhinestone breast collars and embroidered saddle blankets, but Sara still paid them no mind. She rode with the group, happy in their company though excluded from their highest circles.
Kids that were not able to be first or had tried and failed at it began keeping their ponies with Sara. She didn't like crowds but understood why they did this. It was too beautiful to ignore the sunlight on the leaves, which could be glimpsed but not soaked in when one goes fast.
The rich kids could not make her jealous on any level; she simply did not want what they had. They could make her sad, lonely, or hurt, but they could never force Sara to be truly and genuinely envious.
After several weeks most of them slowed down. The few that hogged the front no longer had to fight for it. The last place was now coveted, and some started arguing about who would get to ride there.
Sara moved her horse to the middle. It was quieter. The stops for clover came less often, but it was a small price to pay for breathing space.
I could say that one day all the flighty ponies scampered, throwing their riders. I could say that the avalanche of baseball sized rocks left several on the ground, and that the remaining riders, including Sara, went for help. I could say her patience, which seeped into everyone else, made her and others into heroes.
I could say it, but modesty forbids.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Reevari Run
"The eyes of a reevar are drawn to light. They cannot look away."
The sage's words replayed themselves inside his head. He threw the ball down the hill--the one that blinked each time it bounced--and prayed that the reevar would look away for just one second.
It did--his only opening. His sword swung whistling through the air.
It missed.
Tentacles grabbed him by the leg and dragged him toward an open mouth of humongous teeth. The horrible smell of its breath made him start to vomit. It paused, curious as to this never-before-seen behavior. It admired him, turning him every which way and suspending him to see if he would do it again. He did.
The creature made a sound that was half like a warble and half gurgle. It set him on the ground again and patted him on the head with one clumsy limb, then left abruptly.
It was gone. He tried his best to survey the valley and see if the way he'd come (now buried in loose shale) could be unblocked. He dug away several loose pieces and with some persistence made the path usable. So much for reward money, he thought. If only he weren't so desperate to pay the doctor bills for his best friend's ailing father.
The ground rumbled. One, two, five, ten...fifteen reevari were following the first one! They were coming straight at him! He made a desperate dash up the newly cleared exit but was caught by the leg.
All of them sat down in unmonsterly order and formed an audience while the first reevar shook him and gurgled.
"Put me down, please!" he said.
Sixteen reevari roared disapprovingly. The first reevar shook him again and warbled.
"I can't do it again," he explained. "My stomach's empty."
More shaking followed. The audience was getting restless, and some were opening and closing their circular hungry mouths.
He hated to do it, but he reached for the only comfort he felt he had left: cigarettes. He'd been trying to quit. He lit one up, difficult while up-side-down, and began puffing greedily on what might very well be his last.
"Oooh," the reevari warbled. The first reevar put him down and gargled proudly, taking credit for the wonderful display.
He got an idea. Quickly he pulled the somewhat crushed remainders from his pockets, lit them all at once, and passed them out to the reevari, who, imitating him, puffed on them heartily to see the ends light up like coals. The smoke made them cough, but their fervor for light was indomitable and drove them to keep at it. When the ends burned down to the filters they promptly ate them. Then all the reevari curled up for a nap, snoring loudly, and our hero crept away.
The sage's words replayed themselves inside his head. He threw the ball down the hill--the one that blinked each time it bounced--and prayed that the reevar would look away for just one second.
It did--his only opening. His sword swung whistling through the air.
It missed.
Tentacles grabbed him by the leg and dragged him toward an open mouth of humongous teeth. The horrible smell of its breath made him start to vomit. It paused, curious as to this never-before-seen behavior. It admired him, turning him every which way and suspending him to see if he would do it again. He did.
The creature made a sound that was half like a warble and half gurgle. It set him on the ground again and patted him on the head with one clumsy limb, then left abruptly.
It was gone. He tried his best to survey the valley and see if the way he'd come (now buried in loose shale) could be unblocked. He dug away several loose pieces and with some persistence made the path usable. So much for reward money, he thought. If only he weren't so desperate to pay the doctor bills for his best friend's ailing father.
The ground rumbled. One, two, five, ten...fifteen reevari were following the first one! They were coming straight at him! He made a desperate dash up the newly cleared exit but was caught by the leg.
All of them sat down in unmonsterly order and formed an audience while the first reevar shook him and gurgled.
"Put me down, please!" he said.
Sixteen reevari roared disapprovingly. The first reevar shook him again and warbled.
"I can't do it again," he explained. "My stomach's empty."
More shaking followed. The audience was getting restless, and some were opening and closing their circular hungry mouths.
He hated to do it, but he reached for the only comfort he felt he had left: cigarettes. He'd been trying to quit. He lit one up, difficult while up-side-down, and began puffing greedily on what might very well be his last.
"Oooh," the reevari warbled. The first reevar put him down and gargled proudly, taking credit for the wonderful display.
He got an idea. Quickly he pulled the somewhat crushed remainders from his pockets, lit them all at once, and passed them out to the reevari, who, imitating him, puffed on them heartily to see the ends light up like coals. The smoke made them cough, but their fervor for light was indomitable and drove them to keep at it. When the ends burned down to the filters they promptly ate them. Then all the reevari curled up for a nap, snoring loudly, and our hero crept away.
Monday, May 18, 2009
White Wings, Part 2
In several jumps over ramps his feet were more than a meter off the ground, so that you could swear he was flying. He descended in a delicate arch and landed lightly on the tips of all four paws. His wings had grown till they were longer than he was, but he rarely opened them. When he did open them, it was usually a reaction to some sort of stimuli, such as being startled.
"I need to attach a jack-in-the-box to your collar," I told him, "and open it by remote when you're in mid air." He cocked his head like he was trying to understand me.
About a week later I found him outside staring at something, his wings at full attention, tips pointing skyward. I approached with too much haste and not enough caution, for when I got close a cobra's head whisked past my leg, a near miss. Before I could unholster my weapon the great animal ripped its head off with one snarl, then looked at me and wagged his tail. Pleased with himself, he proceeded to destroy what was left of the snake by tossing and clawing it like a cat with a rubber mouse.
The next morning I could not find him. I looked everywhere. No one in the stone city ever stole anything, so that wasn't one of my worries. I went to the end of the flower garden and peered out as far as the eye could see. Sighing, I turned toward the house, then gasped. A large furry white surprise was sitting on my roof, watching me and panting.
"You get down from there!" I laughed. The great dog pawed at the edge of the roof and whined.
"If you can get up there, you can get down," I argued.
He answered with a saucy bark. I got an idea.
"Dinner!" I called loudly. He did not need dinner at mid morning, but if he'd only fly I'd feed him two dinners, just for today.
He got excited and started to bark. I slapped my thighs and whistled. The wings opened. I snapped my fingers and cupped my hands like I was holding a savory treat. He began to hop up and down near the guttered edge.
"C'mon," I urged.
He barked rapidly, turning in circles.
That evening as I scribbled in my personal journal I remarked in my notes how difficult it had been to get down a ladder while carrying a large, wiggly, energetic, hungry dog.
"I need to attach a jack-in-the-box to your collar," I told him, "and open it by remote when you're in mid air." He cocked his head like he was trying to understand me.
About a week later I found him outside staring at something, his wings at full attention, tips pointing skyward. I approached with too much haste and not enough caution, for when I got close a cobra's head whisked past my leg, a near miss. Before I could unholster my weapon the great animal ripped its head off with one snarl, then looked at me and wagged his tail. Pleased with himself, he proceeded to destroy what was left of the snake by tossing and clawing it like a cat with a rubber mouse.
The next morning I could not find him. I looked everywhere. No one in the stone city ever stole anything, so that wasn't one of my worries. I went to the end of the flower garden and peered out as far as the eye could see. Sighing, I turned toward the house, then gasped. A large furry white surprise was sitting on my roof, watching me and panting.
"You get down from there!" I laughed. The great dog pawed at the edge of the roof and whined.
"If you can get up there, you can get down," I argued.
He answered with a saucy bark. I got an idea.
"Dinner!" I called loudly. He did not need dinner at mid morning, but if he'd only fly I'd feed him two dinners, just for today.
He got excited and started to bark. I slapped my thighs and whistled. The wings opened. I snapped my fingers and cupped my hands like I was holding a savory treat. He began to hop up and down near the guttered edge.
"C'mon," I urged.
He barked rapidly, turning in circles.
That evening as I scribbled in my personal journal I remarked in my notes how difficult it had been to get down a ladder while carrying a large, wiggly, energetic, hungry dog.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The White Wings
"Shh! Follow me!"
He seemed to think he knew something interesting. Slight of frame as he was (and also of stature), he had no trouble slipping into the cave's entrance.
Not far along the passage the cavern widened slightly. Soft leaves and dried grass formed a sort of nest in a hollow tucked against a wall of cool, smooth rock. A sleeping heap of white fur turned out to be five adorable puppies. They were about the size of wolf cubs, but more resembled German shepherds. I lifted one out of the nest and examined it. To my surprise two small, soft, feathered white wings were attached to either side of its well muscled shoulders.
I returned it to the nest, but the man rattled off a series of unintelligible words and signed with his hands that I was to keep one. I guessed the extent of his English must have been a few key phrases, because whatever he was saying was very elaborate if I could only have understood it. I reached for my wallet and started to count out several large bills.
"No!" he said plainly, and again began rattling some very complicated phrases.
"You..." The man struggled to think. "...save...small...man," he said with great effort. "You..." He pointed to the dogs, and then to me, over and over again.
The little boy had fallen out of a ten story window in the ancient city of rock. Had I not been in the right place at the right time I wouldn't have broken his fall. As it was, we both tumbled to the ground and got concussions.
Ah, the cruelty of it! If I were to refuse his generosity, all the work would be undone. It had taken me five years to find the city, and it had been with great difficulty that I had won over the trust of its inhabitants. But now, if I accepted this puppy, this oddity, I knew that I could never go back to the "normal" world, for the dog and I were sure to become inseparable, and the people of my world would hound me endlessly for his oddness, trying to steal the dog, or his picture, or my time.
It really was a simple choice: commit to this world and stay forever, or lose my chance to learn about a place most thought did not exist.
Hiding my reluctance with a grateful smile, I scooped up an armful of fur and wings. The creature began snuffling my chin with kisses.
With a low bow, the little man led me out of the cave, and I began mentally making a checklist: dog food, bed, leash, shots...
He seemed to think he knew something interesting. Slight of frame as he was (and also of stature), he had no trouble slipping into the cave's entrance.
Not far along the passage the cavern widened slightly. Soft leaves and dried grass formed a sort of nest in a hollow tucked against a wall of cool, smooth rock. A sleeping heap of white fur turned out to be five adorable puppies. They were about the size of wolf cubs, but more resembled German shepherds. I lifted one out of the nest and examined it. To my surprise two small, soft, feathered white wings were attached to either side of its well muscled shoulders.
I returned it to the nest, but the man rattled off a series of unintelligible words and signed with his hands that I was to keep one. I guessed the extent of his English must have been a few key phrases, because whatever he was saying was very elaborate if I could only have understood it. I reached for my wallet and started to count out several large bills.
"No!" he said plainly, and again began rattling some very complicated phrases.
"You..." The man struggled to think. "...save...small...man," he said with great effort. "You..." He pointed to the dogs, and then to me, over and over again.
The little boy had fallen out of a ten story window in the ancient city of rock. Had I not been in the right place at the right time I wouldn't have broken his fall. As it was, we both tumbled to the ground and got concussions.
Ah, the cruelty of it! If I were to refuse his generosity, all the work would be undone. It had taken me five years to find the city, and it had been with great difficulty that I had won over the trust of its inhabitants. But now, if I accepted this puppy, this oddity, I knew that I could never go back to the "normal" world, for the dog and I were sure to become inseparable, and the people of my world would hound me endlessly for his oddness, trying to steal the dog, or his picture, or my time.
It really was a simple choice: commit to this world and stay forever, or lose my chance to learn about a place most thought did not exist.
Hiding my reluctance with a grateful smile, I scooped up an armful of fur and wings. The creature began snuffling my chin with kisses.
With a low bow, the little man led me out of the cave, and I began mentally making a checklist: dog food, bed, leash, shots...
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