THE MAGAZINE OF FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

NOVELLAS

THE REVIVALIST by Albert E. Cowdrey

SHAMBHALA by Alex Irvine

THE TRUE HISTORY OF THE PICKY PRINCESS by John Morressy

FROM THE MOUTHS OF BABES by Trent Hergenrader

THE CAPACITY TO APPEAR MINDLESS by Mike Shultz

CZESKO by Ef Deal

INTOLERANCE by Robert Reed

BOOKS TO LOOK FOR by Charles de Lint

BOOKS by Robert K.J. Killheffer

FILMS: A LABOR OF LOVE--AND THUMBS by Kathi Maio

COMING ATTRACTIONS

CURIOSITIES by Gregory J. Koster

CARTOONS: Tom Swick, Joseph Farris, Danny Shanahan.

COVER: "PAINFUL UPGRADE" by Mark Evans

GORDON VAN GELDER, Publisher/Editor

BARBARA J. NORTON, Assistant Publisher

ROBIN O'CONNOR, Assistant Editor

KEITH KAHLA, Assistant Publisher

HARLAN ELLISON, Film Editor

JOHN J. ADAMS, Assistant Editor

CAROL PINCHEFSKY, Contests Editor

JOHN M. CAPPELLO, Newsstand Circulation

The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (ISSN 1095-8258), Volume 110, No. 3, Whole No. 648, March 2006. Published monthly except for a combined October/November issue by Spilogale, Inc. at $3.99 per copy. Annual subscription $44.89; $54.89 outside of the U.S. Postmaster: send form 3579 to Fantasy & Science Fiction, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030. Publication office, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030. Periodical postage paid at Hoboken, NJ 07030, and at additional mailing offices. Printed in U.S.A. Copyright © 2006 by Spilogale, Inc. All rights reserved.

Distributed by Curtis Circulation Co., 730 River Rd. New Milford, NJ 07646

General and Editorial Office: PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030

www.fsfmag.com

Shambhala by Alex Irvine

Books To Look For by Charles De Lint

Books by Robert K.J. Killheffer

The True History of the Picky Princess by John Morressy

The Revivalist by Albert E. Cowdrey

From the Mouths of Babes by Trent Hergenrader

Films by Kathi Maio

The Capacity to Appear Mindless by Mike Shultz

Czesko by Ef Deal

Intolerance by Robert Reed

Coming Attractions

Fantasy&ScienceFiction MARKET PLACE

Curiosities

Talk to veteran sf readers and you're likely to get a good discussion (perhaps debate is a better word here) going on the subject of favorite stories written to accompany an already existing cover illustration. Roger Zelazny's "The Man Who Loved the Faoli" often comes up, as does Alfred Bester's "5,271,009," and more recently, Harlan Ellison's "Susan" or one of the other stories written to accompany Jacek Yerka's art in Mindfields.

Alex Irvine says that when he saw "Painful Upgrade" by Mark Evans (this month's cover illustration), it "sparked a little kernel of a story that had been rattling around for a while." We think you'll like the results.

A technician named Avogadro Pierre, monitoring dataflows in a certain part of the Virt, looks up from his takeout noodles and says, "Uh oh."

Shannon's foot hurts. It shouldn't, because she doesn't want it to and this isn't one of the PU spaces where you settle in advance on a list of permissible pains and inconveniences. She's in her house, in her space. The rugs are hers, the coffee brewing in the kitchen is Yirgacheffe. Out the window she can see Shambhala at the base of the mountains, and on the breeze she can smell her ocean. Everything feels exactly as it should, except for her foot, and the only explanation she can come up with is that she's been ported into a PU space and then maybe--but why would she do this?--had the record erased.

Just to make sure, she says, "Virt."

An Avirtar wafts into being and wags its tail. Usually she likes it when they look like dogs, but she changes this one into her Aunt Sara, because at this moment what Shannon is after is reliability.

"Virt," she says. "Am I in one of the PU spaces?"

"Sweetie, have you registered a list of permissible Personal Unpleasantnesses?" Aunt Sara asks. Remnant dog hairs cling to her sandals.

Shannon shakes her head.

"Then how could you be in a PU space?"

"Virt," Shannon says. "Just answer the question. Am I in a PU space?"

"Nope," Aunt Sara says. "Wait. Let me check."

There is a pause.

"Nope," Aunt Sara says. "Wait. Let me check."

There is a pause.

"Nope," Aunt Sara says. "Wait. Let me check."

What with all the status lights going yellow in what the Virtizens like to call the Great Brain of Meatspace (but don't ask him how he knows, because he'd lose his job if anyone knew he was communicating with the Virt), Mike Chancey is reminded of the birth of his son Abraham, who was premature and got jaundice so bad that for a while he looked kind of like a sweet potato. Abe Chancey is now a grown man--well, sort of. Man might not be the right word, since Abe woke up one morning a couple of years ago, decided he'd had enough gastric reflux and erectile dysfunction, and did what had already at that point become known as the Virt Squirt. The yellow lights take on an accusatory cast; Mike imagines that Abe has somehow jaundiced the Virt, turned it against him. The yellow lights glow with filial resentment.

There are tipping points, Mike Chancey thinks. There is the invisible point beyond which your son no longer loves you. There is the point beyond which you can't say with a straight face that you enjoy being alive. There is the point beyond which all of the wars and disasters and creeping entropy of addled ecosystems mean that as a civilization you're moving backward instead of forward. It doesn't happen all at once, not like flipping a switch; but you can look back when you're on the downhill slide, and you can see when it happened. Fate grants you that moment of knowledge and introspection on your way down.

On the Brain Board, red starts to replace the yellow.

Then the power goes out.

Arthritis? Plantar fasciitis? Bunions? All of these terms come to Shannon like random vocabulary from a language she hasn't spoken in decades. Limping on her sore foot, she starts asking around. In the Grounds for Excommunication coffeeshop, everyone complains of strange pains and inexplicable emotional disturbances. They look at her expectantly, and she admits her foot pain. This seems to satisfy them. All of a sudden one of them says, "I think I need to take a walk," and out he goes into the sunlight. When someone in the coffeeshop crowd notes that he's not casting a shadow, a murmur passes through them. What's going on here?

She goes outside to check, and sure enough, she's not casting a shadow either. But she's not transparent. Uh oh, she thinks. Errors have propagated before, but the Virt has always been resilient enough to layer over them before Virtizens know they exist--especially the natives, who aren't as quick to pick up on little quirks. Now several of the personae goggling at the missing shadows are natives, which is ominous. As is the fact of the missing shadows all by itself. A little shiver prickles Shannon's spine. Did she port over to a PU space and have the decision wiped? Only an Avirtar would know, and they're not very communicative at the moment.

The conclusion that presents itself is troubles in meatspace. Not supposed to happen, she thinks; the Virt is self-sustaining, the redundancies and robustness of Shambhala relentlessly trumpeted. That was why she decided to make the move, because people she trusted told her it was safe.

How much time has passed in the world? she wonders--and starts to call up the information, but then decides she doesn't want to know, even if the Virt is able to tell her.

Around her, she notices that people are starting to flow in a single direction, and the sight makes her feel like she ought to go that way too. Before she does, though, she thinks it might be a good idea to check in on things down there in the physical world. She walks in the opposite direction.

Mike Chancey is looking over his shoulder as he welds together the newest security shells he's built around his clandestine channel. Invincible, according to his phalanx of Nerds-in-excelsis, but recent events have made him mistrustful. He runs checks, realizes that he doesn't know enough about the nuts and bolts of his own system to interpret the results, and goes ahead.

"Abe," he says. "I don't know if you're listening, but there are problems here. It would help if you could let me know what you're seeing."

He waits, but his son does not answer. Mike is looking at losing his job for sure if his security isn't quite as bulletproof as he thinks it is, but while there may be good reasons for preventing any but essential communications between the Virt and the world, those reasons aren't good enough right now.

"Abe," he says. "Talk to me."

But Abe isn't talking, and it isn't smart to keep this channel open for very long. Mike walks the corridors of the office building he privately thinks of as the Brainpan, looking for Gautam, his Nerd-in-Chief. Gautam is in his office, head down on his desk, arms crossed over his head as if he's expecting an airstrike. "Gautam," Mike says. "Give it to me straight."

"It's too horrible," Gautam says.

"It's only going to get worse if you don't tell me."

Gautam looks up at Mike with the empty light of existential crisis in his eyes. "I kept it going," he says, "but the only way I could do it was to slow time waaay down in there. At least I think I did. Mike, I can't...." He buries his face again and speaks into his desktop.

Mike's heart goes out to him. Gautam has the worst case of Squirt Envy anybody in the Brainpan has ever seen, but he also suffers the misfortune of being a rare genius in exactly the right job for both his rarity and his genius. This is a misfortune because Gautam was brought up with a sense of obligation to his fellow human beings, which means that while he wants the Squirt more than anything in the world, he also believes that he owes it to humanity to sacrifice this desire in order to keep the Virt running for everyone else. So. It's a sad case. But right now Mike needs the optimally functional Gautam, not the despairing Gautam, so he says, "Gautam. Goddammit. What is going on?"

"They're ... it's all figurative, Mike," Gautam says without picking up his head. "The disruptions triggered some kind of self-defense reaction. The Virt couldn't run all of its ABCs in every case, so it went for, like, approximations, and then it jumped from there to some weird kind of emergent metaphorical shorthand. It's crazy. I don't get it. And whenever I try to pop diagnostics in there, I get personae coming out talking like William Blake or Rumi or somebody. All this visionary crap." A sound like a sob comes up from the desktop. "I just had a conversation with a persona who thought he was the prophet Elijah."

That can't be good, Mike thinks. "What did it say?"

"I think it was quoting from some Sufi text, I don't know, I lost track." Gautam looks up suddenly, as if a problem has occurred to him. He likes problems if the first step toward a solution is apparent. "You know what," he says. "I specced out something like this a long time ago."

"Is that right," Mike says.

"Yeah," Gautam says, and is suddenly glum again. "I was trying out an idea about using figuration, you know, to give Virtizens a common background, baseline cultural literacy, trying to code not just the facts but, you know, modes of thinking." Realizing that he's about to run beyond the boundaries of Mike's understanding, he reels himself back in. "But when I ran the sims, once that started to happen, this kind of death spiral occurs. The figuration gets more and more abstruse, more cognitive distance between vehicle and tenor, you know? Then nobody knows what anyone else is talking about."

Mike has understood every individual word, but he is not at all certain that he's followed the train of Gautam's thought. "Ah," he says.

"So it's weird," Gautam says. "You start out trying to give everyone a similar sort of cultural or ontological syntax, and the code pivots back on itself and everyone is in their own idios kosmos, totally cut off. No koinos kosmos."

"Gautam," Mike says. "I don't know any Hindi."

"I don't either," Gautam says. "Picked that up in a book somewhere, you know? And anyway, asshole, it's Greek. But it means that when each of the personae starts to customize itself, it branches off so much and with such big leaps that pretty soon they're all so far away from each other that they can't communicate anymore."

"And that's happening now?" Mike is thinking of Abe.

"No, I don't think so. But it's going to."

All of the Avirtars have gone crazy. Most of the dog ones are chasing their tails. Shannon can't even look at Aunt Sara, who has followed her all the way from her house, panting, "Let me check," with the pensive and disturbingly canine expression of a distracted idiot. Shannon goes looking for a newsstand, but they're all gone but one that erupts in a flood of letters that run away down the street at her approach. Left behind, by itself on the counter, is a broadsheet newspaper, alone on a low table and irregularly haloed by smeared and bloody handprints. She picks it up and from the texture guesses that today's edition of Meatspace News was printed from pretty good tenderloin.

The pages are blank.

And her foot is killing her, and something is wrong with her eyes, chimerical sparkles in her peripheral vision. The air is full of strange smells. She remembers reading, back when she was in college, that these sensations are often precursors to a stroke or epileptic seizure, neither of which would have been on any PU list she might have come up with. Epilepsy in Shambhala? A stroke?

"That's it," Shannon says. "I want out."

The Avirtars fall over into a collective faint. Now I've done it, Shannon thinks, and goes to the library, looking for the Squirt everyone calls Charon.

A Virt full of Squirts imprisoned in their own mutually incomprehensible languages. Probably, Mike Chancey thinks, it's some kind of karmic payback, since Shambhala is the cold-blooded capitalist shadow of a grand utopian ideal. Immortality! A life free of worldly pains and disappointments! Girls girls girls! Boys boys boys! The power of a million supercomputers, all in your head, and all forever! Except when it came time to get the thing off the ground, once it was possible every so often to render a working software approximation of a human mind, the dreamers ran afoul of the bean-counters. There was insurance to consider in the event of a failed Squirt; there was the question of market limitations, given the price of scanning and upload; there were legal questions about the status of Squirts, or posthumans, or personae, or virtual people, or whatever it was you were supposed to call them.

Thus Shambhala, the brainchild of an ALS-stricken devotee of Tibetan Buddhism turned real-estate tycoon whose fondest wish in life had been that Boulder, Colorado, could somehow be transplanted to the mid-California coast. He had the billion to get it started, and there were more than enough people with immense disposable income and equally immense disgust with their physical bodies to get it started (and thanks to Alvin Kuntz, they quickly added a number of other, ahem, quirky personalities). Someone even paid to scan and Squirt Ted Williams's frozen brain, giving Shambhala its first real celebrity, although the consensus was that the strokes made Williams a substandard raconteur. If it wasn't the limitless Virt imagined by futurists and visionaries at the turn of the century, well, the market would fix that soon enough as long as the technological infrastructure kept up its lightning evolution.

Some caveat there, Mike Chancey is thinking as he walks to a board meeting at which the sole agenda item is: red and yellow lights on the Brain Board, causes and remedies of. He could answer both questions in about ninety seconds--causes, widespread collapse of energy infrastructure and reluctance of bandwidth outsources to continue to be bandwidth outsources; remedies, dramatic downscaling including elimination of native personae and all spaces except the immediate environs of Shambhala--but if the meeting lasts less than three hours he'll devote his life to God.

The consensus around the table is that things are actually pretty good, power troubles notwithstanding and regional wars notwithstanding and general uncertainty regarding the viability of post-industrial civilization notwithstanding. No one has any interest in welcoming a flood of evacuees from the Virt, in addition to which the technological obstacles are formidable. Trouble is, the question of whether Squirts are human has been tied up in the courts for five years now, and simply pulling the plug on the whole thing would cause intolerable legal exposure (although a voice from Finance pipes up that settling claims might be roughly equivalent in cost to the bandwidth upgrades proposed by the Nerds-in-excelsis; he is ordered to work the numbers again and report back). There is talk of building brains from pre-Squirt records, but it is objected that this will result in the loss of whatever personality changes occurred during a given subject's time in the Virt, and that loss is considered undesirable. There is talk of isolating a personality in a corner of the Virt, trapping it if you will, which has unsavory connotations but would only cause short-term trauma in the interest of long-term viability should a transfer--a rebodification--be successful.

Discussion ensues. The Virt, it is decided, will survive the current troubles. At least sort of. People with loved ones who have done the Squirt, however, are getting agitated, and since the cost of the Squirt is orders of magnitude higher than the annual income of the average citizen of planet Earth, this agitation is prominent and must be addressed. A proposal is advanced: Might it be useful in a public-relations sense to provide an outlet for the discontent that will doubtless accompany the current disruptions? Perhaps in the form of a lottery...?

Dissenters argue that those uploaded signed contracts acknowledging the irreversible nature of the transfer. This dissent is acknowledged, but there is the delicate matter of the Kuntz operation. Gag orders signed on the original settlements five years before contain out clauses that might be activated if a reverse Squirt were to be performed. The opinion of Legal will be sought. Marketing pipes up: Given the circumstances, wouldn't it be better to bend the letter of the agreements, out clauses or no out clauses, if public perceptions can thereby be massaged in the desired fashion? Then if they have to pull the plug--Finance, you're running those numbers again, right?--they can spin the lottery as a dramatic rescue.

This argument carries the day. Now the problem is that to do what they're thinking about doing, they need Alvin Kuntz. No one in the room relishes the prospect of working with him again, not after the way he almost took them all down before.

Mike Chancey sits silently through the proceedings. He's not surprised, except by the idea of the lottery, which is so profoundly stupid that only a vice-president of marketing could have conceived of it.

Some kind of signal has gone out. Virtizens leave what they are doing and start walking, flowing in puzzled tributaries that empty into a few broad rivers of personae exiting Shambhala. They go in different directions, but with the appearance of purpose, as if they are being separated. It is raining tree frogs whose tiny bodies splash into fist-sized pixels when they hit the ground. Music is playing everywhere, and great curving snakes of lightning ripple through the mountains. Various parts of Shambhala appear not to exist. They're like blind spots; Shannon feels like she's seeing something there but can't focus on it and when she tries the old trick of looking just next to the place, it doesn't work because she doesn't really have eyeballs. But wait, it should work because she's supposed to feel like she has eyeballs, isn't she? She's way past unease now, well on the way to panic, but it's an anaesthetized kind of panic, yowling away in the back of her mind while her body walks calmly along a leafy side street. Sunshine dapples the sidewalk except where it's covered in frog pixels. Shannon's bones feel oddly magnetized, but she has no impulse to limp along with any of the main streams of exodus. Neither does she have any particular desire to know where they're going, or where they think they're going, or whether they have any idea where they're going. Her mind wanders, but her feet stay on the path to the library, where she has heard Charon hangs out.

If he exists. One of the things about the Virt is that things don't always exist, and if they do, it's not always a permanent situation. There's no commitment to permanence here, especially on the part of the native personae. They flitter in and out of existence like convection shadows in clear water. Charon is alleged to be a native, but one who has access to meatspace, which would make him remarkable if not unique; one of the clauses in the contract all of the Squirts signed, back when they had flesh-and-blood hands, enjoins them to avoid contact with the physical world. Meatspace News is a one-way channel, and if it's cut out, then something has gone genuinely kaput. Maybe Charon will know what, and maybe--Shannon's grasping at straws here, but straws are what she has right now--he will be able to help. If he is what the whispered consensus says he is, which is an illicit conduit to meatspace. There are various theories about why such a thing is allowed to exist in light of the no-contact clause in all Squirt contracts, but no one knows for sure. If she is lucky, Shannon thinks, she might find out.

On the keystone over the library's front door is the inscription Oh time thy pyramids. It wasn't there the last time Shannon visited the library, and when she enters the building she finds that interior is dramatically different as well. Usually an Avirtar is already waiting at the desk, but today the library is full of translucent blind men groping among shelves of books that reach up higher than she can see. At the far end of the room, she sees a door, and is walking toward it before she's consciously decided to do so.

The sound of an approaching outboard motor distracts Alvin Kuntz from the enjoyment of his daily cigarette. He pinches the coal off the cigarette, saving half of it for later, and goes around to the front of his house, which faces the beach on an island that was erased from world maps shortly after World War II. He calls it Alvinia, and considers that in view of all he's done for human civilization, he's earned the distinction of naming a lump of South Pacific sand and coral after himself. The Kuntz Virtual Rehabilitation Clinic helped create the Virt, pioneered the brain-scanning and personality-modeling work that led to the Virt, and incubated innumerable advances in nanobiology after the Virt's establishment. That, Alvin reasons, is more than enough to excuse a little hubris, even though you won't find his name on any research papers or in any of the standard histories and even though he can't set foot on the North American or European continents because of certain indiscretions on the part of people who should have known better.

The downside of occupying an uncharted island is that Alvin's only company is robots of his own design, so it is with great anticipation that Alvin rounds the corner of his house to see what visitors the day has brought, and it's with great dismay that he notices the various official insignia bedecking the boat and the sleeves and hats of its crew. Were he a younger man, he would run even though the island is less than a mile across at its widest, and only slightly longer. He stays where he is because by the time the flight impulse winds its way down centenarian nerves to his feet, the boat is already beached and one of its crew knee-deep in the surf calling Alvin's name.

"Get off my beach!" he shouts. "There's no extradition treaties in Alvinia!"

"We're not here to extradite anyone, Mr. Kuntz," the wet-legged sailor says. "All we need to know is where you're keeping the bodies."

"What bodies?"

"Mr. Kuntz," sighs the sailor, "I said we weren't here to extradite anyone. I didn't say I wouldn't hogtie you and throw you in the boat. How about we sit down in some shade and have us a little chat?"

"All I can see anymore is the color yellow," a voice over Shannon's shoulder says. She looks and sees that one of the translucent blind men has followed her through the door. His breath is peppery, his voice liquid and reassuring.

She looks around. Books books books. A single door. If she didn't know better, she would think she hasn't moved. "Do you know where I can find Charon?"

The Avirtar--or persona, she's not sure--waves vaguely. "Around," he says. "He's not yellow, I can tell you that."

Shannon wants to gamble and ask if Charon can get her out. Even if she's just piped back into a network where meatspace--the world--is visible again. Anything but this. Her misgivings get the better of her, though.

"Through this door?" she asks, pointing at the only door she can see.

"Eventually," comes the reply. "Or maybe not."

Alvin is getting tired of the interrogation. If Shambhala Virtual, or whatever they're calling themselves now, wanted to know what was going on, he's thinking, they should have come themselves instead of sending whichever variety of manicured goon he's currently dealing with. "The thing is," he says, "even if I knew where the specimens were, they're not just empty jars you can pour a personality into. Even if you could find the right person to put back into his original body, I don't think that would work. The neural pathways wouldn't fit anymore. They especially wouldn't fit if you wanted to put someone else in there."

"So you're saying we can't use their existing brains," said the sailor.

"Well, not if you want them to be exactly like they are in the Virt," Alvin agreed. "But who's going to know? Will they?"

"I don't know. Will they?"

"Interesting question," Alvin says. "We never did figure that out."

The sailor looks at one of his crew, a dark-skinned Asian woman in a floppy hat. "Quick take on the liability issues?"

"How quick?" she says. "There's still no settled law on whether they're people."

"Just get a sense, okay?"

She puts on an eyeglass display and starts working a palmtop.

"Tell you what," Alvin says. "You wouldn't have this problem if you used them." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the house.

"Who's them?"

Clearly this is going to take a while. Alvin lights his half-cigarette. "Soon as I'm done with this, come on in the house. I'll show you."

"Okay," the sailor says, and stands a short distance away. "You know, I was serious when I said I wasn't here to arrest you. But that doesn't mean I don't think I should."

"Alvinia's a free country," Alvin said. "You're welcome to your opinion."

"Uh huh. Why'd you do it? I mean, apart from being a soulless mad-scientist wacko?"

Alvin chuckles. "That was mostly it. But also...." He trails off. This is the part he can't explain to them, or shouldn't, anyway, because it makes him seem even more pathological than most people already think he is. But the plain truth--the real reason why he did it, and why he intends to do it again if he gets a chance--is that the world becomes a nicer place in direct correlation to how many of the moonpie idiots afraid of experiencing it are subtracted via the Squirt.

"Never mind," he says. "Come on inside and meet the help."

Every room just opens into another, all full of books and all populated with deranged Avirtars impersonating writers. Currently Shannon is in a scene out of a Renaissance pastoral: sheep, gentle hillsides, bumpkin shepherds composing poems. There are three of them, two throwing verses back and forth and the third tapping time on his knee. "Methinks I hear when I do hear sweet music," one of the Avirtars says, and the second picks it up: "The dreadful cries of murdered men in forests."

"Ain't everyone who can write a double rhyming sestina," adds the third, and barks. "Now that's order."

Shannon doesn't know what a sestina is. The third Avirtar senses this, and explains. She's a little shocked by its sudden coherence, and starts to ask about Charon while she's got a lucid Avirtar to work with, but a fourth Avirtar manifests and steps in the way. It's wearing an old noir-movie getup, trench coat and top hat and lip-stuck cigarette.

"You know Philip Sidney, kid?" it asks.

"It's Marlowe," Shannon says. "I read that book. Everyone knows it's Philip Marlowe."

"Is you is, or is you ain't my Strephon?" asks the second Avirtar. Then all four of them vanish, and she is no closer to Charon.

The next morning, a memo goes out, sketching the challenges of the situation. Mike Chancey is still shaking his head over yesterday's meeting. "A lottery?" he says incredulously. "What about the rest of them?"

What about Abe?

He's back in his office, attended by Nerd-in-excelsis Avogadro Pierre. "You're pushing your luck here, you want my opinion," says Pierre, and sneezes.

"And now they're dealing with Alvin Kuntz again. Could this get any more cynical?"

"Who's Alvin Kuntz?" Pierre wants to know.

"He's the guy who Squirted a bunch of patients at his VR clinic and then warehoused the bodies for nano experiments." Pierre is staring pop-eyed at him. "You didn't hear about it?"

"He what?"

"I'm serious. I think he did nearly fifty of them before anyone caught on. Now he's hiding out on an island somewhere. Working on robotics, I think."

"Jesus," Pierre says, and sneezes again.

"Had a flu shot, Pierre?" Mike asks.

"Ahh," Pierre says.

"Your funeral. Just don't die before I get in touch with Abe."

Pierre's waving his hands and shaking his head before Mike finishes the sentence. "No no no no no, la la la la la, I don't hear you--"

"Jesus, shut up." Mike has everything in place. He starts the creeper, of Pierre's design, that will raise Abe. It creeps. Pierre drops his three-monkeys attitude and watches, a proud craftsman. The channel opens.

"Abe, you there?" Mike says. He listens. "Tell me about it ... no shit. Okay, we're doing what we can ... they're what? Who's looking for you?"

He looks up at Pierre. "Meatspace News is down."

Pierre shrugs.

"Did you do that?" Mike says.

"La la la," Pierre says, but he's pointing over his shoulder, in what Mike belatedly figures out is the direction of the boardroom. Mike wishes a lingering death on all of the board members.

"Kid," says Mike, "we've got bad trouble down here. And it's not getting any better. You need to get out while there's still the bandwidth to do it."

He pauses.

"Abe," he says. "Please."

He pauses.

"Is that right?" he says, and cracks a thin smile. "I'm the Meatspace News now?"

Pierre's laughing.

She is through the door and into a small, old-fashioned kitchen with a window that looks out onto sooty brick picked out by a shaft of falling light. The air is thick with cigarette smoke. An old man--this is enough to make him stand out, since very few Virtizens, native or Squirt, choose the appearance of old age--leans on a grimy kitchen counter. Also unlike the vast majority of Virtizens, he is wearing eyeglasses. On the back of his T-shirt, Shannon reads the name HENRY.

"Hey, baby," he says, and drinks from a bottle on the counter.

"Excuse me?" She doesn't think she's ever been called baby, at least not since she was one.

"I said hey, is all."

"Well, hey what?"

"Hey, you one of the ones leaving?"

Shannon nods. "Yes."

Henry shakes his head. "Lots of 'em think they're leaving," he says. "Not a single one knows where he's going."

"I know," Shannon says, which if not a lie is inarguably optimistic. How is she supposed to get out of this kitchen? There's only the window.

"That right? You know?" Henry finishes his cigarette and lights another. "Now what you want to do that for anyway? Zero-one silicon switch, zero-one quantum foam bubbling up into prokaryote paramecium parakeet philosopher, what difference does it make?" Shannon has spotted a fire escape, and she climbs over the kitchen sink and squeezes through the window. Behind her, she can hear Henry still talking. "Baby, stay here, hey, baby...."

Two soldiers are watching oil platforms burn. "Man, check it out in UV," one of them says. The other flicks his goggles and takes in the high-spectrum show. He likes the infrared better. They're both tweaking a little, and when bullets start to pock the wall around them they bound like rabbits around the corner and sit giggling until they hear the whistle and impact of automated ground-flash response shells torching the back side of the hill.

"Believe I'll peek out and see if the peasants got their barbecue yet," the infrared partisan says.

"Let me know how it turns out," says his UV-inclined comrade, but the planned peek never occurs because at that moment an oil terminal along the waterfront goes up in a blast that they find quite diverting in their spectra of choice.

And maybe it's true that on the zero-one level it's all the same, and maybe it's true that after doing the Squirt, that's the level Shannon should be thinking about, but she isn't. When the Virt is coming down around your ears, Planck-length semantics are the last thing on your mind. Out Henry's window is a fire escape that goes down into an abyss, and now that she's clinging to it she can see that the airshaft is hexagonal in cross section, and that narrow walkways encircle its interior every ten feet or so, forming what looks like a cast-iron ribcage as far as she can see up or down.

Down, she thinks, and then is uncertain. What if it's up? She takes a quarter from her pocket and flips it, thinking that on tails she'll go down, but she misses the quarter on its downward arc and it pings through the iron grate between her feet and goes on pinging for several floors before ricocheting around on a platform and coming to rest.

She's in a mood for omens. Okay, she thinks, and begins to descend.

"I think it worked," Gautam says. "They don't know what the hell they're doing, but the ones who won the lottery, all of a sudden they all took off like Don Quixote. Problem is that the rest of them, not the natives but the Squirts, also took off, you know? But like in random directions. There are subspaces ramifying in there faster than I can catalog them. This isn't sustainable, Mike. What are you going to do with them?"

"Looks like we're going to drop them back into bodies," Mike says.

Gautam looks ill. "How ... bleah. Back into the meat. Hope you have a budget line for therapy expenses," he says.

The quarter lies in front of a door that opens onto a cracking blacktop road. There is honeysuckle in the air, and the smells of oil and aftershave hitching a ride on evaporating sweat. An ancient car sits at the side of the road, black and dusty, one of its rear tires flat. Standing next to the hood, a young man with blisters on his face and bloody fluid leaking from behind his sunglasses is preaching.

"Where you come from is gone," he shouts. "Where you thought you were going to never was there, and where you are is no good unless you can get away from it. Where is there a place for you to be? No place."

She's looking around for walls of books, or fire escapes, or anything but this stretch of sun-baked asphalt that fades away into the hazy distance. Should I be looking for water? she wonders. I'm not going to find a ferry out here. The crowd, all translucent men who can only see the color yellow, shuffles its feet. Then one of them steps out, shedding his shape. He's like one of those blind spots back outside--if that's the right word--in Shambhala. Shannon can't quite see him.

She can hear him, though, when he says, "Keep going. Keep it up."

"Charon?" she asks.

He's gone. The not-quite-blind men all look at her, then look back to the preacher, who is pouring broken glass out of his shoes. Then she's moving again, down the road, past the crowd of men, who as she passes them momentarily flicker into the shape of Aunt Sara. When they reassume their shapes, she can see a stairway in the distance, rising from the shimmer where the road meets the horizon.

The truth, if anyone around the table is interested in the truth, is that the situation is getting dire. Meatside relatives of Squirts are screaming bloody murder, literally. The courts are still wrangling over the legal status of Squirts, and while it's all up in the air Legal is hip-deep in court filings and injunctions. Shareholders are antsy enough to talk about a board shakeup. Things are far from optimal. They'll get on top of it, sure, because innovating and solving problems is what Shambhala Virtual does. Right now, however? This moment under discussion? Right now they don't have the resources they need for the Virt--"divert to the Virt," someone says in passing, and they laugh harder than it deserves--because everyone from the Chinese to the Indians to the Saudis to the French to the Americans is busy putting out political and environmental and military brushfires of every description. The little misadventure down in Venezuela, the earthquake-breached dams in China and the Pacific Northwest, the refugee problem in Bangladesh ... instead of a gleaming posthuman future, the board of Shambhala Virtual find themselves, at least temporarily, sole proprietors of a monstrously expensive and utterly irrelevant luxury commodity. If only they could get all the goddamn Bangladeshis to do the Squirt, one of them jokes, they'd have one problem out of the way. Especially if they then pulled the plug.

But back to the task. There's a PR crisis to be massaged. Even if they have to pull the plug--which according to Finance might be workable if they strategize the settlements correctly--they at least need to get the lottery winners out. One of them opens a link to see whether Alvin Kuntz has come around.

The stairs go on forever, it seems. Shannon is exhausted by the time she reaches the top, and frightened because she shouldn't be exhausted. She's never going to get out of the library, she's never going to find Charon, she's never going to talk to someone in meatspace and figure out what has happened. She sits on the top stair, ready to give up, and has the clear realization that she has in that moment understood despair.

Someone is talking behind her. "As is he who dreaming sees, and after the dream the passion remains imprinted, and the rest returns not to the mind, such am I."

She doesn't look up. "What now?"

"For my vision almost wholly departs, which the sweetness that was born of it yet distills within my heart."

"Okay," Shannon sighs. She stands up. "Get to the point."

When she turns around, she is in a small stone chamber not unlike parts of the game-immersion spaces (although she shudders to think what this Virtquake, or whatever it is, has done to them and the personae in them; rampaging aliens and balrogs are all she needs right now). Set into the opposite wall is a low stone gate, slightly open. On the other side of it she glimpses a path that winds up the flanks of a mountain, the top of which is lost in a gentle obscuring radiance. Between her and the gate, a weary man with eyes that might have been transplanted from the preaching kook on the dirt road is speaking: "...through my sight, which was growing strong in me as I looked, one sole appearance, as I myself changed, was altering itself to me."

"Change," Shannon repeats. "Okay, change. Keep talking."

The man falls silent.

"I mean it. Keep talking," she says. "I've come this far."

"My mind was smitten by a flash in which its wish came," the man says, and a blaze of light from the top of the mountain floods the room, blinding her. When Shannon looks back, the old man is gone, and sitting in his place she sees a compact, dark-haired man wearing a worn suit. A smile plays about the corners of his mouth.

"What's so funny?" she asks.

"No one else could ever be admitted here, since this gate was made only for you," he says, and begins to bleed from invisible wounds. "I am now going to shut it."

By the end of this pronouncement, he is unable to contain himself. He bursts into shrieks of laughter as she pushes past him and rocks the gate on its hinges. It holds fast, and he laughs harder.

"I'm telling you, it won't work," Alvin says for the hundredth time.

"No, you haven't told me," comes the voice over the phone. Alvin has refused a video feed. He'd rather look out over the ocean and devote only one of his senses to whichever bureaucrat is going to harangue him this time.

"Then you could look it up. The neural pathways in all of my specimens are already set. Do you know how to rewire them? I don't, and that means that probably nobody else does either."

"Is there a way to make them think that they've come back down?" the voice asks.

"Could be," Alvin says. "That's not my field. What you're talking about is just another Virt, only, what, smaller. Go make one. You've got a building full of engineers and geniuses probably looking for a chance to get it right this time."

"Mr. Kuntz," the voice says. "This will all be much smoother if you can refrain from acerbic comments."

"My acerbic comments are hardly the worst of your problems, bud," Alvin says. "Your problem is that you've promised something you can't deliver. Way I see it, you can either brush up your resum or you can just use the goddamn robots like I already told you."

Smoke and laughter roll out when Shannon opens the next door. It's cooler here, which gets her hopes up that maybe she's nearing water. "This ideal moment when man," someone is saying, "in the grips of a particular emotion, is suddenly seized by this something stronger than himself which projects him, in self-defense, into immortality."

She shuts the door, then opens it again. The way must be there. "And who are you supposed to be?" she asks.

"A key," the man says. He is wearing a high collar and tie, and waving a bottle of something green and alluring. She smells licorice. "Capable of opening indefinitely that box of many bottoms called man, a key that dissuades him from turning back, for reasons of self-preservation, when in the darkness he bumps into doors, locked from the outside...."

And she is already through the door past him, and deeper into the library.

"You're going to what?" Mike says.

"What can we do? Kuntz says the bodies won't do the trick. Understand, Mike. We've got to make a gesture here."

"I'm not going to be a party to this," Mike says. "We can fix the problem. Gautam is on it. He'll get it done."

"Gautam is losing his mind, Mike. You're going to walk into his office one of these days, maybe today, and find that he's done the Squirt from his desktop just so he can be there for the end. Guys like him, the true believers, this is all about the apocalypse."

This possibility has in fact occurred to Mike. "Whereas for us it's about what?" he says to himself, but he's overheard.

"This is the wrong time to get sentimental, my friend. Don't ask questions when you already know the answers. Look, the robots are actually a pretty good solution. The evacuees will be out of the Virt, but they'll also still be out of the meat, which is what they wanted in the first place, right?"

Mike hears himself say, "Right."

"Right."

"So how many Squirts won this lottery?"

"We sent six."

Out of about thirteen thousand who have done the Squirt. And the millions of native personae who may or may not be people, depending on who you ask. Six. Mike doesn't have to ask. He knows they're going to pull the plug. You get a kind of sixth sense for betrayal and deviousness when you spend time around these people.

"One of them," Mike says, "is going to be Abe."

"Excuse me?"

"I said that my son is going to be one of them. That's my price. You want to keep Alvin under the rug, and you want me to pretend I don't know that you've already decided to pull the plug, you get Abe out of there."

"Mike, Abe is about the happiest Squirt there's ever been. Plus we need him up there. Your conversations are helpful to our marketing people."

Thanks a lot, Pierre, Mike thinks. "Burn me if it makes you feel better," he says. "But Abe comes out."

"Okay, if that's what you want, but that's not a very nice thing to do to your kid, is it?"

"Fuck you," Mike Chancey says, and goes to tell Avogadro Pierre that he needs to look for a new line of work.

She is certain this must be the last. The room is bare and dark. The smell of old hay tickles her nose, and the scene resolves itself into a stable. Tack and farm implements hang from nails on the walls. Somewhere water drips. The man in front of her puts down a pad of paper and offers a sad smile. "You are not thinking of finitude," he says. "You are contemplating an apotheosis in which a temporary state of mind will become symmetrical above the flesh and aware both of itself and of the flesh it will not quite discard."

"I am?" Shannon says. "Let me pass. Please, let me pass."

"You will not even be dead," he goes on, and is talking over her as she shoves into him, pushing him back against the far wall, where the two doors are marked 0 and 1. He vanishes between them, and she hears his voice: "...until someday in very disgust he risks everything on a single blind turn of a card no man ever does that under the first fury of despair or remorse or bereavement he does it only when he has realized that even the despair or remorse or bereavement is not particularly important to the dark diceman...."

Shannon leans against the wall between 0 and 1, and it gives way.

"Good news," Avogadro Pierre says when Mike gets back to the Brain. "We've got all six of them down their blind alleys. At least I think we do."

"There needs to be a seventh," Mike says. "Find Abe."

"We were told six," Pierre says.

"The board says seven now, and one of them is Abe."

"If you say so," Pierre says, "but Abe makes himself awful hard to find sometimes."

"That's why you're part of the Praetorian Nerds, Pierre. Get it done."

Between zero and one, Shannon is laughing. It feels like years since she's laughed. "Roll dice? After all this, dice?"

"We're down in the quantum," the Dark Diceman says. "It's all probability here."

No arguing that, Shannon thinks. She cups her hands and the dice drop onto her palms, one, two. She rolls them without looking.

"Lucky seven," the Dark Diceman says. "Okay, good enough. Follow your nose."

And she smells water, feels the breath of it on her face. Shannon walks into the darkness. She closes her eyes when she can't see anymore.

"More good news," Pierre says. "I got Abe."

Mike nods. He wants to be happy, he wants to feel guilty, he wants to feel anything but what he does right now, which is selfish and abused and complicit in something horrible. "Thanks, Pierre," he says. "By the way, the board knew about Abe the whole time, I guess."

"No kidding," Pierre says.

"Yeah. I figure we're both about to walk the plank."

"Huh." Pierre thinks for a while. "Gautam's going to kill himself when they pull the plug."

"You might be right about that."

"Damn right I'm right about that." Pierre thinks a little more. "So, listen. You know where to find this Alvin Kuntz guy?"

"Come on, Pierre."

"No, I mean it. Gautam kills himself, I'm going to feel guilty for the rest of my life. Gautam goes off to an island somewhere and engineers his own, what, apotheosis, that's good for me."

Pierre has a point, Mike thinks. "Huh. All right." He has to look all through his desk drawers for a pen. When he finds one, he writes a latitude and longitude on the back of a Chinese menu. "You should go too," he says as he hands the menu to Pierre. "I doubt there's going to be much work around here for a little while."

Pierre is laughing. "Dope," he says. "You think I really got this for Gautam?"

And despite himself, Mike is laughing too.

I'm going to have corpuscles, Shannon thinks. Alveoli. Phalanges. Or at least I won't be here anymore. Half-full, half-empty. She finds herself mimicking Henry. Silicon, quantum foam, what's the difference? If you have to ask, I can't explain.

How long have I been away?

Her next footstep splashes. She opens her eyes and sees a boat rocking in black shallows, five Squirts already aboard. A rope runs from its bow to the bootsole of the Dark Diceman.

"Oh," Shannon says.

"Fare?" the Dark Diceman says.

She realizes she still has the dice in her hand, and gives them back. She sees the Diceman looking over her shoulder, and turns to see another Squirt walking with his eyes closed in their direction. He's crying, his muscles are twitching like he's having a seizure, but he's walking. "No no no no no no," he's saying.

"And two for him," the Diceman says.

"I have to pay for him?" Shannon says. "He doesn't even want to go."

"He got you here."

"That's Charon?"

"That's him."

"No no no no no," the Squirt weeps.

Shannon searches her pockets. "That's all I have."

But Charon's tears are falling like silver; suddenly there are coins everywhere, falling out of the infinite black around them. They ping and patter on the stones, plink in the water. The Diceman laughs the way you laugh when you've been made the butt of a pretty good joke.

"Okay," he says. "Good thing nobody else is seeing all this. The boat would never hold them all."

He steps aside. So does Shannon, because Charon is walking like a condemned man into the flat-bottomed boat. When he is seated on the front bench, Shannon steps aboard.

"Shannon DeWalt?"

It's been a long time since anyone used her last name. Eyes still closed, Shannon realizes she's heard a voice. Vibrations in an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere have collided with the bones of her inner ear. I have a body, she thinks. It's a wondrous, impossible thought. She is exalted by it, feels her heartbeat quicken and a smile break across her face. Alveoli, corpuscles, phalanges! She inhales, feels the oxygen filling her lungs, raises her arms over her head and feels the muscles stretch. Her nose registers the smells of cut flowers, some kind of lubricating oil, antiseptic, a faint hint of deodorant. I made it, she thinks.

She opens her eyes. The ceiling is white. Indirect light suffuses the room. She sees her hands, polished and shining.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Anansi Boys, by Neil Gaiman, William Morrow, 2005, $26.95.

I've finally figured out what it is that makes me enjoy Neil Gaiman's books as much as I do--and oddly enough, it's something that usually annoys me in the writing of other authors.

Gaiman writes from an omnipresent point of view.

While it seems like we're inside the characters' heads, we're not really. In Gaiman's books we're being told what they're thinking and feeling by this friendly authorial voice, rather than learning about it from the characters' points of view. It doesn't matter how dark the material might be, there's always this half-smile in that narrator's voice of his.

In a lesser writer's hands, this might make you think that he's amused by the characters and their actions, or perhaps by us readers, for involving ourselves as thoroughly as we do in their lives. But with Gaiman, I've come to realize, it's a genuine affection--for both his characters and his readers. No matter how awful the situations are that he puts his characters into, it's still obvious that he cares for them. And as for his readers, if there's a joke involved, it's usually a long and complicated one--more often silly, or simply odd, rather than funny--and he's letting us in on it.

This voice is a part of all of his writing--fiction and nonfiction--and how much you care for his work depends, I suppose, on whether or not you like that voice.

But having figured this out, now I finally understand why some of my friends won't read him after trying a book or two. They don't like that voice. But I like it just fine and it's in particularly good form in this new novel, with its catchy tag-line: "God is dead. Meet the kids."

Mind you, that tag-line is a bit of a fudge, because while there is a dead god, it's not the one you immediately think of when you read that line--or at least the one you would think of if you've been brought up in Western society.

The god in question is the African trickster Anansi, whom we previously met in American Gods, and he dies the way he'd have wanted to: after a night of drinking and dancing and karaoke, collapsing across a beautiful blonde with his face pressed into her cleavage.

This is terribly embarrassing for Fat Charlie Nancy. But then everything about his father has always been embarrassing for Fat Charlie, starting with the nickname his father gave him that he can't seem to shake even years after he lost the weight.

Then he discovers that he has a brother he never knew he had, and that brother proves to be even more troublesome than his trickster father--mostly because he inherited all of their father's magical abilities and amoral tendencies.

Things get even more complicated, of course, but there's really no point in my outlining the plot for you, although there is a plot, and a good one. Gaiman's not a lazy writer; all the good stuff's here: plot, characters, good, sometimes inspired, prose. It's just that one doesn't really read Gaiman for things like plot and characters and prose.

You see, we're back to that voice. That charming voice that allows us to accept the implausible, smile at the funny bits, or shiver when the villains seem to get the upper hand. And in the end, when we lift our gazes from the book, we feel uplifted and more ready to face reality because Gaiman has shown us how to find all the interesting bits in the world around us that otherwise we might simply continue to take for granted.

If you haven't tried his work yet, this might be a good place to start. If you already appreciate what he does ... well, enjoy this new novel. It might be the best one yet.

The Colorado Kid, by Stephen King, Hard Case Crime, 2005, $5.99.

At this point in the proceedings, Stephen King doesn't need reviewers to tout his work. He's a brand name, and interested readers are going to pick up a new book no matter if the reviews are good, bad, or indifferent. Which isn't to say that his readers don't have discerning tastes. They just know what they like and King has proved to be a writer who consistently delivers.

All that said, I think this new novel's worth a mention here, if only to set a matter or two straight.

Hard Case Crime is a fairly new publisher with a mission statement to bring readers "the best in hard-boiled crime fiction, from lost pulp classics to new work by today's most powerful writers, all in handsome and affordable paperback editions." Sort of a Gold Medal line for contemporary times.

I say, kudos to them. And when this title by King was announced I was looking forward to see what he'd do with the genre.

Well, the bad news is that The Colorado Kid isn't hard-boiled, doesn't really have a crime, and the puzzle that forms the narrative thread to pull us from start to finish doesn't ever get resolved.

The good news is that this short book is one of King's best works to date--more Dolores Claiborne or The Green Mile than The Maltese Falcon. It's an in-depth character study and a love letter to the Maine coast, a small story with a big heart that transcends genre. Anyone who thinks King didn't deserve his National Book Award should be forced to read this just to see that he's not all about the scares and gross-outs.

But I'm still curious as to who the woman on the cover of the book is supposed to be.

And I would like to read that hard-boiled crime novel this was supposed to be.

The Complete Calvin & Hobbes, by Bill Watterson, Andrews McMeel Publishing, 2005, $150.

It's expensive (although I've seen it listed for as low as $94.50 at some on-line sites). And it's massive: three large, heavy hardcover books in a slipcase. But the weight comes from the high quality paper that, combined with a gorgeous printing job, make this one of the best reprint collections of newspaper strips I've seen to date.

The Complete Calvin & Hobbes collects everything from the ten short years of the strip's existence, together with a new, meaty forward by Watterson and all the extras bits that showed up in the previous trade paperback collections.

Why do you need it?

Well, you don't. But you do need to read Calvin & Hobbes, whether in this new fancy edition, or in one of the previously published ones. Through the mouthpieces of six-year-old Calvin (a hyperactive, self-absorbed fireball with an overactive imagination) and his best friend Hobbes (a plush toy that only Calvin and the readers see as a "real" tiger), the reclusive Watterson compressed ongoing snapshots of the world at large into a daily newspaper strip that was tender, smart, critical, and always funny.

And so perfectly drawn. Strip after strip is an utter delight, the linework and color (on the Sunday strips) remaining, to this day, among the finest examples of artistic expression in this medium.

No matter what age we are, we can see ourselves, our fancies and our struggles and our foibles, in the actions of these two characters.

And did I mention it was funny?

Everybody needs one or two Calvin & Hobbes collections in their home, but if you have the spare cash, why not splurge on this edition and have them all?

Couldn't be more highly recommended.

How Loathsome, by Tristan Crane & Ted Naiufeh, NBM Comics Lit, 2005, $13.95.

What people who dismiss comic books and narrative art don't realize is that this form of storytelling isn't all about superheroes running around in their long underwear (or skimpy underwear, when it comes to the women). It hasn't been for a long time.

Flashy comic books are still here, with many of them making the jump to the big screen, but walk into any comic book shop, or the graphic art section of a good bookstore, and you'll find, in amongst the splashy covers of the superhero titles, every kind of story you might imagine--and some you didn't.

Such as How Loathsome, a fascinating exploration of the fluid nature of gender and the underground world of addiction. Tristan Crane's narrative moves from contemporary San Francisco, through fairy tales and folk tales, to paint a complex but illuminating study of flawed but very real and sympathetic characters. Combined with the art of Ted Naiufeh (who would be a shoo-in for a graphic novel version of Holly Black's Valiant), it's a mesmerizing glimpse into a world that will be unfamiliar to many--which makes it all the more important a book.

People fear what they don't understand. Books such as this do much to tear away false impressions and show us that under our behavioral masks and our extremes of taste and expression, we all have more in common than we might otherwise think we do.

Recommended, for adult readers.

Material to be considered for review in this column should be sent to Charles de Lint, P.O. Box 9480, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada K1G 3V2.

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Hallowed Hunt, by Lois McMaster Bujold, Eos, 2005, $24.95.

Mlusine, by Sarah Monette, Ace, 2005, $24.95.

Firethorn, by Sarah Micklem, Bantam Spectra, 2005, $14.

In the summer of 1972, Ursula K. Le Guin gave a talk to the Science Fiction Writers Workshop at the University of Washington on the the writing of fantasy fiction. Published as a chapbook a year later, "From Elfland to Poughkeepsie" became a landmark critical essay, one of the pieces that made Le Guin's reputation as a critic of the field as well as one of its most admired practitioners, and it remains a touchstone for writers of fantasy today.

At least it should remain a touchstone, because in its 5,000-odd words it contains some of the most percipient advice and analysis ever offered. Le Guin argues for the central importance of style in fantasy, a style that creates a sense of otherworldliness, a clear departure from the familiar everyday world. "The point about Elfland," she says, using her shorthand for any imagined fantasy world, "is that you are not at home there. It's not Poughkeepsie. It's different." It's not enough to rely on trappings--dragons, wizards, magical amulets, and so on. An inappropriate style clashes with those elements and bleeds them of their potential power.

When she speaks of style, Le Guin does not mean just the language, the flavor of the prose, though of course that's a big part of it. Style encompasses all the devices writers choose for their tellings, from point of view to selection of detail to the rhythms of dialogue and even the choice of which events to dramatize, which to leave "off-stage," and in what order. "The style," she says, "is the book.... If you remove the style, all you have left is a synopsis of the plot."

Style in this sense is the vital heart of any work of literature, but it's even more crucial in fantasy (and science fiction), because here the world of the text has no existence beyond it--the fantasy writer has no "comfortable matrix of the commonplace" to fall back on, to let her reader fill in the blanks, "to disguise flaws and failures of creation." Without the proper style, fantasy is (to paraphrase Le Guin once more) like a visit to Yosemite in a fully loaded RV, with television and cell phone, DVD player and running-water hookup. It's not the real thing.

Le Guin's essay appeared more than thirty years ago and the field of fantasy has grown and changed immensely in that time. But the passage of years has, if anything, made Le Guin's critique all the more urgent, for those years have seen the progressive domestication of fantasy, the breeding of a whole industry of risk-free weekend tours of the Elfland theme park, located just a mile off Exit 12 on the Poughkeepsie Turnpike. It's time to dust off Le Guin's yardstick and seek out fantasies that measure up, that open doorways into genuinely strange and different places, that employ a style suitable to the task at hand.

The Hallowed Hunt is the third in Lois McMaster Bujold's "Chalion" series which, unlike most of today's fantasy series, consists of novels set in the same world but not otherwise closely linked. Each volume stands alone and complete in itself, and that's something to recommend them right off. Bujold begins her world-building with the standard template--political and cultural structures drawn mainly from medieval European models--but she avoids the tired dark-force-threatens-the-world plot in favor of a story steeped in political intrigue.

Bujold grabs our attention at once with a dramatic scenario layered with complications. Lady Ijada dy Castos, a minor noblewoman, has killed Prince Boleso kin Stagthorne, second in line to the Hallowed Kingship of the Weald. She claims he was attempting to rape her, and, worse, that he did so as part of a forbidden act of old Wealding ritual magic. Lord Ingrey kin Wolfcliff, young and not especially high-ranking himself, comes to Boleso's castle to fetch the body back for funeral, and Ijada for trial. Meanwhile the current King nears death, and the Weald's powerful clans weave a thicket of politics around the royal seat at Easthome, all of which could play a part in determining Ijada's fate.

Ingrey soons learns through experience that he's a pawn in these games, with a secret sorcerous compulsion to murder Ijada whenever his guard drops. Ingrey also carries an animal spirit, a wolf bound to him by the same sort of magic Boleso had attempted. Only by special dispensation from the Temple divines has Ingrey escaped execution for his contaminated state--and that exemption might be withdrawn at any time. As he guides Ijada back to Easthome, he learns that she also bears a spirit--a leopard, set upon her by Boleso's abortive spell. So she faces two sorts of jeopardy, should the divines discover her condition, and all of this is further complicated by the attraction that draws Ingrey and Ijada together during their journey.

Bujold rose to fame as a science fiction writer, with her tremendously popular, multiple Hugo Award-winning Miles Vorkosigan series and the standalone novel Falling Free (1988), which won her the Nebula Award. (The previous "Chalion" novel, Paladin of Souls [2003], netted Bujold another Hugo and another Nebula.) There are precious few writers who have demonstrated the ability to handle science fiction and fantasy with equal facility, so it may be no surprise that Bujold's hand is not always steady on the tiller. Some of the trouble in The Hallowed Hunt is structural--the first third, covering the trip to Easthome, often feels desultory and unfocused, despite the inherent drama of Lady Ijada's predicament, and as events unfold in Easthome, that predicament falls further into the background as the real center of the plot becomes clear. But this lack would have been less noticeable were Bujold's style more evocative and engrossing.

Bujold's stylistic weaknesses show most clearly in dialogue and in names. Too often she lets her characters slip into awkwardly mannered speech, like something out of a justly forgotten Edwardian play: "Oh, but look at you--here, you must sit down ... I still remember how you and that dreadfully priggish divine used to argue theology over the meal trestles." Sometimes they speak in the stiff unlikely tones of the narrators of documentaries: "Angry, foolish men, an imprudent ride out to attempt reason at a time when tempers were running too high ... I had only seen the lovely side of the marsh country, and the kindness of its people. But they were only people after all." (This is one character speaking to another, not Bujold's own narration.) Sometimes they sound uncomfortably like folks in our own world: "I have to throw up now." And now and then there's a painfully Poughkeepsian clash in Bujold's narrative voice as well: "...an enemy of great and secret power was going to be seriously upset when they both arrived at Easthome alive." Yeah, I'd hate to see a great and secret power when it's seriously upset.

But it's Bujold's character names that present the most pervasive style problems in The Hallowed Hunt. Le Guin doesn't discuss names in particular in "From Elfland to Poughkeepsie," but for my money names are one of the most important elements in establishing a fantasy tone. They are a window into the culture and the language(s) of the fantasy world, which are otherwise often obscured by the need to render the narrative itself in English. It's not enough to devise merely pronounceable names, though that's usually a good idea. What matters most is that the names reflect the culture(s) of the imagined world, with internal consistency and interrelationships.

Bujold does a good job with place names--towns like Red Dike, Oxmeade, and Easthome are rooted in clear descriptive origins. The clan names follow a similar pattern, drawn from the natural world: Stagthorne, Wolfcliff, Badgerbank, Horseriver. But when it comes to first names, Bujold abandons any apparent pattern. We have Ijada, whose father was Chalionese and thus could bear an odd name with reason, but we also have Ingrey who serves the Sealmaster Hetwar, the divines Hallana and Lewko, Symark and Wencel and Gesca and Ulkra, and the three princes Byza, Biast, and Boleso. No apparent rhyme or reason, and it undermines the unified vision Bujold had built of the Weald through the clan and place names.

The Hallowed Hunt has some promising elements--the intriguing Temple religion, multi-layered intrigue, and some engaging supporting characters, such as the Viking-styled island prince Jokol and his pet ice bear Fafa. It's competently executed, the work of a practiced professional. It's not bad. But its stylistic shortcomings illustrate Le Guin's point only too well. Without a coherent vision of a unique Elfland, shaping prose and dialogue, names and other details, The Hallowed Hunt never draws us all the way in, never transports us out of awareness of the everyday, never removes us from the comforts of home.

A glance at the first couple of pages of Sarah Monette's first novel, Mlusine, might give the impression that she's violating Le Guin's dicta in the most brazen fashion. Monette spins her tale out of two alternating first-person narratives, and the opening strand comes from Mildmay, known as "the Fox," a cat burglar in the eponymous wizard-ruled city, with the manners and perspective of the lower classes. His voice sounds something like that of a stool-pigeon in a 1940s crime movie: "The annemer promised to be the hocus's servant and do what they said and no backchat, neither.... And then there was a spell to stick it in place and make sure, you know, that nobody tried to back out after it was too late."

It's hard to get much further from your traditional fantasy tone. As I read these lines, an instinctive resistance rose up in me--what the heck is she doing, mingling fantasy phrases like "Four Great Septads ago" with slangy colloquialisms like "scared shitless" and "way better connected"? I felt the way I had when I first saw the trailers for the Heath Ledger movie A Knight's Tale, in which jousts take place to the music of Queen and Bachman-Turner Overdrive. No way could this work.

But then on a lark I actually saw the whole film, and I was shocked to find that it did indeed work. Somehow the tonal miscegenation didn't come off as sloppy or lazy or ignorant or pandering, as I had expected. In fact, the rock soundtrack and the interplay of pseudo-antiquated and contemporary colloquial dialogue actually formed something new, different, and genuine. The dissonant elements helped to free the material from the self-conscious weightiness (or simple drudging dullness) that often drags historical dramas down (see--or better, just read about--Troy and Kingdom of Heaven), and in doing so brought out elements of the medieval mood that rarely find a place on the screen--the boisterous humor, the carnival atmosphere of a tourney, the skepticism of the peasantry behind the backs of their betters. The movie didn't work despite the injection of "inappropriate" elements; it worked because of them.

Much the same can be said for Mlusine. Mildmay's voice has an inner coherence and natural rhythm that make it quickly infectious and convincing. The contrast with the voice of the other narrator, Felix Harrowgate, only adds to its effectiveness. Felix is a court wizard, hobnobbing with the city's upper crust, until his old master and mentor Malkar Gennadion uses him for a spell to sabotage the city's font of magical protection, the Virtu. The sorcery leaves Felix stripped of his position, imprisoned, and plagued by a creeping madness that eventually sees him committed to the horrific Hospice of St. Crellifer, a place as wretched as any madhouse Victorian England had to offer. Felix speaks in a self-consciously more formal style, free of Mildmay's slang. "I had been about to say 'okay,'" he realizes at one point, "that ubiquitous piece of Lower City idiom that Malkar had beaten out of me before I was fifteen."

These two complementary voices provide an excellent foundation of color and detail for Monette's imagined world. Mildmay's narrative in particular, coming as it does from outside the circles of power on which most fantasy novels focus, lends a dimension of immediacy and tactility with its street-level observations and imagery. "The Winter Fever--it always shows up in Mlusine along with the rains ... and it was working its way through the Lower City with a butcher's knife and a nasty snigger," Mildmay tells us. And later, "...you could put the Yehergod militia in a string shopping bag and still have room for two heads of cabbage and a parsnip."

Monette uses every device at her disposal to scatter this sort of color and detail through her pages. The city of Mlusine comes vividly to life through an alchemy of names, built of French, English, Latin, and Monette's own invention. The months of Pluvise, Vendmiaire, Messidor, Prairial; the neighborhoods of Pharaohlight, Spicewell, Engmond's Tor; Rue Celadon, the Road of Ivory, the Plaza del'Archimago, Persimmony Street. A cemetery called the Boneprince. The ancient tunnels beneath the city, called the Arcane from their full name, Les Catacombes des Arcanes. The names conjure images, moods, even sounds and smells. And this profligate cityscape is populated by characters--some met, some merely mentioned--with names equally evocative: Porphyria Levant, Estella Velvet, Brother Orphelin, Cerberus Cresset, Mavortian von Heber. It's a pleasure just to roll them around in the mind, or even speak them aloud, to savor their cadences and the personalities they suggest.

Atop all this, Monette tosses us tantalizing bits of historical and cultural detail, blended so seamlessly into the narrative that we can only wish we knew more about the world they hint at. "The hotel they chose was called the Chimera Among the Roses," says Felix, "a defiantly royalist sentiment that had probably gotten someone nearly hanged 150 years ago." It's a tease--we learn no more about Mlusine's past history of royalist strife. Mildmay overhears his two companions speaking in a language they don't know he understands, and he concludes, "they were half-brothers or stepbrothers or something. Norvenan don't distinguish so as you can tell." With a seemingly inexhaustible supply of such tidbits to chew on, Mlusine bids for a place alongside such classic fantasy cities as Gormenghast, Lankhmar, and Viriconium.

Mlusine is far from perfect. Sometimes Monette's ear for names fails her--the "Kekropian Empire," for instance, clangs like a trashcan lid amidst the rest of the nomenclature, and "St. Grandin Swamp" doesn't have the ring of the other regions in and around the city. Mildmay's sardonic asides (and his continuing invocation of the god/saint Kethe) become tiresome after a while, as does Felix's self-pity. But one of the benefits of such a convincing and engaging world is that complaints of this sort come to seem footnotes, unimportant in the larger scheme. We'll forgive a lot for a real trip to Elfland.

Monette leaves a dozen subplots hanging and as many major questions unanswered--fodder for future volumes, I'm sure--but there's enough closure to the main plotline (Felix's madness and the mystery that binds him and Mildmay) to provide a satisfactory finish. Mlusine is that most rara of aves, the first volume of a fantasy saga that genuinely left me wanting more.

I missed Firethorn, Sarah Micklem's remarkably accomplished debut novel, when it came out in hardcover in 2004. Its appearance in trade paperback gave me another chance to try it, and I'm very glad I did. Firethorn is raw, relentless, and emotionally searing in a way that's very unusual in fantasy, and it features one of the most meticulously imagined traditional fantasy settings I've encountered in years. It's another object lesson in the importance of style to the successful writing of fantasy fiction.

The girl called Luck (for her red hair) came to her village a foundling, but true to her name, she had the good fortune to be chosen as handmaid to the old Dame of the manor, who treated her kindly and taught her like a mother. But her mistress's death brings the Dame's nephew Sire Pava and his wife to rule instead, and the change upends Luck's world. Harsh treatment by Pava's steward and abuse by his ill-tempered bride chafe badly enough, but when Pava takes an interest in her--and, undeterred by her resistance, rapes her--Luck flees to the wilderness of the Kingswood, where she lives "like a beast ... without fire or iron or the taste of meat," surviving as best she can on what she can gather. At one point, desperate and despairing, she eats the berries of the firethorn tree, knowing them for poison but beyond caring. She suffers a feverish collapse, but lives, and believing she's been spared by the gods, she takes the name of the tree as her own: Firethorn.

She returns to the village after a year in the forest, but her time in exile hasn't softened her resistance to the life the village offers. "The world had its order and I my place in it, but I could not whittle myself small enough to fit." So when she catches the eye of the high-placed Sire Galan, passing through to gather Pava and his men for the King's war on the kingdom of Incus across the sea, she agrees to accompany him as his "sheath"--a role that at best amounts to that of concubine, and at worst to whoredom, as many warriors share their sheaths around with their men. Galan, however, seems to have a more genuine interest in her--indeed, his determination to keep her sparks conflict between him and his lord, the First of his clan of Crux, who considers Galan's infatuation a foolish distraction, and also with his own men, most of all his "armiger" or second, Sire Rodela, whose resentment simmers and boils over as the army camps in the Marchfield, waiting for the proper time and omens to sail.

Micklem studiously avoids any hint of contemporary flavor in Firethorn's voice (she narrates in first person), without falling back on stiff mannerism or archaism. Vibrant and earthy, passionate and sometimes poetic, Firethorn's voice is steeped in the worldview of her culture, and her narrative teems with vivid images. "The clans had come to these barren hills and planted a forest of tents leafed with gaudy canvas and leather and blooming with banners. The men were pent up so close in this false forest that they crawled upon each other like wasps." Firethorn's rustic knowledge of foraging and herb lore adds convincing depth and texture: "There was better food all around us in the woods and beside the road," she notes on the ride toward the Marchfield. "I found some tiny wild pears and put them in a sack I made by tying knots in Na's old dress. There were walnuts, too ... and mouse ears for greens, gone to seed but good enough for stewing with a bit of bacon." This is a world in which people cook and eat and clean, and go hungry and walk barefoot and sew their own clothes.

It's also a world in which social class and gender entirely determine each person's lot in life. The nobility, Sire Pava and Sire Galan and the First of Crux, are the Blood, descended from the gods and born to power. Everyone else is "mudfolk," made of the same stuff but without that ennobling admixture of divinity. Of course, a variety of factors complicate matters: Some families are higher than others; some lead and others follow; the servant of a cataphract commands more authority than that of an armiger. But by far the most significant determinant of status outside of the mud-Blood divide is gender. At every level, men outrank women. And Firethorn belongs to the lowest category of all: unmarried mudborn female.

Firethorn is the story of its narrator's struggle to negotiate her rigidly stratified world without relinquishing her identity or her dignity. At times, it's reminiscent of a slave narrative, so intensely and unflinchingly does Micklem depict the plight of a person convinced of her own worth and rights trapped in a society that accords her little or none. Brought before the First after Sire Rodela, in his bitter fury, has attacked her and cut a bloody strip from her pubic patch, Firethorn wonders, "If Sire Rodela had treated a horse as he'd treated me, would they have brought it to the tent for show? Perhaps they meant to parade me up and down so they could calculate my worth against the damage done and set the fine Sire Rodela must pay. I guessed they'd rate me far below a warhorse and maybe somewhat above a palfrey."

Yet Micklem never lets her sharp critique wander into diatribe--as in the slave narratives that it recalls, the ambiguity and complexity of the human drama serve to underline the cruelty and injustice on display. Some masters (such as Firethorn's original Dame) are kinder than others. The powerless find a good deal of pleasure and delight despite their hard lives. At times they even collude in their own degradation. And the forces of inculturation weigh heavily on everyone, master and servant alike, making it difficult even for the most compassionate to question the ways of the world. Galan genuinely appears to love Firethorn. "I thought a tumble or two would suffice," he confesses, perplexed by his own feelings. "But the more I had, the more I wanted.... I asked myself why I should be so content to lie beside you while you slept.... what appetite grows the more it is fed, and finds no surfeit?" But his love--his very capacity for it--is circumscribed by the habits and expectations he's absorbed since birth. He struggles to understand Firethorn and her rebelliousness; the stubborn self-respect that attracts him leaves him often baffled as well. At one point he whips her along with the rest of his servants for their disobedience--but, when she's put to a trial by ordeal in order to test the truthfulness of her accusations against Rodela, Galan impulsively joins her in the war dog pen, and shares her peril as a true lover would, though it further strains his relations with the First of his clan.

Firethorn is a powerful meditation on the evils bred in a society so firmly defined by distinctions of class and gender--a society like most of those in human history, and indeed unfortunately still resonant with the one we live in today. But it could not have achieved such power without the foundation laid by Micklem's mastery of style: the voice of her narrator, the thousand minute details of her world, the richly conceived mythology of the clans, the discipline of her prose, which all together produce an entirely credible, fully engrossing otherworld. It seems strange to call it an Elfland, since the world of Firethorn features so little of magic, and nothing at all like an elf. But an Elfland, in Le Guin's terms, it surely is--an invented place with all the coherence and consistency of the reality we know. Firethorn proves that fantasy, done right, can address the most vital issues as effectively as any other form of literature. Even better, perhaps, for as Le Guin tells us, "when fantasy is the real thing, nothing, after all, is realer."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Copyright 2006 by John Morressy. All rights reserved.

According to the lessons of the Trojan War, we should be wary of Greeks bearing gifts. A recent birthday card cleverly updated that warning to tell your editor to beware of geeks bearing gifts. But nobody ever said anything about fairies...

A handsome king and his beautiful queen had one child, a daughter, whom they resolved to cherish and protect and indulge as their greatest treasure.

Following ancient custom, they invited the good fairies of the kingdom to her christening. They did this not merely to safeguard themselves and the child against a breach of etiquette and the unpleasant consequences thereof, but also in the confidence that good fairies could be counted upon to bestow desirable gifts.

Theirs was a small kingdom. Only three fairies resided within its boundaries. They were sisters, very talented, and reputed to be generous toward newborn children, especially those of the better sort.

The fairies arrived separately and greeted one another cordially, but with no display of sisterly warmth. There was, in fact, a definite coolness in their relations, for they were highly competitive, and each believed that her area of specialization was insufficiently respected by her sisters. All three were touchy about what they considered the petty jealousy of the other two.

Delighted by the presence of the three sisters, the king and queen were oblivious to the frosty atmosphere. Had they been more observant, they might have had second thoughts about the invitation. But kings and queens have a way of seeing what they wish to see, rather than what is occurring before their eyes. Their attention was focused on gifts, not the givers.

Custom, and in some places, law, dictates that all good fairies be beautiful, dress in splendid gowns of moonbeams and gossamer, and have mellifluous and endearing names. The sisters observed the first two precepts to the letter: they were stunning beauties, impeccably groomed and magnificently attired. But they had no fondness for the kind of names popular among the fairies. "Titania" and "Gloriana" were tolerable, but only just; "Tinker Bell" they considered insufferably winsome, and "Puck" downright silly. They had chosen names they judged more suited to their station.

When the welcoming ceremonies were complete, and they were standing over the crib of little princess Infatuata, the oldest sister, Splendora, said, "I shall bestow on this child the gift of a lifetime of breathtaking loveliness. To the end of her days, no woman will ever surpass her in beauty." She turned to her sisters and with a benign smile said, "And what comparable gifts do you propose for this dear child?"

Scintillata, the second sister, gave her a cool glance. "Beauty is a pleasant acquisition, Splendora dear, but one must be constantly aware of it if she is fully to savor it. Therefore, to make up for your oversight I will give the little darling the gift of unshakable self-esteem."

The two then turned to the youngest sister, Exquisitina, and favored her with smug looks. "Your gift, dear sister?" said Splendora, and "Think carefully," said Scintillata.

"Unlike some people I know, it is my custom always to do so," said Exquisitina. "It is advisable for a princess to be beautiful, and sensible for her to be aware of her beauty, but it would be foolish indeed to waste a lifetime of beauty on the undiscriminating. I therefore give the child the gift of pickiness. She will never be satisfied with anything but the absolute best, especially in her choice of a consort."

The king and queen were delighted. They felt that they could not have asked for more. They lavished gifts upon the three good fairies, who accepted them graciously and departed on their separate ways.

Within six months, for reasons that were never made completely clear, the sisters had a terrible falling out. Words were spoken that made reconciliation impossible. They moved to lands far distant from one another, and were heard of no more.

The king and queen did not care. In truth, they were relieved. The fairies had done all that was expected of them, and had they remained in the kingdom and seen their gifts come to fruition in the Princess Infatuata, there was no telling what airs they might have assumed.

For Princess Infatuata grew up to be an extraordinarily beautiful young lady. She exhibited excellent taste in every choice she made, and her parents, being a king and queen with a royal treasury at their disposal, were able and willing to indulge her most exacting demands. She was so lovely that the people did not grumble at the frequent levies placed upon them in order to fulfill her whims. They took pride in knowing that their little kingdom was home to the loveliest princess in the world.

Infatuata, her parents, and their kingdom got along very happily through the years of her childhood and adolescence. As long as the little princess appeared in public now and then and the people had a good look at her, they were content. All things considered, the kingdom was a happy place.

When Infatuata reached the age of sixteen, the king and queen decided that it was time to begin planning her marriage. It went without saying that Princess Infatuata would settle for no ordinary husband. Only the finest, boldest, bravest, handsomest of men could aspire to her hand, and he must be nobly born, wealthy beyond imagining, and renowned for his great deeds and splendid character before he could be considered a worthy suitor. He must also be besotted with love for the princess; but that, everyone knew, would follow inevitably from a single glimpse of her.

The king and queen sat down with their wisest councilors to draw up a list of eligible princes. Applying the most stringent criteria, and always subject to Infatuata's veto, they came up with forty-three finalists. Messengers were then sent forth to deliver the invitations to a solemn ceremony at which the princess would be presented and the competition for her hand would be declared officially open.

After the usual delays and complications due to weather, traveling conditions, difficulties of communication, wars, and mistaken addresses, the eligible princes at last assembled in the palace on Princess Infatuata's seventeenth birthday. In the courtyard, steeds pranced and golden armor glittered. Within the great hall, resonant voices crossed and recrossed in brilliant, witty conversation. Eyes sparkled and teeth gleamed in the light of nine thousand candles and three thousand and eleven torches. The magnificence and splendor of the scene were unparalleled.

"We have brought together the best and the brightest, the boldest and noblest, the truest and the bravest, and also the handsomest, richest, and most powerful young men in the world," said the king, looking down on the assembled princes with Infatuata at his side. "What think you of them, my precious jewel?"

"Passable, Daddy," she said. "Just barely passable."

"I agree, dear, but this is the pick of the lot. I don't believe we'll find any better," said the queen.

The princess sighed. "I suppose not."

"And you do have to get married."

Sighing more deeply, Infatuata said, "I suppose so."

"I have thought long and deeply about the selection process," said the king. "We must set your suitors a task to perform as proof of their devotion. A bold feat to accomplish, a quest to go on, something like that."

"The usual thing is to make them go out and slay horrible monsters!" said the princess, clapping her hands in delight. "Let's do that."

"The only horrible monsters I know of are those dragons up in the mountains, and not one of these lads is a match for the smallest of them."

"Then they're certainly not good enough for me."

"No one is, my priceless treasure," said the queen, hugging her daughter. "But we must be practical. You've got to marry someone, and if the best available all get themselves eaten, there won't be anyone worthwhile left."

"A sensible observation," said the king. They all pondered for a time, and then he asked, "How about making them solve three riddles?"

Infatuata looked at him in alarm. "I don't want a husband who's too clever."

"That's no problem. Eliminate the ones who solve the riddles, and pick from among the others."

"I don't want to marry a dolt, either."

"She has a point there," said the queen. "Riddles won't do."

Once again they were all silent for a time. The princess sighed once again and said, "I suppose I absolutely must marry."

"Yes, my dear. Otherwise our line will die out. And I don't believe you'll ever have a better selection."

Infatuata stamped her perfectly shaped, dainty little foot and said, "Then I'll set them a task. But it won't be an easy one."

"Why should it be, my pet? You are the most desirable princess in the world, and a man ought to be willing to face horrifying dangers and excruciating hardships to win your favor," said her father, patting her cheek.

"I'll make them get me things. I'll require that they bring me back Medusa's comb, a cloak made of phoenix feathers, slippers of chimera's hide, and a drinking vessel made from the horn of a unicorn."

"Good. That's all useful stuff. But don't make it so easy."

They thought for a time, then Princess Infatuata burst into a merry laugh. "And they must swear to accomplish all this in twenty-four hours, or never to look at another woman in all their lives!"

"Oh, very good! What a wise little daughter you are, my paragon!" said the queen. "Do you think it might be a good idea to demand that those who fail forfeit all their worldly goods to you, as well?"

"Of course. In fact, I'll just require that the failures go off and hang themselves."

"An excellent idea, my sweet child, but impractical," said the king. "It might create hard feelings on the part of our neighbors. Let us do as your mother suggests."

With a careless gesture, Infatuata said, "Whatever you like, Daddy. I really don't care."

He took her arm, chuckling all the while, immensely pleased with his daughter's good sense. "Come, let us descend and announce our conditions."

As they passed through the crowd of handsome eligible young princes, a murmur of appreciation followed their progress. Whispered superlatives and sighs of longing were heard on all sides. Gorgeously gowned and heartbreakingly beautiful, Princess Infatuata strode through the crowd with her head high, eyes fixed straight before her, favoring no prince with so much as a glance.

The king ascended to his throne and raised his hand for silence. The princes gathered around, elbowing one another like commoners to obtain an unobstructed view. Following the king's brief welcoming speech, his herald read off the conditions for seeking the princess's hand. A profound silence followed, and lasted for an uncomfortably long time.

It was broken by the Prince of the Windswept Isles, who stepped forward and said, "I assume that these conditions are negotiable."

"Certainly not," said the king.

"You'll have to extend the time limit. I'll need at least a year to get those things," said the Prince of the Dark Valley.

"More like five," an unidentified prince shouted from the crowd. Others called out in support.

"Out of the question," said the king. "For anyone who truly loves my daughter, one day is too long to be away from the radiance of her presence."

The Prince of the Pebbly Shore said, "That part about forfeiting all our possessions has to go, Your Majesty. The princess is a lovely lady, no question about that, but I have obligations at home. I'm willing to risk a certain sum, not everything I own."

"Your objections attest to the shallowness of your affections," said the king, rising. "All who have spoken have revealed themselves unworthy of my daughter's hand. They may depart. The rest may remain and await further details."

An angry murmur arose from the assembly. A few of the princes laughed in unpleasant or scornful ways and started for the door. Others followed, though not without parting sighs and longing looks backward at the princess. The king and queen sensed that the mood was getting ugly, and slipped away with the princess, who seemed totally unconcerned.

Amid the resulting clamor and angry cries, the Prince of the Seven Sapphire Lakes climbed on a chair and announced, "My fellow princes, I have two sisters of marriageable age. I admit that their beauty does not equal that of the Princess Infatuata, but the same is true of every woman on Earth. That said, I give you my word that they are extremely comely, clever, and more than usually sweet-tempered, and the man who seeks their hand need not involve himself in a lot of crazy stunts, or ruin his life if he fails in his quest. What say you?"

His words were received with loud cries of approbation. A second prince made a similar announcement regarding his own sister, and a third spoke of his cousin, a princess in a neighboring kingdom who was stunning to behold, an excellent lutenist, a delight to converse with, and well schooled in the law, as well as having amiable and generous parents who could be counted on to treat a son-in-law with proper courtesy.

Caught up in a wave of enthusiasm, the princes were able to resist the undeniable attraction of Princess Infatuata, and the hall quickly emptied.

The king and queen were shocked at this display of callous selfishness on the part of young men of reputed good birth and upbringing. The princess merely smiled her dazzling smile and said, "Good riddance to them."

Word of the incident spread, and two years passed before another suitor visited the castle. The princess did not deign even to receive him. Broken-hearted, he climbed the highest tower of the royal palace and flung himself down, cracking the paving stones of the princess's favorite walk.

His inconsiderate behavior only made the situation worse. Two more years passed without a single prince appearing or a single inquiry about Princess Infatuata. Her parents grew concerned. Though they adored their daughter, they did not delude themselves about her ability to govern a kingdom alone. Her beauty was incomparable, but her statecraft was decidedly deficient.

"My dearest child, you are now twenty-one," her mother said to Infatuata on her birthday. "It's time that you found a heroic warrior with good administrative skills and settled down."

"Such men as you describe are invariably plain and dull and much the worse for wear," said the princess. "I will accept only a man of surpassing good looks who is prepared to devote his life to my happiness."

"Such a man might make a satisfactory husband, but he would make a very poor king. In fact, as I reflect on it, he would not be much of a husband, either. He would be constantly underfoot."

"It's no use, Mother. I was born to enjoy the very best of everything, and I intend to fulfill my destiny," said the Princess.

The king and queen were desperate. They no longer had any influence over the princess. Though her beauty would remain undiminished, Infatuata was getting on in years with no prospect of finding a suitable husband. Expert help was needed.

For some time, the suspicion had been growing in the minds of the king and queen that calling in the good fairies had been a mistake. But what magic had brought about, they told themselves, magic might correct.

The departure of the three good fairies had left a vacancy in the kingdom. It had been filled, in a fashion, only after nine years, when a good fairy retired to a cottage in the forest not far from the castle. Her arrival caused little stir, and practically no interest in her professional services. After nine years, the people had become accustomed to getting along without the assistance of good fairies, and seldom gave them a thought.

This was just what the good fairy had hoped for when she chose the kingdom. But she soon grew bored. Being a practical soul, she decided to pursue a new interest. She opened a bakery, which proved to be an instant success. As a neighborly gesture, she learned the birthday of every child in the kingdom, and to each child, on the appropriate date, she gave a special cookie. The ingredients were secret, but the results were spectacular: the child was healthy, happy, and well-behaved right up to his or her next birthday.

By the time the king and queen sought her aid, the fairy had become known as "Aunt Betty, The Cookie Lady," and her bakery was famous throughout the land. So esteemed was her pastry that almost everyone in the kingdom had forgotten that she was actually a good fairy. She was a great baker, and that was enough for them.

Betty Ann was as beautiful and ageless as all good fairies, but her taste was for subdued colors and subtle effects. Her apparel did not twinkle, nor did it sparkle. It did not even glimmer. It was attractive, but understated. Much of the time she wore an apron, and in place of the obligatory wand she employed a slender breadstick.

The king and queen had been aware of her presence in their kingdom, but it took a long time for them to reach the necessary stage of desperation to invite her to the palace. They did so in the most polite and flattering terms.

She turned down the invitation with equal politeness and flattery, explaining that she had given up good fairying long ago and wished only to concentrate on her baking. Along with her reply she sent a dozen of her most delicious cupcakes. The queen, close to despair, visited her cottage to appeal to her in person.

"Just this once," she said. "A quick visit. It would make my daughter so happy." She could not force herself to reveal the true problem.

"I might be a disappointment, Your Majesty," said the good fairy. "I can do wonders with cookies, but magic...." She made a wavering gesture with her hand, and shook her head slowly. "I've fallen out of practice."

"Just come to the palace. We ask no more," said the queen.

The good fairy wanted to be a good neighbor. She was also a savvy businesswoman, and was curious to see the picky princess of whom she had heard so much, and so she agreed to come to the palace the very next day.

When the king and queen presented her to Princess Infatuata, the princess was not impressed. In fact, she was downright rude. "I do not wish to meet this person. The company of anyone who calls herself 'Aunt Betty, The Cookie Lady' is certain to be tedious," she said.

The queen hurried to her side and whispered, "My precious, she is a good fairy."

"I find that difficult to believe. A good fairy would never choose such an unsuitable name. And just look at her outfit."

"I consider Betty Ann a very satisfactory name," said the fairy.

"Then you should be ashamed of yourself. And your appearance! You're wearing an apron in the royal presence."

"It is my custom to wear an apron."

"A good fairy should twinkle and gleam like starlight and moonbeams."

"I have never twinkled and gleamed, and I don't intend to. Go around twinkling and you never have a minute's privacy."

Curiosity overcame the princess's petulance. "Why would anyone want privacy? The whole purpose of life is to be surrounded by admirers."

The fairy was getting fed up with this treatment. With an exaggerated searching look around the chamber in which the four of them were seated, she said, "It is? And where are they?"

Before Infatuata could think of a crushing response, the queen said, "That's exactly the problem," and went on to give their visitor a brief and surprisingly truthful account of the situation.

Of course, the good fairy had taken care to learn the facts beforehand. She knew them within minutes of the queen's departure from her cottage bearing renewed hope and another dozen cupcakes. With a wise and comforting smile, she said, "What you need is a cookie, my dear princess. I've baked one especially for you," and drew from her reticule a packet wrapped in pink paper and tied with an elaborate bow. She opened it to reveal a vanilla raisin cookie sprinkled with sugar.

"Ugh," said Infatuata.

"Ugh? Did you say 'Ugh,' my dear child?"

"I did."

"And what, precisely, was the meaning of this 'Ugh'?"

"You offered me a plain and common cookie. The commonplace has no part in my life. I am accustomed only to the best. My usual sweet is Charlotte Malakoff aux Framboises. The berries are picked under my father's direct supervision by the most attractive members of the court."

"Very discerning of you, my dear princess. But this is no common cookie. It is the solution to all your problems."

"Problems are for ordinary people. I do not have problems, I create them," said Princess Infatuata.

"How fortunate for you. But in view of your exquisite taste, I find your reaction surprising. This is an exceptional cookie, a wondrous cookie, a unique cookie. It is, in fact, the perfect cookie."

"It is?" said Infatuata, her interest piqued.

"Could I offer the Princess Infatuata anything less?"

The princess could not dispute the point. "Of course not. Perhaps I will take just a nibble," she said.

She took the cookie in a delicate hand. She broke off a tiny bit and placed it daintily on her tongue. After the first tentative bite, she gave a little cry of delight and gobbled down the entire cookie. "That was delicious!" she cried. "In fact, were it not for my duty to retain my perfect figure, I might be tempted to...." Here she paused for a great yawn. "How strange," she murmured. "My beauty sleep is not due for another twenty-six minutes, yet I feel an overwhelming drowsiness. You will excuse me."

The princess swept from the room in her customary manner. The queen turned to the good fairy and said, "What can be done for her?"

"It's been done."

"Already?" said the king, looking impressed. He was not accustomed to such efficiency.

"That was a magic cookie. Your daughter will sleep until those ridiculous gifts wear off."

"Wonderful! Oh, thank you, thank you," said the queen, tearful with joy. To her husband, she said, "We'd better start drawing up a list of princes right away."

"There's no rush," said the good fairy. "She'll be asleep for at least a hundred years."

"A hundred years!?" cried the king.

"Give or take a decade. She was overloaded with fairy gifts. Too many for the poor child to handle. I can't understand how responsible fairies could place such a strain on a baby, but that lot you had to the christening ... those three couldn't even choose sensible names for themselves. I hope they've found another line of work."

"Our beautiful Infatuata ... sleeping for a hundred years ... whatever shall we do?" sobbed the queen.

"Keep her comfortable, and dust her off every week or so. The magic will take care of everything else," said the good fairy, and with a wave of her breadstick, she vanished.

This all took place many centuries ago, and nothing further is known of Infatuata, her parents, or their kingdom from that day on. As far as anyone knows, Aunt Betty, The Cookie Lady, did nothing more in the magic line. She ran a successful bakery business for many years, and expanded into all the neighboring kingdoms. It exists to this day as a tiny part of a major international petroleum, pharmaceutical, telecommunication, and cookie conglomerate.

It is safe to assume that the princess awoke one morning as lovely as ever and very well rested, and once she had been brought up to date, married a suitable prince and settled down cheerfully to a comfortable life in a palace with all modern conveniences. She may even have lived happily ever after. People sometimes do.

[Back to Table of Contents]

When Hurricane Katrina hit the Big Easy, our favorite chronicler of weird New Orleans was safely ensconced in a rented home in Mississippi. The ensuing weeks without regular access to mail or to telephone service gave him a lot of time to work, so we can promise you that we'll have more of Mr. Cowdrey's magic in the months ahead. Of this story, however, it must be noted that it was finished well before Katrinia was even a tropical storm and its setting is north of New Orelans. (Not that we think either of these points detract from it--we just want to set the record straight.)

I remember the ambulance careening toward the hospital, siren howling and braying by turns ... enormous young men flashing lights into my eyes, running needles into my flaccid veins ... the controlled chaos of the emergency room.

I remember a resident in green scrubs demanding, "Where'd you dig him up?" One of the EMTs mumbled a reply, and the doctor shouted, "In a graveyard??"

I remember the beeping machines, the needles, the IVs. A slick tube sliding down my throat, the warm feel of liquid nourishment beginning to fill my shrunken stomach.

I remember being born to a second life.

After resting for a while in the ICU, I wound up in a rather comfortable locked ward, wearing blue pajamas that lacked a drawstring--I suppose to discourage suicide.

Other men similarly attired filled the ward; some were masturbating, some playing chess, some conversing with invisible comrades, some watching a futuristic marvel often predicted in newsreels of the Thirties and Forties: television! and in technicolor!

By this time I was thinking coherently and able to say to myself: this is where I am; but when am I?

A fat man working an Evening Sun crossword puzzle kindly loaned me a section of his newspaper, and as I stared at the date--September 30, 1999--I felt the ward begin to whirl around my head, and had to sit down quickly.

Just then an orderly appeared, pushing a cart filled with little paper cups that he handed out, one to each patient.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Something to make you sleep."

I fell into such a fit of laughter that they had to put me into restraints. Another needle pricked my arm and I passed out, shouting, "Call me Rip! Call me Rip!"

Of course I meant Van Winkle.

My strange sleep habits first appeared an hundred years ago, when I was young.

Oh, once awakened I was sprightly enough, exploding with all the random energies of boyhood. But when I slept, my breathing became so slow as to make Mama fear that it might cease for good. And come the dawn, I clung to unconsciousness like a remora to its favorite shark. Even when consciousness returned, I spent anything from a few minutes to half an hour in a most unpleasant state--hearing everything that went on around me (including Dad, shouting, "Up! You lazy devil, up!") yet unable to move even an eyelid.

Nowadays scientists call this sleep paralysis. Dad had more vigorous names for it. He was a thick-bodied red-faced man, known to the servants (who were constantly being hired and fired) as Mr. Bang. He seemed to pole-vault out of bed, wide awake from the termination of his last snore, ready to swallow breakfast at a gulp and rush off to his brewery to catch any tardy employees and fire them on the spot.

Before departing he would shake me into a zombie-like state, a kind of stupefaction. After spooning in breakfast half-consciously, I'd set out for school, only to fall asleep on the trolley car, miss my stop and arrive late to class. Inevitably, my grades were poor. Whenever Dad wasn't blaming me for the problem, he blamed Mama.

He recalled that her brothers were sluggards and lie-abeds, and accused her of infecting his own vigorous stock with the "germ of laziness." This despite the fact that Mama herself was a hard and submissive worker--as she had to be, under such a taskmaster.

Dad had some hope that the onset of puberty would change me. But I seemed reluctant to mature. Long after my friends' voices had broken (and their faces had broken out) I retained a smooth, childish visage and a distressingly high voice. The hint of effeminacy was the last straw, as far as Dad was concerned; in the fall of 1910 he sent me as a boarding pupil to Lynwood Academy in rural Pennsylvania, whose principal had the reputation of knowing what to do with unsatisfactory boys.

The academy was a single stark brick building in a neat Quaker quilt of cornfields, meadows, and paddocks filled with drowsy horned cattle, whose peaceful lives I soon came to envy. I slept in the dormitory ell, and at dawn, when my roommates had failed to rouse me--when the bullies had dragged me to the floor and poured cold water on me in vain--Dr. Lynwood was sent for.

No writer but Poe could convey the awful fear I felt, lying immobilized and hearing the principal's thundering footsteps approach, accompanied by a soft whistling sound as he took practice swings with a two-foot, brass-bound ruler. My pajamas did not afford me the slightest protection from the sudden, explosive shocks of pain on my thighs and buttocks as Dr. Lynwood, in his own inimitable way, roused me from slumber.

During the Easter vacation my mother happened to see me trouserless in the bathroom, and grew alarmed over the multicolored bruises decorating my southern exposure. So she took me to our family doctor--a man as inept as he was kindly, and as kindly as he was inept--and explained my troubles at school.

"My young friend," said the doctor, beaming upon me, "you are merely going through a phase. What can be more natural than for a youth to sleep long and deeply? I've known other adolescents to sleep for ten, twelve, or even fourteen hours at a stretch. Their bodily energies are being poured into growth--"

He hesitated, viewing my puny form, and corrected himself--"or else are attempting to make up for lost time."

At Mama's request he wrote a letter declaring that my sleeping habits were healthy, natural, and in no way blameworthy. On my return to the academy I presented Dr. Lynwood this note, along with my mother's addendum forbidding him to beat me out of slumber ever again.

And indeed he never did. Instead, he expelled me from school.

"You are a great disappointment to me," said Dad on a Friday evening in April 1911, when I returned home from Lynwood Academy, carrying my battered suitcase.

He was drinking brandy, and the volatile almost incandescent smell of that noble drink has ever afterward been a reminder of humiliation and defeat. In his resonant baritone, he read me Dr. Lynwood's letter, his normally red face going scarlet, crimson, fuchsia, and magenta in turn:

It is with a heavy heart that I inform you, Mr. Fogarty, that your son Edward is utterly incapable of completing the requirements of a certificate from Lynwood Academy.

I blame this sad outcome upon your lady wife and her medical adviser. Perhaps I am old-fashioned, but I feel that continuing my original course of severe chastisement might well have altered the perverse disposition that causes Edward to take refuge from Life and Duty in the dark womb of Nescience.

I would like to offer you some gleam of hope for your son's future, but cannot in conscience do so. Even as a common soldier--the lowliest of all human callings--he would be shot for sleeping on sentry-duty.

"Well," Dad went on, after a moment of grim silence, "I suppose it's obvious that you cannot possibly remain in this house, for I refuse to support you in your vicious and depraved indolence. You needn't go tonight--that would be excessively harsh--but don't bother to unpack, for as God is my witness, you will leave in the morning."

My voice had finally broken, but I still tended to squeak under stress. "How am I supposed to live?" I shrilled, causing Dad to look upon me with even deeper disgust than before.

"That is your problem. You are seventeen years of age, and have received as much of an education as you are fitted to absorb. People have made their way in the world with less. Good-night."

Mama rustled up some dinner and brought it to my bedroom, since Dad refused to look at me while he was eating. Sitting beside me on the child's cot that had always been my bed, she pressed into my hand a small roll of bills saved from her housekeeping allowance. Both of us were weeping, yet even at this most poignant moment of my young life I felt a profound urge to seek my usual refuge in sleep.

Next morning I awoke stiff and cold. Every instinct bade me remain unconscious, for I faced the life that lay ahead of me--as an outcast and a wanderer--with terror and revulsion. Yet face it I must, for I knew that if I failed to go, Dad would boot me into the street whether I was awake or asleep.

Slowly, painfully, I opened my eyes and began to move limbs that felt as if they had rusted in place. Creaking to my feet at last, I dashed cold water on my face, dressed, put a few extra clothes into my suitcase and left the house quietly--longing only (as Dr. Lynwood had expressed it) to return to the dark womb of Nescience.

I had lived all my life in Burgville, Maryland, a small city or overgrown town on Chesapeake Bay that later disappeared into the sprawl of its great neighbor, Baltimore.

I remember its red-brick rowhouses, a Siamese tribe marching shoulder to shoulder, up hill and down dale; the coal-smoke brooding over its snowy slate roofs during winter time; and the breathless midsummer heat in its narrow stony streets, where clouds of flies hovered over the horse-droppings.

To these scenes, the march of progress had added the blue smoke and explosive farting of motor-cars. Charming gaslights had given way to garish Edison bulbs, ambling horse-cars to electric trolleys. That Saturday morning I waited on a misty sun-shot corner for one of the latter, not knowing which line I should take--nor did it seem to matter, since I did not know where I was going.

When a car clanged up, I paid my nickel and found a seat. The line ran into the bustling center of town, and I gazed miserably at the hurrying people, all of whom had someplace to go and something to do once they got there.

At one point the trolley stopped in front of a building I remembered visiting years before with my grammar-school class. It was called the Museum of Nature and Science, and a fat little man with a huge bald head was engaged in posting a sign on the door. I caught a brief glimpse of its message; then the trolley clanged on, while the words slowly registered in my clouded mind.

Abruptly I snatched at the bell-cord, jumped off at the next stop, and hurried back, suitcase banging at my legs. For the sign had said Watchman Wanted, Nights and Holidays.

So began my first experience in earning a living. The museum's director, Morris Holmes, B.S., M.S., Ph.D., closely questioned me as to my reason for seeking work. On the spur of the moment I told him that I was an orphan--which was exactly how I felt--obliged to work while completing my education.

This story at once raised me above the seedy level of the watchman profession. Dr. Holmes still had doubts about my age, but I assured him that my eighteenth birthday was fast approaching.

"I should have thought you fourteen at most," he said. "I cannot possibly pay a mere child more than a dollar and a half for each day or night of work."

I told him that figure would admirably meet my needs, and he agreed to try me out. I was to report for work that evening at seven sharp; under the Blue Laws then in force, nothing but churches and hospitals could remain open on Sunday, and so I would be in charge until the new week began.

Delighted at having gained employment so quickly, I ate a hearty fifteen-cent breakfast at a greasy spoon, and afterward found a boarding house displaying a to let sign and rented a small, stuffy bedroom for four dollars a week, the price to include dinner each day.

I put my gear into my room, which smelt of mothballs and varnish, then lunched on a huge sandwich and set out to examine my new neighborhood. I was strolling randomly, feeling comfortable in gut and mind, when all at once I began to taste something that was not greenish aged beef, German mustard, or limp shredded lettuce.

Halting so suddenly that a lady walking behind ran into me, I realized that I was tasting freedom: that I was really free for the first time. I began to walk faster and faster, until people turned to stare at me. I frisked, I ran, I fairly galloped uphill and down. I rushed into Memorial Park, a weedy site with a bronze statue of U. S. Grant on horseback, where I sprang upon a grove of juvenile plane trees, swinging from branch to branch and giving vent to war-whoops.

When at last my energy was spent, I threw myself down on the grass and panted, happy as a terrier after frenzied play. Even today--ninety-three years later--I can still smell the crushed green grass stems, still feel the gentle play of sunlight and dancing leaf-shadows upon my face.

Nobody will beat me! I thought over and over. Never again!

In my lifetime, Dad accidentally did me three great favors. He begot me; he threw me out of the house; and ... but I'll come to his third favor in a moment.

I returned to my room, laid my few clothes in a musty dresser whose drawers were lined with wax paper, and at five o'clock, when a brazen gong sounded, joined the landlady--a stout, fiercely corseted woman named Grunion--and her eight other guests in the gloomy dining room.

At first I merely stuffed my face, hardly noticing my housemates save as a collection of suits and dresses resembling clothing-store dummies. They were passing cracked serving dishes heaped with potatoes and cabbage, and conversing (or at any rate talking) in loud voices.

"Pickles, please." "The weather is surprisingly warm for this time of year." "Potatoes?" "Our army's efforts to civilize the Filipinos seem to be bearing fruit at last." "President Taft is quite amazingly fat, is he not?" "Mustard, please."

"Excuse me."

A young lady seated across the table was addressing me. Tightly wound plaits of reddish hair topped a small pointed face vaguely reminiscent of a white mouse, minus the fur and whiskers.

"Yes?"

"I wonder if I might trouble you for the chow-chow."

I passed her a saucer of this loathsome relish, and we introduced ourselves. Her name was Myra Means, and she taught Deportment, Reading, Composition, Bicycling, Field Hockey, and Music Appreciation at a local young ladies' seminary.

"That seems a great deal to teach," I suggested.

She sighed like one already disappointed by life. "Since my pupils are interested only in boys, scandal, and the latest fashions from Paris, it hardly seems to matter whether they learn their lessons or not. And you, Mr. Fogarty: What is your profession?"

Since the working-my-way-through-school story had succeeded once, I hauled it out again.

"Actually, I'm planning to enter college in the fall term, so I spend all day reading up on subjects where I know I'm weak. I work in the museum at night."

I saw at once that she was favorably impressed. "You work both day and night!" she exclaimed. "Surely that leaves you no time for sleep?"

At this I choked on my food, and the gentleman sitting next to me had to pound me on the back. Once my throat cleared, I chatted with Myra through the rest of the meal, parting from her with reluctance only when I was due at the museum.

Thus all unknowing did I meet for the first time the Dominatrix of my life--she who would save it, enrich it, and in time almost end it. Only a Delphic Oracle could have foretold such an outcome, and (oracles being what they are) would probably have foretold it only in riddles.

On the way to work I revisited the greasy spoon, purchased another sandwich to tide me over Sunday, and presented myself to Dr. Holmes on the dot of seven.

After locking up, I spent half an hour wandering through my new domain, turning lights on and off as I went. In the Great Hall of Life I viewed the skeleton of a Megatherium and a dramatic group with a stuffed lion attacking a moth-eaten dromedary. Other exhibits included pickled snakes in bottles, moths impaled on pins, an array of dried turtle shells, and--Dr. Holmes's only truly unique exhibit--the very last Passenger Pigeon on Earth, with a card thanking the hunter who had shot it, for presenting the museum with this interesting rarity.

The Great Hall of Progress included some elderly steam engines, newer internal-combustion engines, pictures of the Wright Brothers' aeroplane, a static-electricity device that gave me a wicked shock when I spun a wheel, and a primitive adding-machine called a comptometer. The prize exhibit was a Maxim gun, with a tag explaining how this wonderful invention enabled a few soldiers of the Civilized World to introduce whole native tribes en masse to the benefits of Christianity and Science.

All of this I found tremendously interesting and exciting. Free from the tyrannies of home and school, I seemed to stand upon the threshold both of a new life--and a new era. How wonderful, I thought, is Progress! Life marches on, from the Megatherium to the aeroplane--from teeth and claws to Maxim guns. What new marvels would I live to see?

Wearied by my exciting day, I stretched out on a bench in the Great Hall of Life, and--after a few confused dreams of great things to come--sank into the sweetest sleep I'd ever known.

I was awakened by the sound of rattling wheels and the horn of a motor-car in the street outside. Morning light fell upon my closed eyelids; when at last I was able to open them, I saw sunlight pouring in through a clerestory above the Great Hall.

At first I couldn't imagine where I was; I felt stiff as a poker. Then sight of the stuffed lion brought memory flooding back. Slowly life was restored to my limbs and I became able to rise, even to run in place a few steps to get my blood pumping again. Someplace a clock with Westminster chimes struck eight.

I found the Gentlemen's, washed my face and hands, and retrieved my hero sandwich, which seemed unusually sodden and unappetizing. But I ate it anyway, for my appetite was ravenous. I was strolling through the museum, making a perfunctory inspection, when loud knocking began at the front door. I opened it to find Dr. Holmes outside.

"Ah, Edward," he said. "I seem to have misplaced my key. Glad to find you awake and alert. I trust everything went well over Sunday?"

Without waiting for an answer he bustled past me in the direction of his office. For the first time I took in the volume of traffic, the clanging trolleys, the crush of horse-drawn vehicles, the tooting motor-cars with their goggled drivers, the blue-helmeted policeman at the corner raising his baton. A less Sabbath-like scene I never saw.

A paperboy wearing a checked cap and knee-pants was yelling the news of the day--the Kaiser was at it again, threatening war over something or other--and I paid three cents for a paper, for no reason but to view the date.

Yes, it was Monday.

I turned back into the museum in a daze. I assisted Dr. Holmes to open, received $4.50 for two nights and a day of labor, then bade him farewell until the evening.

Walking in the direction of my boarding house, I brooded about my astonishing weekend sleep of some forty hours. Surely this could not be normal! Was I really infected with the germ of laziness, and without Dad or Dr. Lynwood to awaken me, would I sleep longer and longer until I died?

Turning abruptly on my heel, I set off in a different direction, headed for Burgville's brand-new Carnegie Free Library--determined not to rest, until I found out the truth about my strange condition.

Upon the portico of a limestone Acropolis, chiseled letters announced Mr. Carnegie's intention of making knowledge available "to All Persons, However Lowly and Useless They May Be." That was encouraging; the philanthropist seemed to be speaking directly to me.

Inside, card catalogues gleaming with new varnish stood against one wall. A translucent lady presiding at an elevated desk left her eyrie long enough to show me how to use them, and for the first time in my life I settled down for serious brainwork upon a topic that deeply interested me.

A search under the heading Sleep revealed one book on Sleeping Sickness. But it turned out to be about tropical diseases. An information card advised See also Catalepsy; Coma; Dementia Praecox; Hibernation; Trance. I filled out more call slips, sent them down to the stacks--and what a strange conglomeration of books the clanking dumbwaiter returned!

How many forms sleep takes! How mysterious it is, and how little understood, though we all spend at least a third of our lives in it! In a kind of drunkenness, I sent for new books even before I had plumbed the old, flipping pages and scanning for a glimpse of my own condition--which I found at last in a small, quaint treatise called Hibernative States.

I must confess that precisely what it said has long since grown dim in my mind. Not only because so much time has passed, but because I subsequently read so many other books on the same subject.

Yet I must have learned some elementary things about the lengthy naps taken by an improbable bestiary of fish, snakes, frogs, dormice, and bears; about the suppression of their bodily functions; about their radically slowed heart-rate and breathing; about their ability to retain urine without suffering uremic poisoning; about their plummeting body temperatures--in the case of one snoozing rodent, to twenty-seven degrees Fahrenheit!--which, for reasons unknown, did not result in injury or death.

With growing excitement, I learned that some species experience a similar state for a shorter time: for example, the hummingbird sinks into a kind of trance at night, which is fortunate, since its metabolism is so rapid that it would otherwise starve to death before dawn!

So, I reflected, an animal may lie entranced for a night, or a month, or a season. Some sleep much longer. Certain fish and toads that live in desert regions hibernate for long years, until the erratic rainfall returns and summons them back to life. Strange stories, never entirely verified, suggested that some cold-blooded creatures may have survived for centuries, after being walled up by accident or mischance!

It was at this point in my reading--sitting there in the quiet of the Carnegie library, with the translucent lady hovering at her desk--that I experienced sudden enlightenment. If I hadn't been struck dumb, I might have shouted, "Eureka!" or (a word just then coming into use) "Bingo!!"

At last I knew the name of my condition. It was not a disease, and still less a sin. It was a natural occurrence, like the change of seasons or the phases of the moon. How it had come about, I did not know; I could only accept the fact that I was the world's first, and perhaps only, Hibernating Man.

On my way to work that night, I paused at a hardware store, where for one dollar I purchased a brass alarm clock that I was assured would "wake the dead." In the museum, I set the clock for six, wound the springs tight, and lay down to sleep with my mind in a tumult over all I had lately seen, discovered, and thought.

I played with pleasant fancies of drowsy chipmunks and weary hamsters; of dormice wearing little nightshirts; of hedgehogs curled in spiny slumber. Then I plunged--for the first time diving, rather than sinking--into the depths, until wakened by my shrilling alarm, with all the customary agonies which now I bore uncomplaining, since I felt I understood their cause.

As usual, I repaired to the Gentlemen's to relieve myself, wash my face, and slick down my hair. Yet this morning was different. Gazing at the image of the fresh-faced youth in the clouded mirror above the wash-basin, I began to have an extraordinary feeling that I knew something I had not known last night. A bell was ringing once again, only this time inside my head!

Why is my upper lip nude? I asked myself. Why am I so small for my age, though both my parents are of normal size? Why do I let adults bully me, when I am of an age that resists authority, with its fists if necessary?

I thought also of intimate things that had caused me untold shame--for example, the fact that my face was not the only part of me that had too long remained hairless, exposing me to cruel jests in changing-rooms at gymnasiums and swimming-baths. I thought of dirty jokes told by my schoolmates that passed completely over my head, and of the busy (and to me incomprehensible) creaking of bunks after lights-out at Lynwood Academy.

When my new idea came, it came full-formed. If all my bodily processes slowed radically when I slept, might I be aging less rapidly than other people? What if I was younger than my years, not from some freak of retarded development, but simply because I had not--physiologically speaking--lived as long as my contemporaries? People spoke of Time as if it were common to all; but what if each of us has an internal clock whose pace is unique?

I thought of those walled-in frogs, snoozing away the centuries, and I began to wonder whether--if only I slept long enough--I might outlive my generation by many years!

This thought so astounded me that I could barely mumble a good-morning to Dr. Holmes when he arrived. After receiving one large dollar bill and five dimes for my night's work, I hastened--indeed, I ran--to the library and again plunged into the card catalogue. Now I was searching for the literature of prophecy.

It proved easy to find, for writers in those days were vying with one another to describe the glories they thought would fill the Twentieth Century. From the likes of Jules Verne, H. G. Wells, and G. B. Shaw, I learned that the future promised the final and total conquest of disease--the replacement of our corrupt and rotten economic system by a beneficent socialism--the Earth ruled by a Parliament of Mankind--and universal peace established, with freedom and justice for all!

Verne and Wells even predicted that men would one day walk upon the Moon--and I, Edward Fogarty, if only I slept long enough, might live to see all these things accomplished!

Late that afternoon (I was still raptly reading) a disturbance caused me to look up in annoyance. Miss Means had walked in, leading a parade of ginghamed gigglers. The party spent a great deal of time at the desk, being lectured to by the translucent lady on the resources of the library--a subject that did not appear to interest the girls very much. I began to fear that Miss Means might leave without noticing me, and rose to my feet and waved at her the instant she turned in my direction.

This produced a great reaction in the girls, who stopped giggling and stared at me as if I were unclothed. But Miss Means was up to the situation; she frowned at first, as if I were a "masher" who had accosted her on the street: then she bestowed upon me a benign but impersonal smile, like the one seen on statues of the Blessed Virgin.

"Ah, Mr. Fogarty," she said, approaching and extending her hand in a businesslike way. "I did not recognize you at first. Girls, this is Mr. Edward Fogarty, a distant cousin of mine who is readying himself to enter college this fall. All of you might well imitate his scholarship and determination to succeed."

I observed that as soon as I was transformed into a relative and--worse yet--a moral model, the girls lost all interest in me, and the whole party soon left the library. That evening at supper, Myra apologized for her white lie.

"You have no idea," she sighed, "how foolish my girls are, and what a tale they would have made of our acquaintanceship, had I not said what I did."

"I thought you handled everything beautifully," I assured her.

"I am so glad you feel that way. I was afraid you might think I had gone to the library expressly to see you, though nothing was further from my thoughts."

I assured her that nothing was further from mine than suspecting her of wanting to see me. By such small and harmless lies are relationships cemented, and in time lives changed forever. For now I felt assured that Miss Means found me interesting, which made me all the more interested in her, and soon a fragile romance began to unfold its first small leaves.

In the beginning, it was utterly innocent--considering my physical immaturity, it could hardly have been anything more.

On Saturday mornings we drank soda-water at a local fountain--laughing when the bubbles tickled our noses--ate ice cream from a hand-cranked freezer, and listened to a brass band playing noisy Offenbach and noisier Sousa in the park.

As our acquaintance ripened, we became what a later generation would have called "an item." Neighbors smiled to see us together; I bought for one dollar a straw skimmer, and when I tipped it to passing ladies, with my own lady on my arm, began to feel as if I might one day become a man after all. And indeed--as summer ripened into a long golden fall, fall slumped into winter, and winter flowered into spring--I found myself changing, and sensuality beginning to intrude upon our lives.

As if summoned forth by Myra's presence, a fine stubble appeared on my upper lip, and I began shaving it carefully every day in hopes of stimulating its growth. Silken body hair sprouted like fresh grass on a barren landscape. A certain part of my anatomy woke from long hibernation and began to display erratic but surprising vigor.

At night, before sinking into the dark waters of Nescience, I began having vivid dreams in which Myra and I did some remarkable things. I was even more shy and formal with her after such dreams, lest she suspect the basic foulness of my nature. And yet--and yet. A fire had come into our relationship. New-wakened lust mingled with my dreams of the future to create a heady brew.

For I continued to refine my hopes of long life. If I was to experience the wonders of the glorious Future, clearly I had to find a way to sleep even longer than I was already doing. An image danced before my mind of a human life unlike any other. Like the wise bruin, I would hibernate for, say, six months out of the year and live a more or less normal life for the rest. By disciplining my gift, I hoped to live 120 or even 150 years--barring accidents--while observing the interesting changes which must occur in that long time.

I would marry often and leave a vast progeny by a succession of beautiful consorts, whom I would compassionately pension off when they grew too old to satisfy my ever-young desires. In the end, by virtue of my rich and unique experience, I planned to write a book that would supersede all Bibles and Korans, revealing the course of human destiny and insuring my fame forever!

Such was my modest plan. It was in this complex of heated dreams and rosy-hued prophetic visions that I began to think about marrying Myra, and making her my first consort.

Why not? I felt at last physically ready for the husband's role. I was under the usual delusion that two can live as cheaply as one. Myra had her small salary to contribute; I had my profession as a night-watchman; together we could surely afford a room with a double bed. What more, I asked myself, did we need?

But when I tremblingly broached the topic, Myra informed me that we could not even discuss it until I had finished college, obtained a permanent position, and had one thousand dollars in the bank. This was my first encounter with the tough-minded realism of which she would later give so many--ultimately such deadly--proofs.

My only consolation was that she hinted her willingness to wait for me. That was good of her, considering that the proposed wait struck me as an eternity, or possibly two eternities. Who could have imagined that Dad, of all people, would suddenly open the way to the fulfillment of all my desires?

Despite all the advantages I'd gained by being thrown out of the house, I loathed Dad, for I understood perfectly that he wished me no good, and that my new-found happiness had come about entirely by accident.

On the other hand, I loved Mama, and kept in touch with her during all the time I lived at Mrs. Grunion's. Like all thriving communities of that period, Burgville boasted a telephone exchange. Although the charge of a nickel seemed high to me (was a phone call really worth one-third of a breakfast, or one-half of a schooner of beer?), I called Mama from the library at least twice a week during the day, when Dad was unlikely to be home.

About ten o'clock upon a Tuesday morning in May 1912, I cranked the gadget vigorously and, when the operator answered, said in a loud penetrating voice, "Five-nine-one, please." At the other end came the usual click, followed by the sound of weeping.

"Mama, what's wrong?"

"Edward, you must be strong. This morning your father read in the Sunpaper that Samuel Gompers is demanding the eight-hour day for workers. He began ranting about Communism, turned a quite extraordinary color, and pitched over dead upon the breakfast table! The doctors say he died of an apoplectic stroke. Please, please come at once."

Well, I will not pretend that I grieved very long. When, a few days later, I saw Dad's corpse--Mama had employed an embalmer who applied one deft touch of rouge to his cheeks, so that he looked much more natural than in life--I experienced a painful confusion of feelings. I suppose you cannot help loving your father, even if you hate him; I certainly did both, and turned away from the coffin, where it rested upon trestles in our parlor, with a shudder of revulsion that ended, strangely enough, in tears.

On the morrow, I supported Mama through the tedium of a church funeral followed by Dad's interment in a pompous mausoleum with marble crypts and an iron gate, where generations of Fogartys were stored up to await the Resurrection. And from that time to this, I never willingly thought about the man again.

At home after the funeral, Mama and I anxiously discussed our future, whose lineaments we thought we saw only too clearly. She assumed that Dad in some way had embargoed his money, so that instead of squeezing a few dollars from him every week, she would have to beg from a skinflint banker. I expected to be disinherited, and if Mama was right, I could not expect even an allowance from her.

It was only a week later--after talking to Dad's lawyer, searching his bank-box, and going through his desk--that we came to realize the truth. Dad had left no will at all! For all his noisy forcefulness of manner, he had been afraid to confront his own mortality. Thus Mama, as his spouse, and I as his only child became co-heirs to the brewery and everything else he possessed--the whole amounting in value to one hundred fifty-three thousand, two hundred sixteen dollars and ninety-one cents. In those times, a small fortune!

The court appointed Mama trustee until I arrived at the magic age of twenty-one. She installed Dad's long-suffering foreman as manager, where he gave every satisfaction, and the brewery--now running more efficiently, since workers were not being fired and new ones hired every day--was soon yielding us a handsome income of five thousand a year.

Suddenly the way to the shining Future seemed to lie wide open. I renewed my offer of marriage to Myra, pointing out to her that even though I had not gone to college, I now had considerably more than one thousand dollars. Confidently I awaited her passionate Yes, and was amazed to receive instead a cool and rather distant Maybe.

I was put on probation, and Myra, in firm schoolmistress fashion, devoted the next half-year to housebreaking me. Her mantra (as we would say today) was, "Edward, I have needs too, which you must learn to respect."

And learn I did. Even today, in my dreams I hear her voice saying bossily, "Edward, gentlemen walk on the outside, so that if a motor-car jumps the curb, it will hit them first." Again I go shopping with her on a school holiday. Dear God, the exquisite boredom of it! The impossibility of saying anything she would agree with!

"What do you think of this color, Edward?"

"Beautiful!"

"Do you think so? I don't like it at all."

In dreams I taste again my first kiss (really!), stolen in Memorial Park, with General Grant and his bronze horse looking on. I submerge again into our first serious embrace, at the door of the museum as I was going in to work, and hear her firm voice saying, "No more, Edward--that is enough!"

While all this training went on, I lay alone during the day, sweating at every pore as I thought of Myra's demure bed less than fifty feet away--both bed and occupant, of course, eternally beyond my reach. Oh, the nights of hibernation! The days of hopeless lust!

In desperation I began reading the Agony Column of the local paper, marking and then scratching out such items as "Christian Lady desires to find Honorable Gentleman as escort to the Presbyterian Church on Sabbaths"--a come-on that remains in my memory as the most depressing I've ever read. I might have fallen prey to the "Mature Gentlewoman of Independent Means" who desired to "meet a younger Gentleman, in whom she might take a Maternal Interest"--had not Myra, at long last, accepted me.

A frenzy of preparations began that I still look back upon with horror and dismay. Well, well, it was all long ago--and thank heaven, time does dull the memory of suffering. Suffice it to say that we were wed at last. Dr. Holmes acted as my best man, presenting the fang of a saber-toothed tiger as his wedding gift. Mama, who had accepted the match with deepest reluctance, wept steadily throughout the entire ceremony. Had I known what lay in store, I would have wept with her.

The new Mr. and Mrs. Edward Fogarty honeymooned in St. Michael's on the Eastern Shore. And it was there, in an upstairs room of a pleasant old wooden hotel--with the salt smell of the Chesapeake blowing in an open window and a bowl of potpourri exhaling on the mantelpiece--that I revealed to Myra that she had married the world's only Hibernating Man.

Somehow I had never found an opportunity to convey this information before, and she took it very badly.

"What exactly do you mean by that?" she asked in what I had already identified as her "dangerous" voice.

At the time we were snuggled deep beneath the quilts on a peaceable Sunday morning. Feeling infinitely comfortable beside her scented body, which was emitting a delicious warmth, I drowsily began to explain.

"Have you not," I asked, "noticed how deeply I sleep, and how hard it is to awaken me?"

Well, of course she had. I had just learned that last night she'd spoken to me for nearly three hours about the happy prospects she foresaw for our union, provided I could overcome the defects of my character and learn to appreciate her needs, before noticing that I was totally unconscious: moreover, that I could not be roused so that she could upbraid me.

Briefly and not very clearly, I explained to her the nature of hibernation and what it would mean for our life together. Suddenly it was as if I were back at home, with a cleverer version of Dad in charge. Myra grilled me with an intensity and degree of dark suspicion that would have done honor to Teddy Roosevelt when he was cleaning graft out of the New York City Police Department.

"Surely," she exclaimed, "you must have tried to cure this perverse disposition!"

With some heat I pointed out that hibernating was neither perverse nor was it a disposition; that it was a natural process practiced by everything from bears to dormice; that my nature was what it was, and that my great ambition in life was to sleep more, not less, in order to live for centuries.

At this, she rose up in bed with lightning darting out of her eyes. "Have I married a man, or a dormouse? How could you have concealed all this from me until now, when it is too late for me to sever all connection with a person given to abnormal habits and mad ambitions?"

That day she spent approximately seven hours working me over with what I discovered to be a very rough tongue. Admittedly, she had some powerful arguments. I had unwittingly deceived her, on the childish assumption that she would adopt my view whenever I chose to reveal it to her.

By the end of that uncomfortable day--the day when our honeymoon came to an abrupt end, almost before it started--I'd begun dimly to comprehend that a wife might not necessarily enjoy life with a husband who spent half the year snoring, in order to outlive her by three or four generations and enjoy the caresses of other women after she was gone.

Somehow, this had never occurred to me.

The upshot was that we separated at once, Myra returning to Mrs. Grunion's, while I went home to Mama. Pointing out that she had foreseen trouble, Mama laid the whole blame of the break-up on Myra, excoriating her as cruel and unfeeling, and comparing her behavior (rather unfairly) to the way Dad and Dr. Lynwood had abused me in times gone by.

As for me, I wanted to sleep long--if possible, never to awaken. I wrote to Dr. Holmes, resigning my position with the museum, and then went back to my old room, only to discover that I no longer fit on the little cot where I used to sleep. Fortunately we had a guest room, though to my recollection no guest had ever used it. Here, in a bed as virginal as I had been, I lay down, begging Mama to let me sleep as long as nature permitted.

My last thought before passing out was a bit of wisdom from Lord Francis Bacon: "A married man is older by ten years the first day."

"You underestimate, my lord," I muttered, and fell asleep.

I slept for something over seventy hours. As I later learned, Mama was deeply concerned, and called the same old family doc who had misdiagnosed me so long ago. He examined me as I slept and declared me to be in perfect health, even though my pulse was 43 and rectal temperature 81 degrees Fahrenheit.

"My watch must be slow," he told her, shaking his honest old ticker, "and I need a new thermometer. Fortunately I never trust gadgets. One has only to look at Edward to see he's in perfect health, with no fever at all. Why, I've seldom felt a brow as cool as his."

Thus encouraged, Mama let me sleep on, though not without checking on me a dozen times a day. And when I woke at last--ravenous as usual--she fed me an enormous meal, watching me eat with such pleasure and delight that she might have been the one feasting, instead of I.

In the following weeks I carefully explained my condition to her, using the example of her brothers to make everything clear. She saw at once the resemblance between my behavior and theirs; she might have done so earlier, except that Dad made her so angry by saying her family was infected with the germ of laziness. With him gone, she was ready to acknowledge me a revised and updated version of the Sleepy-Time Boys with whom she had grown up.

"Why, Edward," she said, "I do believe you are far more my son than your father's!"

"Thank God for that!" I replied.

Cared for and encouraged by one woman, I tried to make peace with another. I wrote my wife long letters; I pleaded for forgiveness, but did not really expect to receive it. I waited every day for some lawyer's missive announcing a divorce action, but none came. Once I got up courage enough to approach the boardinghouse, but was driven off by Mrs. Grunion in such ferocious style that I never dared to return. I hung about the school where Myra taught, hoping to speak to her. But the only result was to have a policeman threaten to arrest me as a masher if he saw me in the neighborhood again.

In despair I had recourse to the veiled seductions of the Agony Columns, and even drew up an item of my own that began, "Young Gentleman, independently wealthy, desires...."

But what did I desire? I desired Myra.

One morning--I had just devoured a huge breakfast after a sleep of eighty-six hours duration--I was passing through the downstairs hall when the telephone rang. I picked it off the wall automatically and heard Myra's voice say briskly, "Edward, I must see you."

I burst into tears, and her voice softened. "My dear," she said, "I can see that you too have suffered."

"Wh-when can I see you?" I blubbered.

"Today," she replied, gladdening my heart. "The fact is, Edward, that as a married woman I have been asked to resign my post at the young ladies' seminary--and as a divorce, I would be even less acceptable to the teaching profession. My marriage to you was a tragic mistake, yet I have made my bed and see now that I must lie in it. If you agree henceforth to respect my needs, I will do my best to accommodate your strange and (I am bound to say) somewhat repellent nature."

There was less ardor in Myra's terms than I would have hoped for. Her speech sounded less like a reunion of lovebirds than a treaty of peace between two small hostile nations which had grown temporarily weary of war. Yet I wanted my wife back, and hastily subscribed my name to the pact.

That afternoon Myra arrived with her trunk, and the guest room became a bridal chamber.

Vast is the panoply of human experience over the ages, comprehending every shade of glory and horror, of tragedy, comedy, and tragicomedy. But I don't believe that any of our species ever found themselves in quite our family's situation--a mnage trois consisting of two women and a Hibernating Man.

At any rate, when Myra and Mama again approached each other, rather like two prizefighters touching gloves before a match, all three of us understood the basic situation. Bound as we were by blood and marriage, we must all abide beneath one roof and depend for our livelihood upon Fogarty's Finest Foam, as the product of the brewery was called.

There were compensations. That night my wife and I made up our quarrel so ardently that all the bad times seemed erased in an instant. I fell asleep in her arms and she in mine, but she must have pulled loose at some point, for I slept for three days and nights.

When I awoke at last, I found that my keepers had conferred together and decided our future course of existence. The basic verdict was this: Mama and Myra would care for me during my periods of hibernation if, in return, I performed all the duties of the man of the house while awake.

This was a long way from the future I'd imagined for myself, but the ladies clearly had the upper hand. Somehow I'd never grasped the fact that a life spent snoozing meant a life of permanent dependency on whoever agreed to watch over me.

Well, I knew it now, and so went to work in the brewery, spending a week rolling barrels, a month studying the processes of fermentation, and another month shuffling endless papers. I then took a week off and slept for one hundred and fifty-six hours straight.

Feeling well rested after my long snooze, I entered the head office where our manager undertook to complete my education in the brewery business. Until he retired I worked as his assistant, while Myra became our secretary and soon was handling all our correspondence with breathtaking efficiency. From time to time I took a few days off for sleep, and my energy upon awaking gradually reconciled my wife to these episodes.

"After all," she told Mama, "if I had married a sailor, I would see even less of him, and would have to worry about the wives he might be keeping in foreign ports."

"My dear girl," replied Mama from the depth of her own experience, "one should count an unconscious husband as a blessing."

As the years passed, my talent for Nescience grew. By 1913 I could sleep for nine days; by 1914, for two solid weeks; in mid-1916 I slept for a month, and woke to find that in my absence, Myra had managed the business with a competence that I ascribed to her skilled imitation of my own methods. For by now our manager had retired, and I was both a man and a businessman.

I had also become a reformer, seeking to improve the Future where I expected to spend so much of my life. I joined the Baltimore Eugenics Club, which sought to benefit the human species by persuading (or if necessary, compelling) the unfit not to breed. Like many people of my generation, I thought this a fine idea, having no notion of what it would lead to in the end.

I also joined the Universal Peace Society, which aimed to promote disarmament by proving to world leaders that armies and navies were expensive and unproductive. With a third popular reform group--the Anti-Saloon League, whose answer to human betterment was prohibiting the sale of spirituous liquors--of course I had nothing to do whatever.

All of this seems quaint and far-away now. For in 1914--disregarding all the wise thoughts of the Universal Peace Society--Europe's leaders embarked on the ambitious goal of destroying civilization. As America began to drift toward war, I became a staunch Wilsonian Democrat, committed to neutrality. I had no desire whatever to be killed, for of what use would be my talent for long life if it (and I) were cut off at the knees by a Boche machine-gun?

So I supported Mr. Wilson, in the firm conviction that he would (as his reelection campaign slogan put it) Keep Us Out of War, a conviction that lasted until he took us into it. In the spring of 1917, Congress, with a great war-whoop, voted accordingly, and the military draft went into operation.

That summer I received a notice requiring me to present myself for physical examination in the Baltimore Armory. Myra and I discussed the situation anxiously. At the age of twenty-three and in perfect health, I was obviously a candidate for doughboy status. Yet I remembered only too well Dr. Lynwood's long-ago words: the military services are notoriously unsympathetic to sleeping soldiers. Might I end my career by being, after all, shot for snoozing on sentry duty?

Though troubled in conscience by draft-dodging, I argued that if flat feet or color-blindness could keep a man out of the Army, why not hibernation? Instead of going to Baltimore, I put on my nightshirt and went to bed. Myra then contacted the draft board and informed them that a sudden cataleptic attack had left me unable to present myself as required, much less to serve in the military.

The board promptly sent a doctor of their own choosing, a brusque, no-nonsense sort accustomed to seeing through the clumsy devices of evaders and slackers. Myra led him to our bedroom, where he proceeded to make the usual tests. When he was done, he sat down and wiped his brow; Myra told me later that his eyes were fairly starting from his head.

"Pulse twenty-five," he muttered over and over, "temperature sixty-one. Pulse twenty-five. Temperature sixty-one."

"I take it," said she dryly, "that you will certify Edward to be incapable of military service."

"Military service!" he exclaimed. "My dear young lady, I will gladly certify him for the mortuary if you so desire, for he will surely be going there within the hour."

In all, I slept for twenty months, with three or four periods of wakefulness devoted mainly to ingestion, digestion, and excretion. During these episodes everything seemed to be quite normal, and so I was stunned when I woke early in 1919 to find Myra sobbing noisily beside my bed.

"My God!" I exclaimed, when at last able to speak. "We have lost the war, and all because I failed in my duty!"

"No, Edward, we have won," she assured me between sobs. "But oh my dear, something awful has occurred!"

"Mama!" I cried, sitting up in bed--no easy job, considering how far I had sunk into the mattress. "Mama has died, and I was not here to comfort her last hours!"

"Your mother is perfectly well, though increasingly domineering and dictatorial about the house. No, Edward, something even worse than defeat and death has visited our household. It concerns the brewery--"

"Lord, I should not have left a woman in control for so long!" I mourned. "Only men are fit for commerce, and you have let the business go to smash while I was snoring!"

"Finest Foam has never been more successful, or more productive, than in your absence," she answered tartly. "Indeed, our success only compounds the tragedy! For Congress has passed a Prohibition amendment, and the states have ratified. Oh, Edward! When the brewery is shut down, how shall we live?"

There were times when I almost regretted missing World War I, the great struggle that ended fifteen million lives and cracked the foundations of civilization. If history stages such a spectacular show, surely sleeping through it smacks of ingratitude?

But if I did not fight at the battle of Chteau-Thierry, I certainly did struggle in the toils of Prohibition. In 1920 the brewery was closed by federal agents, and the job of purveying alcohol to the American people was taken away from honest publicans and placed in the eager hands of the underworld.

To our surprise (for had not the whole business been made illegal?), Mama and I were able to sell the building, beer-making equipment, and our last batch of Finest Foam for a handsome price to a gentleman of Sicilian extraction. With the proceeds we bought gilt-edged bonds, securing a stable if modest income, and retired from the busy world of commerce.

For me the word "retirement" had a literal meaning. Like many Americans of the time, I was suffering from a vast sense of disillusionment. The Future was proving to be a rougher business than I had expected. My hopes of Universal Peace had been dashed, while Progress seemed to consist largely of great leaps forward in the use of submarines, aerial warfare, and poison gas. I had not yet heard of Hitler, but a vague sense of uneasiness about some of the Eugenics Club's projects for eliminating inferior races caused me to resign. Meantime the Anti-Saloon League had abolished the only way I knew of making a living.

Feeling depressed and entirely useless, I went back to bed in 1921, little guessing what I would find when I awoke. Two years later my fluttering eyelids opened at last to discover, parading herself before the mirror in our bedroom, my wife--but ah! how changed!

During my downtime Myra had bobbed her hair, clad her legs in sheer silk, and donned a dress that at first I took to be a particularly immodest undergarment. And she was smoking a cigarette!!

"Myra!" I exclaimed, as soon as I was able. "Put that out at once! Do you wish to be mistaken for an inhabitant of a brothel?"

Gaily she laughed, and skillfully blew a smoke-ring. "The penalty of being unconscious so much, Edward, is that you have no idea what is happening in the world. True, at thirty I am a bit old for a flapper. But I am not too old to enjoy life."

"I absolutely forbid you to enjoy life!"

"You may think you are your father, but you will soon learn that I am not your mother," she said, approaching the bed and deliberately blowing smoke into my face.

"I have needs too, and I am resolved to satisfy them myself, since you cannot or will not. I've bought myself a gramophone and a collection of jazz records. I've taken to visiting speakeasies and nightclubs where I drink and dance with men who, unlike you, are fully conscious. Last month I was ready to become a bootlegger's Boopsie, when to my annoyance he was dynamited by a business rival. But there are other bootleggers in the world, and some of them are quite charming."

Once I became mobile, I anxiously consulted my mother about the astounding change in Myra--only to learn that the change was not as sudden as I had thought.

"In years past, while my innocent boy was sleeping," Mama said darkly, "more things have gone on than you can imagine. I did not tell you earlier, hoping to spare you the shock and praying that Myra would mend her ways. Were you aware that during the war she joined a Liberty Bond drive and sold kisses to absolute strangers for one dollar each?"

"Good God!"

"I could hardly believe it of someone who taught Deportment at a young ladies' seminary. Edward, I am drifting rapidly into the sere and withered leaf; I have begun to think of death, and wonder whether God will be so unkind as to reunite me with your father in the next world. I don't think I could bear it if, facing such unhappiness myself, I left you miserable as well."

"What shall I do, Mama?"

"Give up for now your practice of sleeping for months or years at a time. No doubt it keeps you young, as I have often noticed; there is a bloom and freshness in your cheeks that only prolonged unconsciousness of the real world can put there. Yet, if you are to save your marriage, you must be present in every sense of the term, both to comfort your wife with your caresses and to guide her erring footsteps when she threatens to go astray."

"Mama, you are wiser than Dorothy Dix," I declared, meaning a newspaper columnist whose specialty was advising people about their most intimate problems. "I will take over the duties of the man of the house, and be a true husband to the bitch I married."

A series of confrontations ensued between husband and wife which, even now, I hesitate to remember. But of marriage it may be said that, while its quarrels are as frequent and nasty as those of the Balkans, its methods of peacemaking are far more delightful.

In the end, Myra and I compromised: she allowed me to sleep for two or three days continuously each week, and in return I smeared Slickum on my hair and squired her every weekend to the sparkling fleshpots of Baltimore, Philadelphia, and--on special occasions--even New York.

We had a few embarrassing moments, for while she looked her years, I looked more like eighteen, and terms like "gigolo" and "cradle robber" were sometimes heard, even from bartenders and bouncers. We adopted cosmetic solutions to the problem: Myra endeavored to make herself look younger, while I tried to look older, and we succeeded well enough to fool the mobsters, flappers, and raccoon-coated swells with whom we tangoed and downed bathtub gin.

Unfortunately, as practicing Man of the House, I also took control of the family finances. As the jazzy new tempo of life quickened my heartbeat, I began to believe in the Future again--though quite a different one. Instead of seeking universal peace and human betterment, now I wanted to become rich.

I began to feel that our investments were excessively old-ladyish and yielded far too little return. Everyone in the clubs and speakeasies, as well as all the oracles who spoke from the financial pages and the radio, agreed that the day had arrived when every American not only could be rich, but ought to be. Then why were we struggling along, unable to afford a twelve-cylinder Duesenberg and a chauffeur to drive it?

I began to invest in stocks recommended by Myra's and my favorite boon companions, and we were handsomely rewarded for our boldness when the market soared to ever dizzier heights. I also invested in Florida real estate, having been assured by the boomer who sold it to me that the Everglades, where the land was located, would soon be drained. I hoped so, for I very much wanted to visit the new metropolis of Miami, feel the gentle zephyrs ever playing over its sugar-white sands (as one brochure put it) and view the rich, fertile land of our future estate as soon as it could be seen directly, rather than through the hull of a glass-bottomed boat.

For a time everything went well. I flatter myself that our increase in wealth (we were worth five hundred thousand dollars by 1928) helped to make Mama's last years more comfortable than they would otherwise have been. Despite occasional twinges about the heart, which she attributed to indigestion, she seemed the very picture of health on the morning of July 28, 1929, when our French maid entered her bedroom with a breakfast tray, and found her dead. Wisely and peacefully, Mama had departed life in her sleep--but that was not how I saw things then. For at the hour when her death occurred, Myra and I had been drinking at a Baltimore speakeasy called The Bookstore, and enjoying H. L. Mencken's impromptu piano-playing.

I was left with a surfeit of guilt none the less severe for being irrational. Perhaps I was the ultimate Mama's Boy, but I had lost my best and oldest friend; I blamed myself for not being with her at her passing, and was inconsolable.

Knowing she would not want to lie in Dad's vicinity, I bought her a plot of her own at the other end of town, and a red granite headstone carven with forget-me-nots. As she was being laid to rest, I wept so loudly as to cause much annoyance to the clergyman, who could not make himself heard, and embarrassment to Myra, who ordered me sotto voce to "act like a man, if you cannot be one."

Once the funeral was over, I sought my usual escape in sleep. I informed Myra that our prosperity was now secure; that our wealth could not help but grow exponentially; that she was provided with every luxury; that I was going to bed, and she was forbidden to wake me until nature did so.

"You mean," she replied caustically, "that you have reverted to form as an immature, puling coward in flight from reality. As usual, you think only of your own needs, and not of mine. Very well, Edward--but remember this: while you are snoring, I shall not be growing a new cherry!"

Undoubtedly my once demure bride had become coarsened by the company we kept during the Jazz Age. Shocked beyond words, I put on my nightshirt at once, and retired to Mama's room.

Well, I need not say yet again that history is full of surprises. I conked out believing that the only problem I should face on waking was continuing grief and guilt. For her part, Myra thought the life of the Twenties would go on indefinitely, and (as she confessed later) hardly bothered to listen for my first snore before she set out to find a gigolo of the sort likely to be attracted to a well-to-do lady still on the bright side of forty.

How different things looked, when at last I awoke on a blustery day in what a wall calendar averred was March 1931! The house was cold, I was starving, and when I glanced through a window while dressing, I observed discouraged-looking men in cloth caps clustered at a nearby corner, holding up hand-lettered signs that said will work for food. What was going on?

Our maid had vanished; the house was empty. Downstairs, the icebox contained only a slab of rat-trap cheese and a loaf of stalish bread, both of which I devoured. I turned on the radio--a sort of Gothic cathedral in wood--and after listening to a new ballad I was unfamiliar with ("Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?") I heard President Hoover's voice predicting an end to the current state of economic distress "as soon as confidence can be restored."

Then the lock on the front door clicked, and Myra came in. She wore a mauve velvet cloche hat that I recognized, and a somewhat bedraggled mink stole that I had given her. Indeed, I recognized every single garment she had on! Was that possible? Had she bought nothing new in two whole years?

Catching sight of me, she rushed into my arms and began to pour out her tale of woe. It was then that I learned the truth: we owned nothing but Mama's house (as I still thought of it) and the money in Myra's purse and my wallet.

Our broker had sold out our stocks for lack of margin shortly before defenestrating himself from the forty-second floor of his building. Our Florida estate had been reclaimed by a bank which had itself failed, and the First National Bank of Burgville had collapsed, taking our savings account with it.

"Nothing is left," Myra wailed, "except this house and our knowledge of the brewer's art, which we dare not use for fear of the Feds. Oh my dear, what are we to do?"

For once I entirely forgot about the Future: the needs of the Present were far too demanding. Past quarrels no longer seemed to mean much, either. As if we had never fought, Myra and I put our heads together to figure out a means of survival.

Fortunately I had some dollars in my other pants, so that we were able to stock the icebox, and even to buy a chunk of ice. Then we instituted a search of the house for any forgotten bits of cash, and after some hours had a great stroke of luck. In examining Mama's mattress, I found that the saving habits acquired under Dad's regime had continued into old age. She had almost a thousand dollars tucked away, and a careful examination of chairs and furniture in her bedroom yielded another two-fifty-eight-fifty.

"Good heavens!" Myra exclaimed. "Had you not been sleeping there, I would have given all her things to the Salvation Army! Oh, the saintly woman! How much we owe her!"

Yet Mama's money could not last forever, and our lives became a series of shifts. Remembering Mrs. Grunion's establishment, we began renting rooms to traveling salesmen, which brought in enough to keep food on the table. We pawned every pawnable item we did not absolutely need, and Myra became expert in buying the cheapest cuts of meat, and potatoes whose rotten spots could be cut out before boiling.

In searching the house yet again, I came across Dr. Holmes's Saber-Tooth Tiger fang, which gave me a thought. I took it down to the Museum of Science and History, introduced myself to Dr. Holmes's son, who now ran that establishment, and presented it to him for his collection.

While he was still in the weakened condition produced by gratitude, I asked dulcetly if he might be in need of a night-watchman. At first he hemmed and hawed. But when I pressed him with sob stories about a sick wife, and tales of the warm friendship between our fathers (I could hardly expect him to believe that I myself had been employed by the museum twenty years before) he gradually yielded.

"In view of the times," said young Dr. Holmes--who, except for having brown hair, and much of it, was a rotund carbon-copy of his sire--"I cannot pay much; but I trust that you will not decline two dollars for each night or day worked, for I can offer no more."

Thus, in a mere two decades my pay as a watchman had advanced by fifty cents a day. Surely H. G. Wells would have seen in that fact a small yet telling proof of the inevitability of Progress! And if that sounds cynical--well, so be it: by that time, I had a lot to be cynical about.

How strange it felt that night to stretch out upon my old bench--to see the white bones of the Megatherium glistening palely in the darkness--to be reunited with my old friends the lion and the dromedary, both considerably more moth-eaten than in times past.

In wandering the halls next evening, I found that the passenger pigeon, by getting itself devoured by mice, had demonstrated anew its species' strange lust for extinction. In the Great Hall of Progress, a water-cooled machine gun had taken the place of the Maxim, hinting that humanity was advancing in its own peculiar manner--or perhaps preparing to go the way of the pigeon. Shaking my head, I thought of the visions of the Future that had filled my head. Where was Peace, with some nations already arming for another war? Where was Prosperity, amid universal poverty? At least, I told myself, I was now free of illusions--I was a realist, cold, strong, cynical, and ready to confront the harshness of Fate!

"My head is bloody but unbowed!" I shouted, waking echoes throughout the Museum.

Then I rolled up my coat, placed it under my head for a pillow, wound up my alarm clock, and plunged gratefully back into that Nescience from which I had so unwisely awakened.

Through my paltry job and the miserable rents we obtained from the salesmen, Myra and I survived until 1933 when the Noble Experiment of Prohibition came to an unlamented end. Then we mortgaged our house, bought new brewing equipment, installed it in an abandoned warehouse and began to teach ourselves once again the art of brewmanship.

Our first batches of Fogarty's Finest Foam were quite dreadful, but people were so desperate to escape the harsh realities of the Depression that they would have drunk animal urine, only provided it was alcoholic. Indeed, when I began peddling our product, the bartender of a Greenmount Avenue saloon unwisely took a mouthful, spat it out and roared, "Take dis, and put it back inna hawse where ya got it!"

"You can have it at half price," I said hastily.

"Okay, gimme twenny cases," he replied.

I resigned again from the museum, and in the course of three years or so Myra and I rebuilt a thriving business. We cleared the mortgage, ousted our boarders, and began to enjoy the comfortable life of those fortunate enough to have money in a Depression.

Everything was so cheap--and by now Myra was so skilled at making it even cheaper! For a few dollars she hired skilled carpenters and painters to redo our dilapidated dwelling, and a talented gardener put the grounds in order for nothing but a week's supply of roast beef sandwiches.

Yet the hard years had forever marked my wife. In the process of pinching pennies and tormenting dimes, Myra had so toughened that scarcely a fleck of the girl I had wed remained, except for the temper and rough tongue.

She had become a hard-eyed harridan, her hair graying and her lips ever compressed into a thin line. Crow's-feet appeared around her eyes, and a long groove descended from each nostril to the corners of her unsmiling mouth. She ruthlessly broke a feeble attempt by our workers to strike, and she ruled me, the house, and the brewery with an iron hand.

Her politics surged rightward. She loathed Hitler as a troublemaker but admired Mussolini, remarking on several occasions that we needed him in Washington in place of That Man in the White House.

"Let us not forget, my dear, that FDR ended Prohibition," I protested feebly.

"I suppose if you searched, you could find that the Devil himself has done one good deed." She then launched into a denunciation of New Deal policies so bitter that I was happy to take refuge in bed and sleep another year or two. But before I dropped off, she had one last thing to say, and said it.

"Someday," she declared presciently, "That Man will connive us into another war, the next time those wretched Europeans decide to blow things up."

As usually happens, it was the realist, Myra, who saw the future most clearly. In 1940, with war already raging on several continents, Congress voted a new draft. I was forty-six and too old for active service--only I didn't look too old; I looked as if I were still in my twenties, which in a sense I was. I knew that medical tests would show that I had the physiology of a young man, exposing me to charges of fraud and draft evasion.

Once again I sought refuge in sleep. Myra--now assuming the character of my mother--visited the draft board to explain that her son was a terminal case following an attack of encephalitis, which had left me in a profound coma. Again a doctor was dispatched, and finding no detectable heartbeat or respiration, and my body temperature at 33 degrees, he made out a death certificate that caused Selective Service to drop me forever from its rolls. When I awoke in 1942 and saw this document for the first time, I was overcome by a most extraordinary emotion. How many people have ever had the experience of being simultaneously alive and dead? To be here and yet not here; to coexist in Time and in Eternity; to be able to prove one's nonexistence through an official document, in a world where only official documents can prove one's existence anyway!

How marvelous! I thought--entirely missing the hidden danger lurking in that bland official form.

I slept through most of the emergency.

But from time to time I woke, and after having a bath and eating a few disgusting wartime meals ("What's this?" "Spam." "What is Spam?" "Watch out! If you insist on knowing, I may tell you!"), I was left with idle time on my hands.

I had to keep out of sight, so that no War Department spies or FBI men could spot a corpse out for a stroll, and devoted my awake time to studying the course of the war. As I caught up on the newspapers, listened to the exciting news the radio brought from the battlefronts, and absorbed the messages of wartime prophets, I found my ancient idealism rekindling.

Yes, it had taken longer than I'd expected, and millions had had to die, but at last it seemed the glorious Future might be coming to birth. I listened to Winston Churchill promise that once the Nozzies were destroyed the world would move "into the broad, sunlit uplands." I didn't know exactly what that meant, and maybe Winnie didn't either, but it sounded like a journey I wanted to make. Why does war always bring garish hopes of better times to come? Surely it must be the suffering. People think: if we endure all this, better times must lie ahead! In logic I think this is called the Pathetic Fallacy--or if not, it should be. Yet during a war, logic is buried even quicker than mercy, decency, and truth.

Touched anew by the flame of prophecy, I asked Myra to buy me some writing materials at the drugstore the next time she went to obtain hair dye and cosmetics. She brought me a Blue Horse notebook, and I began making notes for a Great Book I planned to write in my spare time. The notebook lies at my hand as I write this memoir--its foolscap pages brittle and yellow--its covers cracked and peeling--its iconic horse eyeing me with a gentle and quizzical gaze.

The greatest of wars signals the end of all wars, I began. For several embarrassing pages I went on about the coming triumph of the Four Freedoms, the reborn League of Nations that would suppress any act of aggression almost before it started, and the enduring friendship between the United States and the Soviet Union that would guarantee world peace for centuries to come!

Even in 1944, I must have found this stuff tiresome. For suddenly--on page three--the dithyramb is interrupted by the underlined words, What am I to do about Myra?

How well I remember asking myself that question. And how well I remember making the mistake of answering it in writing. My wife was not only dictatorial, she had gotten long in the tooth. With my desire for her waning, if not dead, I wanted to divorce her as soon as the war was over, pension her off in decent fashion, and find myself a young wife, precisely as I had imagined doing a generation earlier.

Oh, I expected Myra to be unreasonable about it. For years I had watched her jealousy increase with every gray hair that sprouted on her head, until the mere attentions of a waitress to me at a nightspot produced a torrent of denunciation when we reached home. I understood that she deeply resented, even as she desired, my youthful body, which she could not but contrast with her own--at fifty, sagging, spotty and graying--whatever dyes and oils and creams she might apply to it.

But the gap between us was wider than mere appearance. I didn't only look in my late twenties: I had all the needs, passions, and cravings of a twenty-something, as well as the fecklessness and naivet that had dogged me throughout life. So far from being the cynic I imagined, I still believed that ultimately everything would come out more or less as I wanted it to.

Myra--I learned to my sorrow--had no such delusion. She was far too intelligent not to realize that the future I had forecast so long ago during our honeymoon in St. Michael's, was now fast approaching reality. She could not hold me for long, but she could at least make sure that no other woman took her place.

I provoked the disaster myself by jotting into the notebook a draft letter I planned to insert in a local Agony Column after ditching Myra. In those days, one could not advertise for "a hot dwarf to chill with" and similar exotic comforts, such as I see in the papers today. No, my proposed advertisement--I'm looking at it as I write--said only Prosperous Gentleman, recently divorced, seeks honorable union with attractive and warm-hearted Young Lady.

Feeling the urge to sleep another year or two, I rolled the notebook into a cylinder and locked it into a strongbox with a few other items which I foolishly imagined to be exclusively my own--a locket containing Mama's picture, the first dollar I had ever earned, and a bit of mild pornography that helped me take care of my own needs when Myra was not in the mood for sex.

Yet while I was unconscious, she could obtain the key, learn my pitiful secrets, and decide in leisure what to do about them--and about me.

I've always liked organ music. One of our few luxuries during Dad's unlamented reign was a pump organ in the parlor, where Mama, at the end of her long hard day, was permitted to soothe her master (and enchant her son) by playing tunes she had learned in her youth.

I used to think that if upon my deathbed I heard an organ playing "The Lost Chord" or "Lavender's Blue" or "Reuben, Reuben" or "The Vale of Tralee" or "Love's Old Sweet Song," I'd know I had arrived in Heaven--or if not, in some perfectly agreeable corner of Hell. As an adult I went to recitals at Baltimore Cathedral, or drove down snaky and traffic-throttled Route 1 to Washington to hear Bach and Buxtehude played in one of the churches along Sixteenth Street. With this background, I was not at first disturbed when, waking from the last installment of my wartime snooze early in 1946, I heard the muted notes of an organ playing Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring."

I lay there in the familiar state of sleep paralysis, unable to move a muscle, and for once not inclined to do so. How familiar it all was--how many times I'd experienced it--how sure I felt that in time life would return to my ice-cold limbs!

A soft light bathed my closed eyelids. The sweet attar of flowers touched my nostrils. Deep down and seemingly far away, I could hear the infinitely slow pulsing of my heart, the tempo of its syncopated rhythm gradually, oh so gradually increasing, ka ... thump, ka ... thump, ka ... thumpathumpa.

But as feeling slowly returned, a sense of unease began to come with it. The bed where I lay was strangely narrow. The mattress, though soft, was very thin with something hard as a board under it. The pillow was also thin, and I was tasting something like a very dry cracker in my mouth. Strangest of all, when my eyes at last were ready to open, they were unable to do so--something glued the lids down.

I realized that I was wearing a suit--in bed, a suit?--only it was but half a suit. Up top I was well attired, with the edge of a starched collar pinching my neck and the knot of a necktie lodged against my Adam's apple. My hands lay folded over the buttons of a double-breasted jacket. Yet below the waist I was wearing only drawers, while my legs and feet were entirely bare. Meantime the music had stopped. A mooing, clergymanish sort of voice began to speak of my excellent qualities--of my abiding Christian faith (which was news to me)--of my deep love for my mother and my wife (which was at least half true)--of the pity of my being struck down well short of the Biblical threescore and ten. But such was the will of God, and unsearchable were His counsels, His ways past finding out. Amen.

At this point my mind awoke fully. Unfortunately, my body remained immobile. I strained to speak but could not; to move a limb, a hand, a finger, but could not. My spirit hurled itself vainly against the dull, unresponsive walls of flesh like an animal in a trap.

For an instant I felt a flicker of hope--someone bent over me. I recognized the perfume--it was Myra, wearing a dab of her favorite scent, called My Sin. She was weeping; her tears struck my cheeks; she thrust something under my pillow and whispered, "Good-bye, my dearest. If only you had understood my needs, and loved me as I love you, things would never have come to this."

She pressed her lips against my unresponsive ones. And then, ultimate horror! The light faded from my eyelids and a heavy lid closed above me. I fainted in sheer terror.

How long I was "out" I do not know. Maybe hours. When I woke, the coffin rested unmoving, so the burial had been accomplished, no doubt in that same pompous mausoleum where Dad and a dozen former Fogartys had been laid before me. My body was now mobile, for all the good it did me. I peeled the wax from my eyelids, and removed from my mouth a piece of cardboard meant to hold my lower jaw in place.

Then I strained at the coffin lid; I might as well have tried to lift a mountain. And even if I escaped the box, I would still be sealed in a marble crypt. I ceased to struggle, fearing to use up whatever air remained, and tried to think what could have brought me to this desperate pass.

My hands restlessly moved about, as if searching for an answer, and found under the pillow (still rolled into a cylinder) the Blue Horse notebook--Myra's accusation; Myra's farewell.

Far too late, I realized the hidden danger in that death certificate. Besides her, no one on Earth knew my secret. While I was in deep hibernation, any undertaker would take me for a corpse--and since a doctor had certified me dead, I could be buried. All that Myra had needed to do was erase the date of death, and enter the date she selected for my demise.

So this was my glorious Future! Though I'd lived for fifty years, I'd been conscious for considerably less than half of that. How brief had been the time when I was truly alive--and now I had to die!

I lay still, struggling to quell the panic that could only hasten my doom. And as I did, a cold and thoroughly adult determination took form. Whatever happened, I resolved not to perish gasping and clawing at the silk-clad roof just above my face. Somehow, somehow I would survive, and bring justice to my murderess!

I began taking breaths as shallow and widely spaced as possible. Little by little I felt my heartbeat begin to slow, cold again to invade my limbs. How many times I had fled from reality into sleep--and here I was, finding refuge from the most terrible trouble I ever faced by plunging deep, deep into the little death of hibernation.

I came to in a kind of twilight, without the least idea where I was, feeling vaguely that a vast quantity of time had been erased.

I was desperately hungry. When--after the usual long, slow process of awakening--my eyes fluttered open at last, I was baffled to see close above me a dim ceiling, from which white strips hung down, moving in a vagrant current of air.

I heard also a grinding sound coming from someplace nearby, and a chorus of shrill squeaks. Something plucked at my left shoulder, tearing cloth, and the dusty smell of rotted fabric filled my narrow space. I moved convulsively--another chorus of squeaks followed, and a rapid scrabble of claws--and I was left alone. The graveyard rats were unused to corpses that moved.

Still confused, filled with a horror of I did not know exactly what, I struck out with both elbows against the sides of the coffin--and the left side, where the rats had been gnawing, split!

In place of the dim trickle of light seeping through the rat-hole, a kind of pale dawn now filled the box. With it came memory--of Myra's crime, of my burial, of everything I had undergone--and I struck again and again at my prison. Myra had been as frugal in buying my coffin as in everything else, and the cheap wood weakened by dry-rot and gnawed by rodents crumbled under my blows. Soon I was able to crawl out--into what looked like the Day of Resurrection!

In chilly autumn sunlight I was lying on the ground beside my broken coffin. After the frenzied effort to escape, my muscles twitched and quivered like the legs of new-dead frogs. Before me stood the family mausoleum, with fogarty inscribed over the door. The iron gate had disappeared. The marble crypts had been broken open and their contents removed, by what unspeakable power I could not imagine.

Nearby, a large bag of some transparent material bulged with femurs, ribs, ulnas, and staring skulls. All around me I saw other violated graves lying open to the elements. Were the preachers right after all? Had the Trump of Doom sounded?

Then a strange-looking orange machine came chugging and clicking into view, followed by a truck of more familiar design. As I watched, the forklift scooped up a tarnished bronze casket and deposited it in the back of the larger vehicle, upon a pile of other caskets. Hastily I retrieved my notebook--I think with a confused idea of using it as evidence against my murderess--and crept behind the Fogarty tomb. The clothing I wore was not only inadequate, it was falling apart with every movement I made; disintegrating, turning to lint and powder. Naked save for dust and shreds of tattered cloth, I huddled in a spot of sunlight, clutching my notebook and shivering.

I stared for a long time uncomprehending at a big colorful sign affixed to stanchions nearby. This Area Being Cleared for I-95 Expansion, it explained. All Human Remains Will Be Reverently Reinterred.

I whispered, "But you will not reinter me."

Then I heard a sound and turned. An enormous Negro man in workman's attire was staring at me. He tipped back his helmet, which seemed to be made of celluloid, or maybe that miracle substance called plastic.

"What the hell you doin' here?" he demanded. "Where the hell you come from? Why the hell you runnin' round bare-ass in a condemned graveyard, anyways?"

Every question was cogent, yet I could answer none of them. I could only whisper, "I'm cold. I'm hungry."

He approached, bent down, picked me up like a child, and carried me back to the truck. There, he and the other workmen wrapped me in odds and ends of their own clothing, poured hot coffee into me, and called--on a telephone without wires!--for a curious-looking square vehicle with the word AMBULANCE spelled backward across the hood. Why, I wondered as it drove me away, backward?

And so I came to Maryland General Hospital, the ER, the ICU, and the locked ward.

I have absolutely no complaint about my incarceration; the hospital saved my life, and gave me time to get my bearings. Through the hospital library I was able to catch up on the events that had taken place during my epic snooze--the wars, revolutions, and massacres, the scientific discoveries and adventures in space, and the vast accumulation of trivia that had filled the last five-and-some-odd decades.

All this was dumped randomly into my head, like odds and ends of nutriment thrown into a hobo's cookpot--large events and small equally hard to comprehend. Could it be that movie stars now routinely appeared in films stark naked? That H-bombs gave our notoriously unpredictable species the power to destroy all life on Earth? That those great pals of World War II, Russia and the USA, had almost liquidated each other in something called the Cold War? That men had left footprints on the moon? That Negroes could vote, even in Mississippi? That homosexuals were demanding to be treated like human beings?

Wow! I thought. You never know.

Despite all the good that Maryland General did me, soon I was anxious to leave it. The air in the ward was none too savory, the company none too stimulating. And as for the food--well, the microwave was new to me: in past times only a really bad cook could produce meals that were simultaneously frozen and overcooked. Now, owing to the ceaseless march of progress, anybody could do it in a few seconds.

Hoping for release, I developed a useful amnesia about precisely what personal problems had brought me into the graveyard near naked and starving. Otherwise I exerted myself to appear sane. Since I was clearly no danger to myself or anybody else, I might have been discharged except for the old, old problem that had shaped my whole life. My sleep habits fascinated the "shrinks" (as everybody called them), and they kept delaying my release in order to study me.

Hospitals love to awaken people at ungodly hours, but in me they met their match. The doctors speculated wildly about my condition--was this catatonia? Narcolepsy? Catalepsy? Some other, unknown lepsy? I feared to reveal the truth, for they might take my claim to be a Hibernating Man as a sign of lunacy, and keep me locked up indefinitely.

Finally a sympathetic young resident asked me if I would like to volunteer for tests at the Johns Hopkins Sleep Study Laboratory. Hardly had the words escaped him when I cried out, "YES!"

Next morning, the notebook--my only possession--was solemnly returned to me. Apparently nobody had bothered to read it. I received clothing collected for indigents by some charitable association, and an ambulance took me to Hopkins. There I learned with amazement that I could earn a modest stipend merely by going to bed with wires glued to various parts of my anatomy!

Eagerly I signed the necessary papers, and retired to a quiet cubicle to do what I had always done best. Soon I became the star of the laboratory.

Sophisticated tests revealed that in deep sleep my body effortlessly recycles urea, accounting both for the fact that I don't die of uremic poisoning and that I am able to synthesize new proteins continuously, thus maintaining muscle mass. Like wintering bears, I go through periodic contractions that revive the muscle tone lost in sleep. And I perform chemical manipulations with glucose and lipids that filled the staff with admiration.

How did this curious mutation come about? The researchers think that I am the end-product of an evolution possibly centuries in the making. The critical genes dwell on the X chromosome, so perhaps they are transmitted by the female, but only become activated in the male--an insight that explains so much about Mama, her brothers, and myself that I accepted it at once.

Of course I said nothing about how long I'd lived--there is a limit to what even scientists can be made to believe. Yet how much I owe those earnest, humorless people in their white lab coats! At long last I felt I understood the central mystery of my being, and at last--in the phrase now so popular--achieved closure on the traumas of my early life.

Filled with new and sober self-confidence, I signed myself out of Hopkins, while agreeing to return for further tests. It was time to try my wings. I hit the street with a few dollars in my pocket and no clear idea how I was to survive. As in my far-off youth, I needed to make my living--but now I had an additional aim: to seek justice from the woman who had tried to murder me, if I was not too late.

On a warm May day, an intern dropped me off in the middle of town. For hours I stood at the corner of Charles and Baltimore Streets, leaning against a post and gawking.

One thing became clear at once: the pace of life had picked up. People rushed by like the flickering figures in a Charlie Chaplin comedy--heading where, and to do what, I couldn't imagine.

Their attire dismayed me. Young people in particular looked ghastly, wearing outfits that seemed to have been blown on them by a passing tornado. I did not see one single woman who was properly dressed--not one. Here they were, displaying themselves in public with no gloves, no hats, no veils, no nylons, no makeup worthy of the name!

The flashiest sported haircuts like mini-haystacks, for which I later learned they paid enormous sums to establishments with names like Hair We Go Again. What had happened to the feathery short bobs of the twenties and thirties, the shimmering long ones of wartime?

And the gentlemen! On a warm day like this one, where were the white linen suits, the two-toned shoes, the straw skimmers? Had the Destroying Angel wiped out every stitch of seersucker on the planet? And the Panama hats, had they all been blown away by the winds of change?

The traffic was fearsome. The little cars were certainly sleeker than the flivvers of yore, but the big ones were gross and boxy abominations. Where had all the Duesenbergs gone? Where were the Hispano-Suizas, the Packards, the Lincoln Zephyrs, the tonneaus with stiff uniformed chauffeurs up front and tiny old ladies perched in the rear like stuffed birds?

In place of Elegance, there was Inflation. A Sunpaper cost me more than a meal had during the Depression, while a meal cost more than a hero of World War II earned in a month. President Roosevelt himself would have been delighted to take home every day what a fleabag hotel charged me for a room with one dirty window and a vista of an airshaft!

Clearly, I had to make money, and quick. Of course I turned to the ancient and noble science of beermaking. Fogarty's Finest Foam had vanished from the phone book. But microbreweries had seized an important niche in the market by the perhaps unfair expedient of making a superior product. In my first shot at seeking employment, I got a job with the Edgar Allan Poe Beer Company, whose brew patriotic Baltimoreans swill by the pint, gallon, and cubic meter at Orioles and Ravens games.

Brewing had changed greatly in fifty years, but fortunately the Poe company followed current retro fashion by proudly doing everything the old way. I knew a great deal about doing things the old way, and my skills quickly raised me to the post of Assistant Braumeister, with good prospects for promotion to the highest technical post when the incumbent retires.

With my livelihood secured, I began to seek another kind of closure. I visited Mama's grave, shed a tear, cut the weeds and planted a rose. Then I embarked upon a darker quest.

At the Pratt Free Library on Mulberry Street, a black lady ruling the desk introduced me to the Internet. Through it I began hunting Myra. Though my mind was filled with thoughts of vengeance, I steeled myself for disappointment: in all likelihood, she had long since died.

Well, I can only say that my life has been a series of surprises. The black lady helped me to enter Google, I tapped in FOGARTY, MYRA MEANS--and behold! what a rush of information!

Clippings told of Myra the businesswoman, extracting fifteen million dollars from a suds conglomerate when she sold out Fogarty's Finest Foam; Myra the politician, organizing the harridan vote for Richard Nixon; Myra the philanthropist, setting up a foundation to promote right-wing causes; Myra the minor celebrity, visiting the White House at the age of ninety to meet Ronald Reagan, and remarking of the seventy-five-year-old president, "I always did like 'em young!"

That's true. She did. I remember.The most interesting item was only a few months old: a clipping from a Nell Gwynn County weekly, headlined Oldest County Resident Feted at Nursing Home. Myra was still alive and kicking--vigorously--at the age of 107. "County Executive John Mudd Mumford presented the ancient lady a Key to the County, whereupon she demanded, 'Who let this hamhock in, anyway?'"

Yes, whoever or whatever Google was, it had the right Myra Fogarty. The following Saturday, I set out to find her.

A county phone book gave me the address of the nursing home, and I traveled there by bus through endless suburbs where Burgville, Baltimore, Annapolis, and Washington had all merged into one formless whole.

At the end I found an anonymous building of poured stone, festive with blooming impatiens on the outside and eye-watering with the scent of disinfectant within. To a coolly feminine young blond minding the desk I explained that I was Myra's grandson, and presented a newly purchased ID to prove it. I said that a long estrangement within the family had separated me from Grandma, but now I wished to feast my eyes upon this ancient limb of my family tree.

"No other relative has ever visited her," said the blond, and would have put on a look of deepest suspicion, had his curiously masklike face been capable of expression.

"I think I should tell you, sir," he went on, "that all Mrs. Fogarty's wealth has been signed over to AFLAAF, the America First, Last and Always Foundation, which pays her expenses here."

"I am totally uninterested in her money," I assured him.

He gave me a yeah-right glance, pointed at the elevator, and said, like a guide to the Inferno, "Level nine."

In this Hell you went up instead of down. I stepped from the elevator into as depressing a sight as I've ever seen. About thirty ancients, bundled into wheelchairs, were watching a television without a picture. Only multicolored snow, and the paralyzingly loud soundtrack of a hip-hop program called "Phat City."

Behind a counter, a nurse wearing earphones and a Walkman was performing the complex medical procedure known as "paperwork." I had to tap her arm to get her attention; she removed the earphones and shouted, "YOU THE TV GUY?"

I explained myself in a roar, and she pointed me down a liver-colored hallway between doorways with opaque plastic curtains. At the very last of these, I pushed aside the curtain and entered.

A heart monitor was beeping. Something like the fossil of a large ancient bird lay on its side in the bed, covered with a blue paper sheet. Myra's head was almost hairless. I drew near, reached out and touched my wife's dry, papery face.

Her eyes opened. One was a frozen blue puddle, but the other focused on me. Her gums moved: perhaps she was trying to ask who let this hamhock in.

"I am Edward, your husband," I intoned in a sepulchral voice. "I have come for you, Myra."

The eye stared wildly; then, like its glassy companion, rolled up so that only two half moons of yellowish white remained visible. The heart monitor hesitated for a moment, then emitted a thin batlike shriek.

At the nursing station, a warning light was blinking unheeded. As I entered the elevator, the nurse shouted, "SO HOW'S YA GRAMMAW?"

"HIBERNATING!" I shouted back.

"SHE'S A PISTOL, THAT OLD BROAD!" howled the nurse as the elevator doors were closing. Had I been in charge of arrangements, those words would have been inscribed on Myra's tombstone.

Since then--little by little, with much twisting and turning--I've accommodated myself to my new world. After all, it's neither worse nor better than all my other worlds. Only different.

Nowadays I rent a small condo on Baltimore's Inner Harbor. On weekends I like to enjoy a long, slow breakfast while gazing over the water toward the brightening East.

Have I lost my old urge to emulate the snoring dormouse? No, I have not. My friends the doctors supplied me with wakeup pills, but after experiencing some rather frightening side effects, I stopped taking them. Then two modern inventions--the clock-radio and rock'n'roll--solved my old problem. In my thickly insulated bedroom I set the radio every night to a heavy-metal station, the alarm to 5:00 a.m. Never yet have I been late to work, nor waked to find myself in another century, nor in the grave.

At first I adopted this expedient merely in order to keep my job. But there's more to my new lifestyle than that.

On this quiet Saturday, the pleasure craft--masts gently swaying--lie moored along the quays in a pearly mist just touched by the sun. Gulls soar, dip, and cry out in harsh voices. The low murmur of traffic is the sound of the city's heart awakening.

There's something about the transparency of morning light that gives cool perspectives upon life and death. Maybe I would have matured sooner if I hadn't slept through all those dawnings.

Nothing about the Twentieth Century worked out as I foresaw. Never will I write the Great Book I once planned. Never will I reveal the secrets of human destiny, because I'll never know them. If anybody asks me to predict the Future--no one has--I can reply only, "It won't be what you expect."

Prophets, I've found, are generally without honor. And for very good reason, too.

Looking back, I'm inclined to think that hibernation, though proper for bears, toads, etc., is not a desirable mutation for a human being. It becomes too easily a refuge from--as Dr. Lynwood put it--Life and Duty.

It's true that I snoozed my way through a series of wars that might have killed me. But I also slept through humanity's moments of joy and triumph. I took no part in the great struggles of the century, against fascism in its many forms, against racism and tyranny and ignorance and delusion.

I did not share the adventure of the moon-landing--as all the waking world did, at least vicariously--and by avoiding so much I remained a good bit of a fool, and only narrowly escaped a horrible death. What I want now is what I've never had: an ordinary life in the present. Henceforth, my business is with the here and now.

After pouring my third coffee, I unfold a Washington paper that I subscribe to solely for its thick Personals section.

My eye flits down the array of longing ladies. "DWF ISO hairy-chested Capricorn, 25-40, with whom to prance and gambol in the free, fresh wind." Well, I hope she finds her goat, but he won't be me. Nor am I drawn to the Amazons who dress in vinyl, nor the nymphs who relish water-sports.

And then I read: "WWF, full figure, 2 grown children, an old-fashioned girl who loves organ music, ISO a gentle, caring WM with whom to enjoy fully the ripe autumn of life."

A scenario flickers before my mind ... an ample, motherly sort of woman ... a first meeting at a Georgetown bistro, to show her I'm not an axe murderer ... then perhaps a three-way date with Bach at the National Cathedral. If we get along, a night at some plush hostelry in the Capital ... a decision to live together as modern people do, with or without matrimony ... a small, quiet home in some spot convenient to both Baltimore and Washington--say Olde Burgville, whose refurbished Victorian townhouses are again fashionable....

After all, I'm only an hundred and eight years old. Don't I have needs, too?

[Back to Table of Contents]

Trent Hergenrader lives with his wife in Madison, Wisconsin. An avid soccer fan, he worked for the US Soccer Federation and has published articles about soccer in Play On! and elsewhere. Since attending the Clarion workshop in 2004, he has sold short stories to Cicada and to an anthology of stories for victims of Hurricane Katrina, but it looks as though his first story to see print will be this affecting little tale of father and son.

"Dad, did you know there's a man spying on us?" Daniel asked, not looking up from the small collection of Tinker Toys scattered on the motel's brown shag carpet.

Dr. Russell peered over the edge of yesterday's Montreal Gazette. Still fully dressed in his customary tweed suit, he reclined on the double bed, withhis shoes angled off the side so as not to soil the already discolored comforter any further. "What do you mean, son?"

"Across the street," Daniel said. He pointed to the window, or least where the window ought to have been. It was taped over with black garbage bags. "There's a man in the tree who watches us."

Russell bit on the mouthpiece of his unlit pipe. The hotel didn't allow smoking but having something in his mouth prevented him from gnawing on what little remained of his fingernails. "Don't be silly. The branches are dead and no one should climb it. It can't hold the weight of a little boy. It certainly can't hold the weight of a man."

"No, not in the branches--in the tree. The trunk itself. He looks out the hole in the trunk. He must have dug underneath and come up inside it."

"Don't make me send you to bed early, young man," Russell said limply. He slid his legs from the bed as if to prove the point but he had little faith the ruse would work. Daniel had precious little to keep him occupied. The television only had two channels--one scrolled vertically no matter how the antennae was adjusted and the other showed nothing but indistinct flickering shapes moving around the snowy picture tube--and Russell hadn't brought any suitable reading material for the boy, just some lab notes and a few texts full of small print but lacking in interesting photos. Without the stimulus of toys Daniel would have nothing to do except talk, and talking inevitably led to asking questions. Russell was in no mood to answer questions this evening. He considered switching off the lights and trying to coax the boy into believing they were tired enough to sleep, but such a gesture would simply condemn them to hours of fidgeting and tossing. That would keep the boy awake and then the questions were sure to come, only this time under the cover of darkness. No, better to keep him preoccupied, playing quietly on the floor. Perhaps he could end this bit of foolishness with a gentle reprimand. "Being spied on is a serious invasion of privacy. It's nothing to joke about."

"I'm not joking," Daniel said, fitting a wooden spool on the end of a green stick. "I'm telling the truth. You should try it sometime."

Russell felt a prickling sensation across his scalp as he broke into a sweat. "Damn it, Daniel. Now you've upset me." He half-folded, half-crumpled his paper and tossed it on the nightstand and opened the drawer. He removed the vinyl-covered Gideon Bible and thumped it ominously against his palm.

Daniel's face drooped in disappointment. "Dad, this is no time for spankings or sermons. It's time for the truth. You go first. How old am I?" He spoke with a weary tolerance Russell recognized well, a tone he had heard often in his own voice the few times he had been exposed to children.

"You're six years old."

"Fine. I'll go first, then. I broke the window on purpose."

"You what? Daniel, are you not well? Please tell me what you're feeling." Russell's head began to throb. Dr. Spock's Baby and Child Care lay somewhere at the bottom of his duffel bag but he couldn't go digging for it now. Besides, Dr. Spock had never studied a child like Daniel. The boy didn't fit the same mold as other children.

"The window," Daniel said patiently, pointing again to the plastic bags billowing inward with the breeze. "I broke it on purpose."

"Why would you do something like that?" Russell felt a sharp pang in his stomach and envisioned an ulcer exploding like a geyser. He felt he might be ill. He unbuttoned his collar and set his pipe on the nightstand. "That nearly got us expelled from this motel, and I'm still responsible for the repairs. Why would you do such a thing?" A thought occurred to him and he took a deep breath. Russell fumbled for the note pad and pen in the drawer. When he spoke again, his voice had changed timbre; softer, more pleasant, he hoped. "Are you angry about something?" He scribbled through the motel's garish logo to get the ink flowing.

"I broke it because of the man in the tree. He has a machine. I saw him testing it on the room next to ours. He points it at a window and the machine decodes the glass's vibrations. He can tell what they're saying. So I threw my baseball through our window so he couldn't do that."

"Nonsense," Russell said weakly. "We're talking about you now, Daniel. This is very important. What's going through your head?" He poised the pen.

Daniel sighed. Wordlessly, he lifted the flimsy chain of Tinker Toys onto the bed. Most boys would have built things--houses, trucks, maybe a space ship--with the various pieces, Russell supposed, but Daniel hadn't. The boy's creation was an odd, abstract model, long and lanky like a caterpillar or snake. Daniel held his hands around it as though it was a house of cards that might blow over and, when he was satisfied it wasn't going to fall apart, he sat back on his heels.

"What do you have there?" Russell asked, hoping the toy could serve as some surrogate Rorschach.

"A scientist should know," Daniel said irritably. "That's my dinner."

"What do you mean? You already had dinner. Enough games, Daniel, my head hurts and I--"

"What did I eat?" Daniel interrupted.

"I don't remember." He tried to remember the meal they'd had just a few hours ago at the dingy diner connected to the motel. He tried looking at the construction with a boy's imagination, or with what he perceived a boy of six's imagination might be, but he soon shook his head in defeat. He had no idea.

Daniel waited patiently, his gaze unflinching. Russell shook his head with finality and was going to speak when an image sprung to mind and, in that second, Russell understood everything. There was no use denying it any longer. Just like so many times in the lab, he'd been overthinking the problem; the answer now appeared so obvious he was shocked he didn't recognize it sooner. Perhaps it was because he didn't want to recognize it sooner. He put the pen down and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Daniel spoke first. "It's a molecular model of a complex carbohydrate, similar to the spaghetti I had for dinner. I could also map out the pasta sauce, meatballs, and other ingredients, but I think I've made my point."

"Yes, Daniel, you have," he said in a low voice.

"So ... how old am I?"

"Two years, nine months, three weeks, four days," he glanced at the clock, "and just over eleven hours old." Russell paused. "Daniel, answer me this. What's the square root of nine hundred sixty-one?"

"Thirty-one," Daniel responded immediately.

"And the approximate area of ... let's say Bahrain?"

"Two hundred sixty-two square miles." The boy answered as though he'd been asked his favorite flavor of ice cream.

A moment of silence separated them.

"Pick up your things. We should go," the doctor said as he pulled a red spool off the model. His hands paused. Would the boy even have any use for toys anymore? He tossed the spool next to the container on the floor. Daniel could decide.

"Because of the man in the tree?"

"Yes, because of the man in the tree. Let's go," Russell said. He dashed to the bathroom counter and swept their toiletries into the wastebasket, then removed the plastic liner. He twisted the top and threw it in the unzipped canvas bag lying on the floor. Daniel watched as Russell worked his hands and paced the L-shaped corridor between the bed and the wall. Russell snatched his pipe and a half-eaten roll of antacids from the nightstand and hurriedly dropped them in the bag.

"If we go now, they'll probably kill us."

Russell's hand froze as it reached for the car keys on top of the television set. An icy bead of sweat trickled down his side. "What did you say?"

"If we rush out of here, they'll know something is wrong and they'll kill us. Or just you, probably."

Russell left the keys on the television and faced Daniel. "May I ask you another question?"

"Of course, Dad," he said cheerily.

"Should we kill the man in the tree across the street before we go?"

Daniel paused. "No, I don't think so. First, we don't have any instrument to kill him. Second, he's most likely been trained for combat and could fend off an attack from a scientist and a child. Third, we couldn't sneak up on him while we're under surveillance and besides, approaching him would signal that we're aware of his presence and he would call in backup. I can't see us succeeding in an attempt to kill him so it's pointless to ponder whether his theoretical death would help our theoretical escape."

"You didn't mention the moral consequences of our actions, Daniel," the doctor said gently. Or did that even matter now?

"Are you suggesting that Piaget's theory of children's moral development is--"

"No, Daniel, I'm not suggesting anything," Russell cut him off. Theoretical escape. Russell felt his chest tighten. "One more question, quickly if you would."

"Certainly."

"When did you learn these things? When did you first become aware that you knew these things?"

"A few hours ago," he said. "Around four-thirty. It just came on, like a television. Like when you first turn it on, the tube is dark for a few seconds and you can just hear voices, but a second later the picture snaps into view and everything becomes clear. It was like that."

"Why didn't you say something earlier if you've been like this all day?"

"They were listening, of course. I was throwing my baseball up in the air and catching it. Then I felt funny for a moment, and that's when I realized I could calculate the trajectory of each throw. Then I noticed the man was in the tree. It took a few minutes but I finally understood what he was doing. So, as naturally as I could, I threw the ball through our room's window. You talked to the manager immediately afterward and then we went for an early dinner while he taped up the window. And you remember the trucker in the diner, the fat one with the orange beard? He was one of them."

Russell blinked. The trucker had fallen into the booth adjoining theirs with a heavy thud, causing him to spill his coffee into its saucer.

"So was the woman with the blue eye shadow snapping her bubblegum and the beatnik in the green beret at the counter. They were all part of the team. In fact, I think only the waitress and the short-order cook weren't. They were so conspicuous I thought you suspected something but you just didn't want to scare me. Didn't you notice me giggling?"

"Yes, but I thought...." I thought you were just being a normal little boy, he thought. "Quickly now, Daniel, how much do you know? We haven't much time."

"Well, I'm guessing there's some device embedded in the frontal lobe of my cerebral cortex. I say that because I don't have any enhanced motor skills."

"That's correct. I can sketch out the unit's basic functions later. Continue, please," Russell said.

"I'm assuming there's been some sort of informational download or perhaps a preloaded memory cache wired to my brain, since none of this knowledge is experiential. Before I even know I have a question, I seem to have an answer for it. It's like having a library frontloaded inside my head."

"It's much more than a library, Daniel. How much do you remember of your childhood?"

"I have no memories of a mother-figure," he said flatly. "I remember the lab but my memories cut in and out. I remember you. You were always there. You were always nice to me. I remember being wrapped in a blanket one night and being placed in a car. The wool blanket felt rough against my face. That next morning you drove us across the border. You swore at the long customs lines."

"Yes," Russell said. "That was four days ago."

Russell pondered what to do next; a part of him wished he had an implant to help him decide. The plastic over the window rustled. A fly pinged incessantly inside the light fixture.

"They thought the device didn't work?" Daniel asked.

"They thought the device didn't work," Russell echoed.

"They were probably going to dispose of me then, right? Start over from scratch?" He spoke without emotion.

Russell could find no words. He could only shake his head.

"It's okay, Dad, I know it wasn't you. I appreciate what you did. Besides, I understand that failed experiments need to be destroyed. They can be dangerous. I'm sure you broke a few dozen protocols sneaking me out of there. I don't understand why you did it."

Tears blurred Russell's vision and it took a moment before he could master his voice. "Because I cared for you very much, Daniel. And I believed you would be a success. You have no idea how long I fought for you and I knew we were close, and the thought of them taking my boy away was too much to bear. I felt the implant might yet function if we gave it time, but then I began to fear what would happen if it did suddenly work. I didn't want them using you like some vile tool. So we fled and not a moment too soon, apparently. I never dreamed they'd find us so soon. But for what it's worth, I think you're wrong, Daniel. If they catch us they'll be upset, but they won't murder me for what I've done."

"Oh, they wouldn't," Daniel said with a sudden look of surprise. "But they're not the ones with the man in the tree. These are Russians."

Russell nearly swallowed his tongue. "Russians? What are you talking about?"

The boy shrugged. "They're Russians. Their accents, their mannerisms and body language are all quite distinct. They're Russians. What more can I say?"

"This is impossible. We've got to get out of here." Russell grabbed the duffel bag, inspected the contents, and threw it on the bed. He surveyed the room shaking his head.

"Dad, wait...."

"Forget packing, we'll just be off...."

"Dad, wait...."

Russell hurried to the phone and put the receiver to his ear. "I'll call the lab and tell them what's happening. They can contact the appropriate government agencies...."

"You're wasting your time," Daniel said, and something hard in his voice made Russell stop, his finger poised over the rotary dial. "They've probably tapped the phone by now and besides, that's an international call. They'll never let it go through."

"To the manager's office, then. We'll call the police."

"They'll just cut the phone lines and kill him, too."

"Out the bathroom window." Russell could hardly recognize the frantic, high-pitched voice as his own. His heartbeat drummed in his ears.

Daniel shook his head. "Someone's bound to be back there. They wanted to be absolutely sure they had the right man. That's why they were all at the diner. I'm guessing they've been discussing contingency plans before executing. They should be here any minute."

Russell slammed the receiver into the cradle hard enough to make the bell ring. "Damn it, damn it, Daniel," he shrieked. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? Why didn't you give us a chance to escape?"

"Because," he said, jutting out a quivering bottom lip. "It wasn't going to do any good. They had us. I didn't want anyone else getting hurt." A tear streaked down his chubby cheek. "And I wanted to spend as much time with you as I could. I love you, Dad. I'm going to miss you."

Russell swooned and put a sweaty hand on the wall to balance himself. His face felt numb.

Daniel's head turned at the sharp rap on the door but Dr. Russell's eyes stayed fixed on the boy.

[Back to Table of Contents]

You don't have to be a Luddite to distrust technology as the ultimate tool for all human endeavor. Computers make the running of the most elaborate scientific sequences a practical reality (completing the most complex computations while the scientist is still young enough to figure out what they mean). And they do a bang-up job of balancing a checkbook, too.

But as for the art and craft of animated filmmaking, the jury--at least the one I'm sitting on--is still out. Over the years of doing this column, I've marveled, like everyone else, at how far CGI has come, and how well it can now be integrated into live-action films. Although I had my issues with the LOTR trilogy, I was duly impressed by the character of Gollum. The performance-capture (aka motion capture, or mo-cap) of the acting of Andy Serkis, and its translation into a deformed digital character that seemed even more developed than Frodo or Aragorn, was a wonder.

I felt the same way about the impressive performance of Alan Tudyk as the enigmatic Sonny in the otherwise negligible I, Robot. However, is it a good thing that the CGI robot was so much more interesting and believable than the (largely) human protagonist played by Will Smith? I think not. It somehow made the many shortcomings of the film seem even more apparent.

And when more than one significant mo-cap performance is put in a film, it seems to create even more possibilities for failure. Movies like last year's Polar Express showed that populating an entire film with mo-cap characters produces a movie that's downright creepy. (And not in a good way.)

On the other hand, movies like Shrek 1 and 2 and last year's The Incredibles give me new hope for out-and-out computer animation. Cartoons created by talented artists and writers using computer technology can work--and work beautifully. But that doesn't mean I'm ready to abandon the old ways.

There is something about hand-crafted art that lends it a special enchantment. Would Hayao Miyazaki's brilliant work have the same warmth and wonder if it came entirely from cyberspace? Luckily, we will likely never know, since the brilliant Mr. Miyazaki seems intent on making a last stand as a master of hand-drawn cell animation. (Although even he has acknowledged, somewhat philosophically, that his is "a dying craft.")

Much as I hate to disagree with such a great sensei of animated art, I hope that he is wrong about hand-drawn animation dying. And I would hope that many of the traditional crafts of animation will somehow live long and prosper in the twenty-first century. If you'd asked me whether I was hopeful on that score a few months ago, I probably would have said no. But today I am in a much cheerier frame of mind. At least about one form of traditional animation, known as stop-motion.

Born in the earliest days of film, stop-motion model animation came of age in the hands of artist Willis O'Brien (The Lost World, 1925; King Kong, 1933) who helped train the mid-twentieth-century master, Ray Harryhausen (The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, 1953; Jason and the Argonauts, 1963). But that was then, and this is now.

Since the sixties, stop-motion work has been more a matter of nostalgia than anything else. Baby boomers and their kids and grandkids enjoy rewatching the Rankin/Bass TV classic, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (1964). But pulling an old cartoon out of mothballs every holiday season doesn't really foster the continuation of an art.

However, there are two men who grew up watching Harryhausen and Rankin/Bass who were interested in keeping stop-motion alive. And both of them, bless their hearts, released films through major studios in the early autumn of this past year.

Tim Burton, that master of the offbeat and comically macabre, is one of them. Burton, who was trained as an animator, is, of course, much better known for live-action filmmaking. Nevertheless, with the help of director Henry Selick, writers Michael McDowell and Caroline Thompson, composer Danny Elfman, and scores and scores of technicians, artisans, and actors, he did create a lovely little film called The Nightmare Before Christmas back in 1993.

Although the film did only adequate box office when it was first released, it is a case study in the glories of film aftermarket. While I am not privy to the financial breakdowns, I am absolutely certain that the film's big money and lasting influence, as well as an insured backing for Burton's next stop-mo feature came from sales of videos and an elaborate line of tchotchkes, figurines, and memorabilia that continue to do very well with the geek-goth crowd to this very day.

Whatever works.

Tim Burton's name is above the title--nay, is part of the title--but he had little to do with the day-to-day creation of Tim Burton's Corpse Bride. Although credited as co-director, as well as the co-creator (along with noted animation artist, Carlos Grangel) of the movie's characters, Burton was actually working on his Charlie remake during much of the film's lengthy production. While Burton was immersed in a vat of chocolate, another team lead by director Mike Johnson did the extremely labor-intensive work on creating the feature.

And what a feature it is! Gruesome, yet romantic, it is Dickens by way of Edward Gorey--with song and dance. In short, despite Burton's lack of daily involvement, Corpse Bride is very much a Tim Burton film in both tone and content. That means that very young children may not know what to make of this morbid "cartoon," but adult animation fans and geek-goth audiences worldwide will enjoy themselves immensely.

The film opens as two sets of selfish parents, one aristocratic and penniless, the other nouveau riche merchants (fishmongers, no less), arrange the marriage of their two pallid offspring. Victor Van Dort (voiced by Burton's male muse, Johnny Depp) is a shy, natural scientist. He dreads his role as sacrificial groom until he meets his prospective bride, the gentle and waifish Victoria Everglot (Emily Watson).

It looks like an arranged marriage that just might work out. But poor stressed Victor keeps flubbing his vows, and when he runs off to the nearby spooky-ooky woods to practice them under the stern glances of a murder of crows, he ends up pledging his troth to a young woman, the title cadaverous bride, who lies buried in a shallow grave before him.

Boy meets Ghoul and is immediately whisked to an underworld that is both more colorful and more lively than the gray and repressed land of the living above. Death really doesn't look so bad. Not on Emily, the corpse bride (Burton's own bride, Helena Bonham Carter), anyway. With her lively personality and blue-hued beauty, it is clear that death becomes her. (And what's not to love about detachable limbs and a Peter Lorre-ish pet maggot who pops out of her eye for a bit of commentary?) Emily's Blithe Spirit makes the ensuing love triangle a more difficult choice than you'd think.

Corpse Bride is a bit less operatic than Nightmare Before Christmas, but frequent Burton collaborator Danny Elfman still contributes several songs that serve the plot well, even if they aren't particularly memorable numbers.

All in all, Corpse Bride's story is both involving and amusing. However, those looking for traditional cartoon slapstick and hijinks should look elsewhere (like a few paragraphs further in this column.) The ending, too, is far from the wacky upbeat finales we have come to expect from most American studio animated features. The conclusion here is sweetly elegiac, and quite moving.

But it is the look of the film that most impresses. Burton's many collaborators have made significant strides in stop-motion animation. Some digital enhancements were utilized, but in most instances the film was still hand-crafted through painstaking frame-by-frame puppet animation. It's just that new silicon skins make the figures used seem even more eerily lifelike. And a more modern internal joint and gear works have made facial expressions all the more subtle and body movements more fluid. Production designer Alex McDowell and associates also deserve kudos for the film's thirty-five highly atmospheric settings.

A stop-mo movie this beautiful to look at would be worth watching no matter what it had to say. But the fact that the film tells an engaging story that delves into Tim Burton's favorite themes makes it all the more meaningful. Like Beetlejuice back in 1988, Corpse Bride tells us that the Dead R Us, and that's nothing to fret about. Furthermore, misfits (needless to say, the most interesting folks around) can eventually find sustenance, even happiness, when they find one another.

Two odd blokes who make a formidable and endearing team can also be found in the film work of Nick Park. Many years ago, while a student at Britain's National Film and Television School, young Mr. Park molded a bald and big-toothed gent named Wallace (always voiced with folksy English charm by Peter Sallis) and teamed him with a long-suffering (and much brighter) hound named Gromit. The two mismatched housemates have appeared in several short films over the last sixteen years--two of which, "The Wrong Trousers" and "A Close Shave" won Oscars as best animated shorts.

When Park, one of the leading lights of the Aardman animation studio, joined forces with DreamWorks in LaLaLand, he was initially reluctant to commit his beloved Wallace and Gromit to the Hollywood feature treatment. So Park's first feature was Chicken Run (2000), a brilliant homage to The Great Escape featuring the brave and resourceful inmates of a stalag-like chicken coop.

Now, finally, we have a Wallace and Gromit feature. And it was worth the wait. In its own way, Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit is also a homage to old movies. In this case, old Universal creature features, as well as schlocky British horror. Park has said that his is the first vegetarian Hammer Horror flick. For the filmmaker's monster is a giant bunny who lays waste to village gardens right before the Giant Vegetable Competition at the estate of the animal- and veggie-loving Lady Tottington (like the Corpse Bride, voiced to perfection by Helena Bonham Carter).

On the bunny trail, hoping to guard all "veg," large and small, is the intrepid Wallace and faithful Gromit. They now run a humane pest control business called Anti-Pesto, and they suck up all errant rabbits with their Bun-Vac 6000, another of Wallace's zany inventions. The Bun-Vac works quite well, without harming a single little fluffy. Wallace's new brainwashing device is much less successful, and leads to the complications of the plot.

Curse of the Were-Rabbit is a traditional cartoon, full of puns and pratfalls, fever-pitched chases, and generally goofy goings-on. It is also gloriously traditional in terms of its stop-mo production values.

Although Park, co-director Steve Box, and their extensive crew, like Corpse Bride's creators, make judicious and very limited use of computerized CGI, there is a purposeful low-tech and roughly hand-hewn look to this delightful film. Park has called this slightly lumpy and uneven look "thumby," and you really get a sense of fingers working Plasticine as you watch Curse of the Were-Rabbit. The craft isn't hidden or smoothed away here. Yet, surprisingly perhaps, the exposed technique makes the movie even more magical.

Like Burton, Nick Park also has ongoing themes in his films. And many of the filmmaker's repeating motifs are designed to encourage humans to show animals a little compassion and respect. These ideas are most obviously expressed in Park's Academy Award-winning rumination on zoo confinement, Creature Comforts (1989), as well as the aforementioned Chicken Run. But the themes are also ever-present in the relationship between Wallace and his silent and wise canine companion. And in Were-Rabbit, there is the added conflict between the humane Anti-Pesto team and the blood-thirsty villain of the piece, a slimy, aristocratic hunter named Victor Quartermaine (Ralph Fiennes), who wants nothing better than to blast the bunnies to kingdom come.

Compassion isn't a value most cartoons can boast. It's nice to see it openly expressed in the works of Nick Park. And it's even more satisfying to see the imprint of his thumb in the side of Wallace's bald pate.

When it comes to animation, the old ways are still very fine ways. It does my heart good to see that two well-respected filmmakers are keeping a proud tradition flourishing.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Mike Shultz's previous stories for us include "Refried Clichs" and "Old as Books." For this new one, he has drawn upon his own experiences as a high school teacher, but he assures us that he has only broken a student's arm a few times and he has never eaten a student teacher. That's his story and he's sticking to it.

Boarsnout Spinesnapper was having a devil of a time getting the twenty little goblins in his third period math class to understand their nine times-tables. Well, seventeen goblins and three humans, he corrected himself. Something he hadn't gotten used to since the war ended and integration began. He took a deep breath and looked out over the room full of shouting, clawing students, all eager to answer his last question. If the next goblin didn't get it, Boar swore he'd eat him for lunch.

The yellow-haired human boy, Suhz-Eat (or however it was pronounced--human names were impossible tongue-twisters) raised his hand. Boar supposed it was some human method of wanting to be called upon, but he decided against letting him try. Humans were terrible at math, and his principal had made a point of telling the teachers to treat humans with respect. Boar didn't want to embarrass the poor boy.

"Pigface?" Boar said, calling on his favorite student, a clever young goblinette with dung-beads dangling from her ear hairs.

"Mr. Spinesnapper, could you repeat the question?"

He approached and grabbed her by the ear, shouting into it. "What is eight times nine?"

"Thanks," she said, smiling up at him. She had requested that he yell in her ears, and she always liked when he remembered. Boar didn't mind--anything to make a goblin feel special. That was why he taught.

"Well, then? Eight times nine."

"Eighty-nine!" Pigface shouted.

The room erupted into chaos, some students cheering for her, others realizing she was wrong and swatting her forcefully.

"Nope," Boar said. He was getting upset. Trouble computing eight times three, he'd understand--goblins of this age were notoriously dimwitted with their three times-tables. But nines were easy.

Stab Farpisser in the front row pounded on his desk, shouting, but Boar couldn't hear him over the noise.

"Yes, Stab? You have to scream it." Something he should have known by now. A class troublemaker, Stab never followed the rules.

The other kids saw the exchange, though, and quieted down. They liked Stab and wanted to hear what wisecrack he might come out with.

Stab stared at Boar with one bulbous yellow eye, keeping his other two on his classmates to see their reaction.

"When are we ever going to use this stuff, Mr. Spinesnapper?"

"Yeah! Anyway!" another goblin called. Then they all joined in.

"This stuff is fewmets!"

"Can't we learn torture instead?"

"Yeah, teach us about thumbscrews! Something we'll actually use!"

Boar was about to praise them for their fine independent thinking when he noticed the human boy's face. Little Suhz-Eat looked petrified.

"Suhz-Eat, is everything okay?"

Suhz-Eat froze in his seat, his puny hands grasping the edges of his desk. He nodded vigorously.

"And my name is Suzette," he said in a trembling voice.

"Oh, sorry. I was going by the spelling on my class roster. Do you know the answer?"

Suzette paused and then shook his head. Boar heard a few snickers around the room, and someone shouted "Dumb human." Unfortunately, Boar didn't see who. His principal said something at the last faculty meeting about goblins bullying humans. Boar wasn't going to tolerate that kind of garbage in his classroom.

"Maybe I need to explain it in a way that you can relate to," Boar told the class. He had a plan: If he could get Suzette to give the right answer, they'd try harder. If a human could do it, they'd realize that they should be able to, as well.

"Suppose you just won a battle, and you're taking spoils," he said, looking especially at Suzette. "What are you going to do?"

Nearly everyone clamored to give the answer; to his disappointment, Suzette wasn't among them. And it was such an easy question.

"Eat their fingers," Pigface said. "Especially if they were human."

Everyone laughed. Boar, like every goblin, loved human fingers. Unfortunately, they'd been hard to get ever since the treaty.

"Yes. But how many fingers will you eat from each human?"

"Nine!" Stab called.

"Why?"

"Because you always leave a middle finger on one hand for good luck," Pigface chimed in.

"Exactly. So suppose you eat the fingers of eight humans. How many fingers in all would that--"

That's when the sound started. Boar stopped mid-sentence. Green warty heads turned this way and that, seeking the source.

"All right," Boar said, trying not to sound alarmed. "Who's crying?"

No one answered. Boar's worry grew, knowing that crying indicated mental disability or severe emotional problems.

"Tell me right now, or I'll break all your arms!"

"Mr. Spinesnapper," Stab said, "it's Suzette. The human."

Boar looked. Suzette sank down into his seat and hid his face with a scroll, but sure enough, tears were streaming down his cheeks. In fact, all three humans in the room looked ready to bawl. It didn't make sense.

"Suzette?" Boar said, rushing over to him.

"Hey! Not fair!" Pigface said. "He gets all the attention just because he's crying? I bet he's faking it!"

Boar stopped long enough to bite off a piece of Pigface's ear as he passed her desk. That would teach her. Pigface humpfed and fingered the wound.

Oddly, Suzette looked horrified at Boar's mild discipline.

"What's wrong?" Boar said, reaching him and kneeling at his side. "Are you feeling sick?"

Suzette looked at him with both of his wide, frightened eyes. Maybe that's why they were constantly so scared, Boar thought. Goblins always kept an eye or two askance to watch out for danger. Humans only had two eyes, and they seemed to be stuck always looking at the same thing. That would have to make them a little jumpy, endlessly worrying about something sneaking up on them.

"Listen," Boar whispered. "I know it was a hard question. How about I give you the answer?"

Boar leaned over and whispered "seventy-two" in his ear. Suzette squeaked in fright, but Boar didn't know what was so scary about seventy-two. He returned to the front of the room.

"Well, Suzette, what's eight times nine?"

All eyes were on him.

"Seventy-two," he mumbled, lips quivering.

"Yes! Great thinking!"

"Mr. Spinesnapper told him," someone whispered.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, Pigface burst out crying. Soon, the whole class was sobbing hysterically. Boar went up and down the rows, breaking arms and boxing ears. He bit off Pigface's ear again; it had regenerated already, and she needed correction. All of this was her fault.

But by the time he got them to stop, the gong rang. They all abruptly stopped crying and ran out of the room, headed to their next class.

The elf-mail delivery came at the end of the day, when Boar was getting ready to go home. He patted the elf on its head and sent it on its way before reading it.

Boar sighed. Another mind-numbing meeting. He was so exhausted.

On the way to the Faculty Room, he bumped into Singbad Sharptusk, the biology teacher. She smelled like cat scat, probably from some experiment she was doing with her classes. Boar loved the smell, but he didn't love the way Singbad was always trying to mate with him. She rubbed up against him as they walked.

"Hey, Boar, hear about today's scandal?"

"No, what?"

"Some teacher scared a human kid half to death. Gonna be some body parts flying at the meeting today. Mr. Thunderballs is seriously pissed."

Boar felt his throat constrict. It couldn't have been him, could it? Thunderballs would eat him alive.

"Didn't hear about that," Boar managed.

"Yeah, you know this diversity and respect crap," Singbad said, rolling her eyes. "But most of us are smart enough to play along. I wonder what moron did it?"

"I wonder, too." Boar also wondered if it was too late to flee the building. The thing was, he actually believed in diversity and respect. Yes, humans were a little slow, and smelled something awful. He didn't really understand them. But deep down inside, he knew they were goblins just like him. He hated the way Singbad mocked the idea of treating them equally. Boar wanted to confront her about it, but they arrived at the Faculty Room before he found the courage. It was hard to argue with prejudiced people, and a little scary--they'd turn on you in the snapping of a kitten's neck.

The room was nearly full. As the last few teachers filed in and sat, Principal Thunderballs took the podium. Everyone fell silent.

"Today," Thunderballs began, "a member of our very own staff treated one of our students with insuffusable indignity."

Gasps arose from the assembled teachers.

"Rip his arms off!" the history teacher called.

"Boil him alive!"

"Tear his spine out!"

That one hit too close to the mark. Boar slumped down into his chair, wondering if this was how Suzette felt in his class.

"How many times have I told you, this is a new era?" Thunderballs continued. "Humans are a part of goblin society, now, like it or not."

"It was a human?"

"That's terrible!"

But not every goblin liked humans.

"A human? Who cares?" someone called out.

"Who said that?" Thunderballs bellowed.

"Him." Someone pushed forward a young goblin with orange hair and bright red eyes. Boar didn't know him.

Singbad leaned over. "Student teacher," she whispered.

"It wasn't me," the student teacher said, suddenly afraid.

Mr. Thunderballs strode into the crowd. Teachers snatched back their chairs, clearing a path for him.

"I didn't say it!"

At the last second, the student teacher turned and ran. But Thunderballs hadn't won his position by being slow and weak. He snatched the student teacher by the hair and lifted him off the ground, his feet kicking wildly.

"This is what happens to the next teacher who indignifies a human!" Thunderballs cried.

With a smooth, easy motion, he tore the student teacher's arms off and tossed them to the crowd.

The room erupted into chaos as teachers scrambled for the morsels. His legs came next, and then the rest of him. His liver landed between Boar and Singbad, and Boar half-heartedly wrestled her for it, eventually letting her take it all. She quickly gulped it down.

"What's wrong?" Singbad whispered as the room came back to order. "Indigestion?"

"Something like that," Boar said.

Thunderballs returned to the podium.

"Here's our action plan. Because of this one person, this one bigoted goblin among us, we're going to spend the next six hours in a special seminar: 'Goblins and Humans, Chained in Love.'"

Moans and complaints filled the room.

"Enough!" Thunderballs shouted. "Remember, if it weren't for this one monster among us--" Thunderballs swept his gaze around the room, locking his middle eye momentarily and menacingly on Boar. "--Then you could be home by now, eating dirt from between your spouse's toes. But you'll have to save that pleasure for tomorrow night."

Boar almost didn't hear him. He clutched his shoulders tight to his body, picturing the poor student teacher. If his colleagues found out it was his fault, he'd be their next after-school snack.

Thunderballs announced a short break to clean up the mess from the student teacher. After the break, and a minor brawl between the secretary and the wrestling coach, the seminar began. Thunderballs divided them into "action groups" and gave them skull-holders filled with scrolls, instructing everyone to read them.

Singbad, by rosy bad luck, was in Boar's group.

"Listen to this one," she said. "It says only point zero one percent of all humans can read. And one hundred and three percent come from households below the median income level."

"Um-hmm," Boar replied. He was making a show of reading the scrolls, in case Thunderballs saw him, but he couldn't concentrate.

Had he really scared Suzette? Boar was willing to accept responsibility; the problem was, he couldn't figure out what he'd done wrong. Maybe he needed this seminar, after all. He looked up at the podium, hoping to see Thunderballs. Their principal wasn't the brightest goblin around, but he dealt with the community far more than Boar did. Surely he possessed some wisdom about humans that he could pass along.

But Thunderballs wasn't there.

A strong, warty hand fell on Boar's shoulder, nearly knocking him out of his seat.

"Looking for me?"

Boar quickly got to his feet and turned, looking up. Thunderballs was easily two feet taller.

"No, sir." He had to stand his ground or risk being eaten.

"So, Spinesnapper. How many B-PAOT's do you have?"

Boar didn't like where this was going.

"Three."

"Takes five to be tenurized, right?"

Boar nodded. He always tried his best, but Bailing the Principal's Ass Out of Trouble was difficult. It meant passing a kid when his parents complained, even if the kid learned nothing. Or not busting a kid for selling giggleweed if her father was on the school board.

"That student teacher wasn't tenurized either," Thunderballs said.

Boar gulped, getting the point. If Thunderballs tried to tear apart a tenured teacher, the Union would jump him, and they would have a free-for-all. The building would be sacked, and Thunderballs would find his head on a spit, turning slowly over a fire in the faculty lounge. But until Boar earned two more B-PAOT's, he was fair game.

"I see that you understand." Thunderballs poked him in the chest with a clawed finger, drawing blood. "You'd better pay really good attention to this seminar. I'm going to be watching you, and expecting improvements in your classroom."

With that, Thunderballs strode calmly to the podium. Boar hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. He released it and fell into his chair.

"What was all that about?" Singbad said.

"Shhh," Boar replied. "Pay attention." He pointed to the front.

"Let us begin," Thunderballs said. "You know what High Goblin Command Ordinance Eleven is. Say it for me."

"No Goblin Left With a Mind," they said in unison.

"Yes. Our government wants mindless goblins capable only of regurgitizing memorized information. On the surface, that's what we must seem to produce. But we still value real teaching around here, don't we?"

"Absolutely!" someone called.

"Right. We must help our students think independently while giving them the capacity to appear mindless. You can't survive in today's world without the ability to turn off your brain. But we're going to sneak some independent thinking into the curriculum, and that means breaking away from old prejudices. We'll start with a discussion on false stereotypes about humans. Any ideas out there?"

"They treat their females like second-class citizens," Singbad called out, her tone scornful.

"Well, that one's true. I'm looking for false ones here."

"They're all stupid," someone else said.

"Excellent!" Thunderballs said. "But let's phrase these in a more dignifying way: 'It's not true that they're all stupid.' A recent study showed that at least one human in a thousand is intelligent. Anyone else?"

"They aren't all clumsy."

"Or ugly."

"Right!" Thunderballs said.

"They don't all taste good."

"Exactly!" Thunderballs said. "I remember one time when I was sucking marrow from a human thighbone after a battle, and...." He trailed off. "Well, you understand. We all need to be on guard against these insidulous thoughts. Now, I have an activity planned. It's called the Chain of Love, and was the inspiration for the title of this seminar."

He reached down beneath the podium and retrieved a stack of miniature scrolls.

"This is going to make you all more diversity-minded. You'll each get a scroll with an objective written on it. For example..." He opened a scroll. "'Find someone who knows why humans eat weeds.' If you get this scroll, you must find a fellow teacher who knows the answer and join hands. And someone will find you, as long as you can answer their question, and you'll join hands, and eventually we'll have the Chain of Love. Miss Burngossip, please distribute the scrolls."

Miss Burngossip, Thunderball's voluptuous secretary, handed them out, and soon everyone was milling around the noisy room, searching for answers.

Boar's table got their scrolls last. With no small trepidation, he opened his.

Boar nearly choked. Surely Thunderballs gave this one to him intentionally, just to see him fail. He'd seen zillions of goblin bellybuttons, but humans wore "clothing," and their belly buttons were always covered. In fact, they'd been warned that the humans were sensitive about their clothes, and Thunderballs instituted a school rule that neither students nor teachers were allowed to tear them off.

Dejected, Boar nonetheless called out, "Anyone seen a human belly button? Belly button, anyone? Belly button?"

Most of the chain was already formed when Boar, to his delight, found Ms. Spittletongue, a phys. ed. teacher who once accidentally spied a human's navel during a game of Head Smashers. This Chain of Love wasn't so bad after all! Now, if only someone asked him a question he knew the answer to....

"Hey, Boar, should've tried you from the beginning," Singbad said, hurrying up to him with her scroll in hand. "No one else can do this one. Can you correctly pronounce and spell two human names?"

Boar perked up. "Yes! I just learned a new one today!"

Suddenly, he realized that everyone was looking at him. This was the last gap in the chain. Mr. Thunderballs watched with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

The pressure was on, but Boar was confident. He'd show Thunderballs exactly how good a teacher he was.

"Suzette," he said, spelling it out. "A friendly little human boy in my class. And John. Rhymes with pond, if pond didn't have a 'D.'"

"Spell it," Thunderballs said.

"J-O-H-N."

The room erupted in laughter.

"Sorry, Spinesnapper," Thunderballs said. "Any idiot knows there's no 'H.'"

"Yes, there is. You know how humans spell things in such weird--"

Gasps.

"A stereotype!"

"He's prejudiced!"

"He's the one!"

Boar's head dropped. They'd discovered him. He glanced at Singbad, but even she averted two of her eyes in embarrassment.

"Yes, esteemed faculty," Thunderballs announced. "The culprit has revealed himself. Today in class, he humilyized a human."

"Boar, you didn't!"

"Let's eat him!"

"Just a minute," Thunderballs said. "We ate a math teacher last week, and he's still regrowing in the vat. I'm going to give Mr. Spinesnapper another chance."

He looked directly at Boar.

"Tomorrow, I'll observe his third-period class. If he hasn't eliminated all prejudice by the end of the period, and see to it that every goblin in the room wants to be Suzette's best friend..." Thunderballs grinned rows of sharp teeth. "We feast on Spinesnapper."

As the meeting dismissed, Boar slunk quietly out the back. This was it, then. His career, not to mention his life, was over. He could convince a few of his students to be nicer to Suzette. But all of them? And little monsters like Stab?

Impossible. He might as well spread pixie-jam on himself so they'd eat him quickly and get it over with.

Well, at least he could visit Suzette's parents and apologize, maybe even offer to help him with his homework. Perhaps they'd put in a good word with Thunderballs.

Otherwise, he was goblin grub.

Halfway through third period the next morning, Boar was sweating flagons.

It started terribly. Mr. Thunderballs came in and addressed the class, telling them how horribly they and their teacher had treated Suzette. Boar immediately saw the speech's effects: His students glared resentfully at Suzette for getting them in trouble. Even Suzette reacted with visible annoyance--he saw their glares and knew what caused them. That quick, all the good Boar had accomplished the night before by visiting the boy's home unraveled.

He had managed to clear up the trouble from yesterday with them, though. Apparently, the example about eating human fingers frightened Suzette. And upon reflection, that made sense. Humans didn't regenerate. On his walk home, Boar chastised himself repeatedly for being so dense. Humans were more complex than he'd thought.

Well, he'd stayed up all last night preparing, and it was time to unleash his master plan. Thankfully, his class was sympathetic to his plight, trying to help him look good in front of the principal. Students, as always, turned against the highest authority figure in the room. But sometimes his students' version of "help" wasn't in line with his own.

"Class, we're going to play a game," he told them.

They cheered wildly. Stab pounded so hard on his desk that it cracked, and his next blow broke it in half. In the back of the room, Thunderballs shook his head and wrote something on his scroll.

"It's called 'Chain of Love.' What happens is I give you a little scroll...."

They loved it, even the humans. But just as the chain neared completion and Thunderballs was looking pleasantly surprised, Boar heard hushed whispers cutting through the general din. Hurrying over, he saw a knot of students around Suzette.

He was crying.

If Thunderballs saw Suzette's tears, Boar was dead meat.

"We just wanted to see his belly button," Pigface said.

Boar kept one eye on Thunderballs and studied Pigface closely with the other two. Mischief capered in her innocent expression. Was she jealous of all the attention Suzette was getting?

Boar pushed into the throng. If they remained where they were, standing in the way, Thunderballs wouldn't see Suzette. Now to get him to stop crying.

"Suzette, what happened?"

"He tried to take my clothes off."

"Who?"

"Him!" He pointed at Pigface.

"Pigface is a girl," Stab said.

"Hush, Stab. Listen, Suzette. These guys didn't grow up with clothes. They didn't know that you never take them off. But they do now, right?"

Boar glared at them. They all nodded, except for Pigface.

"That's stupid," she said.

Boar reached out and grabbed her dung-dangled ear.

"Maybe you didn't hear me," he said.

But the chastised goblins were returning to the game, and Suzette was still sniffling. Thunderballs would see her.

Thinking quick, he turned to Stab.

"Stab, I need your help."

"Me?" he said, dumbstruck but pleased. "Anything."

Boar hoped he wasn't making a gigantic mistake. "Go out in the hall and run back and forth, shouting. Then bang on the door and scream 'Thunderballs rots!' or something."

"Why would you want me to...." He cast a stealthy eye at Thunderballs, who was scribbling in his scroll. "Oh, I get it. Sure thing, Mr. Spinesnapper."

Boar stepped in front of Suzette as Stab left the room. A moment later, the class heard his screams.

The door nearly came in on its hinges.

"Thunderballs drinks milk for breakfast!" Stab shouted from the hall. "Thunderballs drinks milk!"

Then his footsteps crashed away down the hall.

Thunderballs was furious.

"Was that your student?" he said.

"I don't know," Boar replied. "You'd better catch him, sir. I would, but I'm running a class here, trying to teach diversity."

His eyes narrowed. "I'll be back," he said, storming out.

Quickly, Boar turned to Suzette.

"It's going to be all right," he said. "Do you remember what we talked about last night?"

He nodded.

"Well, it's just like I said. Goblins respect toughness. Next time Pigface does something you don't like, poke one of her eyes out."

His brow crinkled in consternation. "But that's horrible!"

"Not really. Goblins regenerate. She'll grow it back in no time."

"But then she'll eat my fingers. She told me so yesterday after class." Suzette wiped a lingering tear from his cheek.

"No. She'll think you're cool for standing up to her. Now, I've had enough of this Chain of Love. Why don't you get back to your seat?"

By the time Thunderballs returned, a battered Stab in hand, Boar was passing out math scrolls. Stab grinned and gave Boar a conspiratorial wink as he sat down.

"Mr. Thunderballs, a copy for you, too, so you can follow along," Boar said. Principals liked things like that.

"Okay, Stab, why don't you do number one for us."

"Nine times eight is seventy-two," he said. "I remember that from yesterday."

"Don't we all." Boar continued asking questions, giving the humans as many chances as the goblins. Now for the rest of his master plan. He'd drilled Suzette on her times tables the previous night.

"Suzette, how about the next one?"

He looked down at the scroll in his hand and gulped.

"You gave him the hardest one," Stab said, sounding surprised.

And indeed it was. Nineteen times three. Why hadn't he scratched that one off? Not only did it involve a two-digit number; it also involved the dreaded threes, and they hadn't practiced those.

At the back of the room, Thunderballs grinned. Boar couldn't skip the question. If only he hadn't given him a copy!

"If you need time to--" Boar started to say.

"Fifty-seven!" Suzette said.

"Correct!" Boar shouted, ecstatic.

"Whoa," Stab said. "He's smart."

"Oh, yeah?" Pigface said. "How'd you know the answer, human? Did Mr. Spinesnapper whisper it in your ear?"

"No." He met Pigface's three-eyed glare. "I just pictured how many it would be if I poked out the eyes of every goblin in this room."

For a moment, the room was silent. Then Stab stood up and said, "Suzette, you are the coolest goblin I know!" He threw back his head and laughed like a wild hyena.

"Let's try it!" Gurgle Nosepicker shouted.

"Yeah! Poke out someone's eyes!"

"Okay, okay!" Boar said. "Just one person, though, to illustrate the idea."

"Me! Me!"

"No, me!"

Boar pointed at Stab. "You're up. But you must promise to listen carefully to the rest of the lesson until your eyes heal, and don't puke on your scroll when they first start to grow back and you get dizzy."

"I promise!"

"Okay," Boar said. "Who wants to do the poking? Suzette, would you like to do the honors?"

Suzette's face whitened and he shook his head. "No thanks, Mr. Spinesnapper. But Pigface could do it if she wants."

"Really?" Pigface said to Suzette. "You don't mind?"

"No. Please. You do it."

Pigface smiled. "You know, human, you're not so bad after all." She went over to Stab and tackled him to the floor, gouging at his face with her claws. The class converged on the flailing bodies.

Boar met Thunderballs's gaze across the room. It seemed to say, "You're off the hook--this time." Then he stalked out.

When the eye-poking was done and the class returned to their seats, Stab raised his hand. Boar was impressed that he'd picked up the human gesture from Suzette.

"Mr. Spinesnapper," Stab said, "does this mean you're not in trouble anymore? With us liking humans better and all?"

"I hope so. Now, let's get back to math."

He was about to continue when Pigface's hand shot up.

"Yes, Pigface?"

"One more question." She glanced at Suzette, grinning. "Does this mean we can eat his fingers?"

[Back to Table of Contents]

Ef Deal was the first person to get a library card at the age of five from the Audubon Public Library. A few decades later, she says "I am now a teacher, preacher, youth minister, writer, poet, and musician, and I have serious gourmet chef game." With self-effacing humor, she notes that "I'm currently almost published by most major editors," but in fact her short fiction has appeared previously in The Fortean Bureau, Flashshots, and elsewhere. She gratefully acknowledges the help of her fellow writers in a nameless workshop in the Philadelphia environs.

When a guy like Czesko says he wants to get baptized, you know it's going to be a weird night.

What, you get religion? I says. Never mind, he says, just find me a priest and meet me at the bar. So I meet him here, right over there in that booth. I sit down and look at him, and I swear half his face is gone. Blown off or something. And it's like nobody realizes it, just me. The bartender, he's wiping a glass. People talking, people drinking. Nobody sees him, but there he is. Jeez, Czesko, I says, what happened to your face? Never mind that, he says. You find me a priest? Czesko, I says, are you dead? Czesko says, maybe.

Maybe nothin'. I can see what's left of him is kind of blue but white, like it's blue under his skin, and that's dead all right. Just like Nicky Two-Foot that night we--well, never mind that. Czesko, I says, you get whacked? He don't answer. He says, where's the priest? I gotta get baptized right away. Me, what do I know. I'm thinking it mighta been a good idea to get baptized before you die, but then here's Czesko and he's dead but he ain't, you know, dead dead. No no, he says, baptism works after you're dead too. I read it. First or Second Contusions or one of them. Me, I don't know no Bible and I ain't gonna argue with no corpse, and you know Czesko, so I tell him I'll take him to a priest.

No, you can't do that, he says. I can't go to no church. What are you talking, I says. How the hell you gonna get baptized if you can't go to no church? They can baptize you anywhere, he says, and I gotta be baptized here. Czesko, I says, this ain't no place for no priest. But no, he wants a priest, so I get on the phone. Call up St. Aloysius, tell 'em I need a priest for a baptism. Now get this, the priest at St. Al's says he don't do baptisms. He does christenings. I says what's the difference, and he tells me you gotta be Catholic to get christened by a priest. Czesko says he don't give a damn and get his ass--'scuse my French--over here to the bar with some holy water. The priest hangs up on me.

Czesko, I says, c'mon, let's go down the street, they got a Methodist church down there. Maybe the Methodist priest'll do a baptism. You ain't listening, he tells me, I can't leave this place unless I get baptized. And you know, with Czesko being dead and his face half gone, that kind of makes sense a little, like ghosts who never leave where they kick it. See, you're smiling so you know what I'm saying. I says, okay, so I'll go see if the Methodist priest will come to the bar. No no, Czesko says, you can't leave now, you gotta call him and get him here. Why can't I leave, I ask him, I ain't the one got whacked. Trust me, he says, you can't leave. I says screw that and I walk out the door, only I don't. I mean, I go through the door but I end up back in here. I feel like an ice pick just cut into me, all cold and stabbing. Czesko, he just shakes his head like I'm stupid or something.

What the hell you get me into, Czesko, I says.

Czesko sits back in the corner and looks at me, which freaks me out a little since he only got one eye now. He says, you ever do any muling? But I don't mule, see, 'cause I don't wanna get into no drug wars. Them people are nuts. Yeah, Czesko says, but I hooked up with worse than nuts, dealing worse than the usual shit. Says he met this guy who knew a guy outta the old country. That's like Poland maybe, or Albania, or someplace over there. Maybe Lusitania. Okay, don't believe me, but I'm telling you what Czesko says. And they said they needed a mule and Czesko, he needs the money so he says he'd do it. So he makes the pickup, only Czesko gets greedy, right, and he figures he'll take a little snort for himself. Only it don't taste right, and it don't do nothing. He figures he got some bad shit, but he don't care if he gets paid the same. He gets to the airport and the plane takes off, and you know, you get up in the air like that, your ears start fogging up, so Czesko tries to yawn to pop his ears, and that's when he realizes he ain't breathing.

I says, jeez, Czesko, how can you be not breathing and not be dead? But I told you it was a weird night, didn't I?

Now Czesko's a cold kinda guy, you know. When we--I mean he. When he whacked Nicky--hell, when he whacked Nicky's dog--Czesko just plugs 'em, we dump 'em, and next minute he's eating a cheesesteak Whiz with, just like that. So when he finds out he ain't breathing, he don't get upset or nothing. He goes into the men's room, breaks the mirror, and slices his wrist. I ain't kidding. Sure enough, he ain't bleeding. I swear, he showed me his arm, sliced open, just this black kinda tar. Now I'da been nuts, but Czesko, he's just really pissed. He gets this idea that maybe he's hooked up with something weird, you think? And now he's gotta tell them guys he jacked a hit of whatever it is done this. And maybe they know what's going on and maybe they can put him back, or else he gotta stay dead. But then he thinks about it and figures there's maybe advantages to being dead, like you can't get whacked any more dead than dead. You can do a guy and even if he's shooting back, you ain't gonna die again.

So he lands and he's gonna meet his contact but by now he's this dead color, and people are looking at him. So he calls the guy and says meet him here, 'cause here, nobody really looks at you. He takes the booth so's he can hide better, but he don't order nothing 'cause he got all that shit in him and he thinks maybe if the bags get wet, if he drinks something, 'cause it ain't the usual carry, it might, you know, really do some permanent damage. Now you're smiling, so I know you're thinking like me, it don't get more permanent than dead. Well, guess what.

The guy comes in. He's like a suit, real money. And he's carrying this dog, one of them little poofy dogs except Czesko sees the dog's got three heads. No lie. Three heads. Two of them's asleep. Anyways, long story short, the guy takes one look at Czesko and knows what he done, so the dog bites his head off. Part of it, anyway, 'cause like I said two heads was asleep. Czesko pukes up the rest of what he's muling, but the guy says he ain't paying on account of what Czesko done. Czesko figures that ain't fair so he pulls a gun and shoots the guy. Except the bullet disappears and now the guy's pissed so he says something like, "You have stolen that which makes life to continue. You wished perhaps to prolong your time? Your wish is granted, to your eternal damnation!"

I know, it don't sound like no curse, "your wish is granted," but you see what I mean, eternal damnation and all. And Czesko points to the clock and I see it's stopped at 10:03, which is what the time was at the time. I check my watch. It says 11:28, which is what it was when I come into the bar, only now it ain't moving. I says, Czesko, the clock stopped. There's people in this bar. Don't these people know what's going on? The bartender, he's still wiping that glass. The people, they're just talking and drinking, but you know, they still got the same drinks. And Czesko figures because they ain't involved, they don't even realize what's going on, they're just stuck here in a limbo, but he figures him and me know better so we get to move around a bit and get to think up a way out of this.

So Czesko figures this guy must be into some kinda black magic, some sorcery maybe, and he needs a baptism so this guy's curse is wiped out. God and the church and all that. I says, okay okay, I get it. It's like we're all cursed, the whole bar is cursed, so unless we can get somebody to come in and lift the curse off Czesko, nobody can go out, and maybe holy water and a baptism will do the trick. Yeah, that's it, Czesko says. So I make the call.

The Methodist don't wanna come to no bar, but I tell him it's an emergency. I tell him a guy's soul is at stake. You know, I give him a story, a guy in a bar, wants to be baptized in the bar, like that way he won't go to bars no more. And he buys it. So this Methodist pastor--they don't call them 'Father' when they're Methodists--he shows up about a half-hour later, maybe. I don't know 'cause time was stopped.

Now, this pastor takes a long look at Czesko, a long look like, what is this. And you can see him kind of fall down, his legs going out from under him. I catch him and stuff him in the booth, and him just staring at Czesko and not saying nothing. Listen, I says, you gotta baptize him and save him. Otherwise, I'm gonna put a hole in your head, and I ain't sure that'll kill you, if you get what I'm saying. And it takes a minute before the pastor can even say something, but he says okay and he takes out a little bottle of holy water and a big clam shell and he pours the water in the clam shell and he takes out a little tiny bottle of oil. Then he starts in with this ritual.

Do you remunerate the power of Satan, and let Jesus tone down your sins, and do you show contraction for your sins and will you hold up the church, and all this stuff he says. Czesko says yeah yeah. Then the priest dips his hand in the water and he ain't sure whether to pour it on Czesko's head since there's this big hole there, but he finally figures he'll sprinkle it over Czesko's face.

Shit, says Czesko, 'cause where the water drips, his face starts melting. Okay, not melting exactly, maybe burning. Like with acid, which I kind of guessed was gonna happen but I didn't wanna say nothing in case I was wrong. But I wasn't. It was pretty disgusting, these holes in his face, you know, and that with half his head gone anyway. And the Methodist lets out a howl, you know, like James Brown except not so much soul as wetting himself, and tries to scram out of the booth, and I let him go because sure enough, he runs out the door and he's right back here, and that's when he fainted.

Shit, says Czesko again. We're gonna need a Baptist.

And I know what he means. We gotta dunk his whole body like they do in that pool. I says, but Czesko, how we gonna dunk you, and he says, you get the priest, I'll get the pool. So I call around and finally find a Baptist priest--they call them pastors too--and he agrees to come to the bar, and he comes and he takes one look at Czesko and starts shouting.

Out, demon, he yells, and get thee behind Satan, and I cast thee out, and shit like that. I finally smack him upside the head and tell him sit down and shut up. Listen, I says, this here's a damned soul and if you don't baptize him, we're all damned, you got it?

Meanwhile Czesko kicks over the refrigerator and dumps it on the floor. We look around. Bartender wiping the glass, people talking, drinking. Nobody notices. He fills the fridge up with fizz using pitchers from the bar because the hose from the bar don't squirt that far. Then he stands next to it. C'mon, let's get to it, he says. But the Baptist priest says he ain't gonna baptize a demon. I put a gun on him, and he says he don't care, praise God, he's ready to die for Jesus. So I tell him, look at the clock, but he don't get it. So I say, okay, pal, you go ahead and leave. And he does but he don't, you know, just like the Methodist, so it finally dawns on him. He finally figures out he's stuck baptizing Czesko whether he likes it or not.

So there's this refrigerator pool full of seltzer water, and Czesko standing next to it, and this Baptist pastor guy. He starts in pretty much like the Methodist, you know, and it comes to it, and Czesko steps into the pool. Then he starts yelling and cussing. I mean he's mad as hell. And he jumps out again and falls right over 'cause, damn, he's got no feet. Knees down, just melting away to the bone.

And what's weird is still nobody notices. Clock stopped and all.

I pick up Czesko, like a baby. He's got tears now, real tears. Put me in, buddy, he says. He looks me dead in the eye, no pun, I swear it, and I realize he knows what's what and he means it. I say, Czesko, buddy, I can't do it. Luvva God, he says, put me in, let's end it. I look at the pastor, he looks at me, he looks at Czesko, and he gives me the nod. Name o' the Father, he says, Son and Holy Ghost, he says. Do it.

So I step into the refrigerator and I lower Czesko in. Slow. Face first. The water starts bubbling. Not just fizzing, like seltzer, and not hot, just bubbling. Hissing, like. Steam rising. Czesko's face is gone. The rest of him sinks down. Water's bubbling all over like one of them Jacuzzis at the gym. Steam all over. Can't see nothing. I feel him slip outta my arms. Czesko, I yell, Czesko, where are you, buddy? Water's boiling like mad, huge clouds of steam. I lose my balance and fall outta the refrigerator right on my ass, pardon my French. Whack my head on the bar going down. Takes me a second to see straight, and when I get up again, what the hell you think?

Czesko's bones is sitting up in the empty fridge. He looks up at me and says, shit.

The Baptist guy, he's sitting on a booth seat there, his head between his knees kinda moaning, oh God, oh God, oh God. Jeez, Czesko, I says, only one thing left I can think of. Czesko says, go for it. So I take his hand and snap it off and throw it in the big blender. The Kitchen-Aid one, not that little one they make margaritas in. I put it on pulverize, and the blender fills up with bone powder.

Damn, Czesko says, that's brilliant! Do the other one! So I dump the powder into a Ziploc from under the bar and bone by bone I pull Czesko apart. Hip bone connected to the groin bone and all that. Piece at a time, into the blender, into the Ziplocs. Some I gotta run through the ice chipper first 'cause they're too big, but I get it all in. Last is his head.

Look, he says, this magic. It's in my bones. You gotta be careful with this shit so you don't end up dead like me. Can't let nobody get hold of it. No problem, I says. I'll dump it, you know, like ashes. Someplace nice. Czesko gives me a smile. I mean, I know them skulls always look like they're smiling, but I know Czesko, and he says, smiling, you're the best friend I got. And 'scuse me if I gotta wipe my eyes, but damn it, that was Czesko, you know, and it breaks me up I had to do him like that. He says, I hope to God for your sake this does it. I says, me too.

Then into the blender he goes. But before I put my finger on the button, I figure if this works, the bar's gonna go back to normal, see, and folks are going to wonder about this fridge on its side and all the stuff on the floor. So I put it all back to rights first. Czesko says, that was pretty smart. And I say, thanks, Czesko. Then I hit the button.

Right away I feel it. The clock starts moving again. There's that feeling again, that cold ice pick stabbing. The Methodist wakes up, takes one look around, grabs the Baptist, and runs like hell out the door, and guess what. He don't come back. I done it. I broke the curse. Me and Czesko. I dump what's left of Czesko's head into the last Zip-loc. I pack the whole bunch of him into my coat pockets and I plan to bury him, you know, like spreading the ashes except it's not ashes so much as white powder that may or may not make a guy dead, but not dead dead. In fact, I was just on my way out to dump him when you came busting in.

So before you go dipping your finger in there, I swear to you, detective, these ten bags is Czesko.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Sometimes we'll assemble an issue of F&SF with a particular theme in mind, and sometimes a theme will find us. This month it seems like most of the stories have some consideration of parent-child relationships to them--perhaps none more so than Robert Reed's closer for the issue.

"Hey, I'm speaking to you. Yes, you, my friend. Are those mammoth ears attached to some kind of neural network? Can you comprehend simple slow diction? I wish to be released on this approaching corner. Pull over, yes, thank you. And will you help me with these damned straps? Mechanical strength is not my strength, as you can plainly see."

The cab driver is a stocky fellow, sweating rivers despite the chill of the vehicle's air conditioning. He turns to stare at his only passenger, jaw locked and his fleshy cheeks coloring. But he says nothing. He forces himself to remain silent, one broad hand reaching warily for the straps' latch.

"You've grown weary of my company," the passenger observes. "You want me gone. You want me out of your life. Well, I will abide in your heartfelt wishes. Never again will our paths cross, my friend. Until I rule the world, of course, and then I will personally crush the likes of you."

The hand jumps back.

"The likes of me?" the driver whispers. Then louder, he asks, "What the hell do you know about me?"

"You judge," says the shrill little voice. "Despite a lifetime of red meat and cheap beer, you have survived into your early fifties. The gold band on your finger promises a wife, but the absence of prominent digitals implies that she isn't cherished. Nor are there any bright-faced children worthy of a father's pride. Judging by the name filling up your license, you are Serbian. A genuine doormat race. The trace of an accent tells me you came to this country as a teenage boy, probably during your homeland's last civil insurrection. And judging by the little talismans scattered across your dashboard, you belong to some kind of fossilized Christian faith. Which makes you both extremely superstitious and mindlessly conservative ... two very nasty qualities for our modern world, I believe...!"

The driver squelches a curse.

The passenger laughs. "Does my little rant bother you? It is a problem, I can tell. That grunting, sweaty, swollen, and outmoded body of yours conveys volumes. Your animal wishes are obvious. Right now, this moment, you are picturing my frail body tossed beneath the next beer truck, crushed and dead. Is that what you wish, sir? There is no point lying here, or in diluting the truth."

A thumb strikes the latch and the restraining belts fly off. Then the curbside door opens, and the driver asks, "What the hell kind of creature are you?"

"A creature of ideas," the passenger exclaims with a toothy smile.

"Get out."

"I am doing just that. As fast as I can."

"Out!"

"But before I go ... let me tell you something true, my dear friend. We know exactly how the universe began, and when and how it shall end. Humans taught themselves these great lessons. The gods never helped us. And for each of us--for the universe and for humans alike--what lies between birth and death is an unrelenting tedium spiced with the occasional sweet novelty."

The driver mutters under his breath, and the taxi door slams shut.

"My pack," the passenger cries out. "Or are you a thief?"

A window drops, and out tumbles a small transparent backpack. Then with a choked voice, the driver screams, "Monster," as he pulls away from the curb, wringing all of the speed from his vehicle's fuel cells, leaving behind a whiff of perfumed moisture that lingers in the bright sunny air.

The monster stands alone on the sidewalk, laughing quietly. Less than a meter tall and not quite eighteen kilos, he wears blue running shoes adorned with daisies and white socks with frills and a stained Pooh shirt and dark blue shorts that bulge with the diaper. His skin is pale and smooth. His knees bow out a little bit. He seems to be thirty or thirty-two months old, except in the face. The brown eyes are busy and smart, while the tiny mouth wears a perpetual smirk, as if the world around him is both humorous and contemptible, in equal measures.

Inside his backpack are supplies for his day: a folded reader and an old-fashioned cell phone, several spare diapers and wipes, snacks on edible plates, a press-wrapped change of clothes, and a police-grade taser. His electronic money is tucked inside his current diaper--the first place a thief would look, but he has already peed enough to fend off those with weak wills.

The monster--he goes by Cabe--slips on the pack's plastic straps and sets off, walking north with a determined gait. The pack rattles softly. The daisies on his shoes flash random colors with each step. Other pedestrians take note. Those few who recognize him pretend not to notice. But others see a child, and they can't help but smile at his cuteness, instinct leading the way while the brain sluggishly notes the little details that are wrong. Then instinct fades into a clumsy puzzlement, and sometimes, intrigue. People are generally idiots, but they are not entirely uninformed. What this creature represents is new and will remain new and fresh for some time. But in another ten years, or twenty at the most, the costs will tumble, and all but the very poorest of these drudges will be able to choose from a menu at least as wondrous as the one within reach of these stubby little fingers.

The block ends with a red light and a collection of placid, sheep-like office workers. They speak to headsets, or they don't speak at all. He pushes between their legs, reaching the curb before the light changes. Conversations die away. Faces stare down at the top of his head. Then a phone sings the big crescendo from Beethoven's Ninth, and with a loud clear voice, he says, "Shit."

The eyes around him grow huge.

He slips off the backpack and yanks out his Benny-the-Robot phone, looking at the incoming number before flipping it open. "What?" he snaps.

"Where are you?" a voice asks. A woman's voice.

"Nowhere," he replies.

"I was wondering if you were free," the voice continues.

"Barely free. And it takes all of my considerable talent to remain this way."

She says, "Lunch, darling?"

"No."

"My treat."

"It wouldn't be mine," he snarls.

Silence is wrapped in a sharp pain. Then she says, "Cabe--"

And he disconnects, instructing his phone not to accept another call from that number. The traffic light has turned green. But most of the pedestrians remain on the curb, confused but exceptionally curious.

"None of your business," he growls.

Faces tilt up now, and everyone crosses in a rush.

Cabe sits on the curb, stuffing the phone back where it belongs, preparing to wait through another red light. But the traffic is light. An empty bus and a pair of old hybrids roll past, and he steps out early.

Dominating the next corner is the city's main library--a grim concrete building with tall windows on the ground floor, allowing passersby to stare in at the derelicts and mental patients who keep the chairs filled. Outside stands one of the resident librarians. A nervous man with a strong union and dreams of a pension, he is smoking, probably enjoying one of the new therapeutic cigarettes made from biogenetic tobaccos. Red eyes see the tiny figure approaching. The man takes a couple of puffs, bracing himself for whatever happens next. What sort of cutting insult will be thrown his way? Or worse, will the creature ask for help in some ridiculous research project? But Cabe surprises the librarian, waving once in his general direction before turning, little legs carrying him toward the west.

Beside the library stands an even older building--an ensemble of brick and mortar that currently serves as the downtown YWCA. Cabe usually approaches from a different direction; passing by the main entrance has its risks. But the only soul paying attention is an old man sitting on one of the concrete stairs. The monster gives him a little nod, and the man smiles and says, "Good day," while waving one of his bony hands.

Around the corner waits a world of mayhem and shrill nonsense syllables, clumsy running and random tantrums.

A three-meter fence surrounds the playground, but that overstates the security measures. From the shade of a stunted crab apple tree, Cabe examines the assorted faces, spotting one that he doesn't know and that will probably serve his purpose.

"Ugh!" a boy shouts at him, brown fingers wrapped in the chain link.

"Ugh yourself," Cabe mocks.

A girl joins ugh-boy, older by a year and far more verbal. She regards the newcomer with a deep suspicion. Grabbing her companion with a protective arm, she shouts at Cabe, "Go away."

Ugh-boy squirms in her grip.

"Hello, Lilly," Cabe purrs. "And how are you on this very sweet day?"

"You're bad," she tells him.

"Indeed," he agrees.

The ugh-boy pulls free of his protector, and then losing interest in the drama, wanders off to toss rocks at an inviting square of pavement.

"Go away," Lilly repeats.

"But I shall not, my dear."

The girl sighs.

"Who are you?" a new voice calls out.

Behind Lilly is a woman. She is nineteen or twenty, by appearance, and she has a pretty enough face, legs that couldn't be any longer, and a young and nervous little voice. She is new, probably no more than a week or two on the job. And she is exactly the kind of person busy parents wish to have watching their offspring--a nurturing, nervous girl who will rush to the aid of any lost bunny.

"Hello?" she says to the bunny standing on the far side of the fence.

Cabe changes his expression.

She kneels, smiling tentatively. "What's your name?"

He says, "Cabe," with a delicate sniffle.

"Cabe?"

He nods, pushing out his lower lip.

"Are you in our toddler class, Cabe?" And when he doesn't answer, she asks, "Did you wander out here on your own?"

He pretends as if those words are too complicated. A baffled look fills his pale round face.

"Where are your parents, Cabe?"

Now the tears come, bubbling from deep inside.

"Oh, dear," the woman whimpers.

But Lilly is made of sterner stuff. She stares at Cabe, her tiny jaw set, eyes like little guns shooting at him.

"Mommy," Cabe sputters.

"Oh, honey."

"Where's my ... mommy...?"

A tall gate waits just a few steps away. It takes just a moment for the young woman to use her passkey and rush outside, and with every instinct on overdrive, she kneels and scoops up the boy in her arms, squeezing to reassure and to make absolutely certain that he won't slip away from her caring grasp.

Again and again, Cabe says, "Mommy," while he pushes his crying face into her chest.

"Where is your mommy?" she asks.

"Gone."

"Gone where, darling?"

"Gone, gone!"

The words have an impact, visceral and disarming. She leans into his body and starts to weep for herself. Others notice their little show. Lilly has never stopped staring at Cabe, mouthing the word "Bad" from time to time. But the approaching adults are the ones who will stop the fun. So with a final low sob, Cabe says, "I'm hungry," and moves his mouth to the right.

Like most of the daycare staff, the young woman is dressed for comfort and ease of motion. She's wearing a loose-fitting, relatively low-cut shirt. It is the simplest trick in the world to reach down, yanking on the shirt and bra in one motion, exposing a breast. Then he takes the pink nipple as if he has never been so famished, and he sucks with urgency. But it isn't until he uses his tongue and mutters the words, "Yes," and then, "Sweet," that the woman finally appreciates what is happening here.

"Next time, we will press charges."

The Y director accompanies him down the concrete steps. She is furious, but only to a point. Both know this is a game. Law enforcement won't gladly arrest him. No prosecuting attorney wants to see Cabe sitting in the courtroom. He can field a team of powerful lawyers, and his gifts of persuasion are the stuff of legend, whether used on a hardened judge or a hapless jury. Besides, case law and the statutes are changing daily, and it is a giant question as to how he can be charged.

"Get out of here!" the director warns.

He laughs at her and blows a kiss.

"So what'd you do wrong?"

The old man is speaking to him. He was sitting on a high step when Cabe walked past the entrance, and now he's sitting on the lowest step.

With a quiet laugh, Cabe says, "I did nothing of significance."

"The lady seems to hold a different opinion."

"And boys are entitled to a little fun."

"Well, nothing wrong with that logic," the old man concedes.

Cabe sits on a higher step, keeping their eyes at the same level.

With the first glance, the man appears frail. Feeble. He has thin white hair, long but combed, and the speckled skin of an unreformed sunbather. His clothes are worn and a little too large for his wiry frame, hanging on him as if illness or time has eroded away a much larger body. But his frailty doesn't extend deeper than his skin. He winks at the person sitting near him, a bright smile framed by a handsome, surprisingly boyish face. His breathing is slow and comfortable. Judging by his bare arms, his muscle tone is that of a hardened athlete. And his voice has strength and clarity, particularly when he asks his companion, "So how old are you, really?"

Cabe just smiles.

"The original rejuvenators came on the market what? Ten years ago? But they take you back only a few years, and then only if you're past fifty or so." The man nods, considering the possibilities. "Of course the second-generation bunch is better. But even the Novartis package has that ugly habit of goosing the wrong genes and giving you cancer, or shutting down essential genes, leaving you dead."

With perfect white teeth, he grins. "No, you're using the third-generation stuff. Probably the BioBorn package, since it's the oldest and the best."

"But the third-generations haven't been approved for the marketplace," Cabe mentions.

"What does that mean?" the old man asks. "That word 'marketplace'? If a product is real, and if you know where to look for it, then for enough money, it is very much in your reach."

Cabe throws a tiny hand into the air, making a grabbing motion.

"But now how old are you? That's the question of the moment." The man winks and sits back, eyes narrowing as he says, "Reversion of the body is an accelerated process. Ten times faster than normal growth, give or take. And since you seem to be what now? Two and a half? And since the third-generation rejuvenators started leaking out a couple years back ... my first inclination is to guess that you're in your early twenties...."

"Your first inclination?" Cabe coaxes.

"But that's not particularly sensible, now is it?" A low laugh. "What grown male is going to let himself shrivel up? I mean in all the important departments. Plus that assumes you went on the rejuvenators the first day they poked their heads out of the lab, which doesn't seem likely. And even then, if you started in your twenties, you couldn't have been at this particular age for more than the last few weeks. Which you haven't been. From what I see, you're pretty comfortable inside your current skin."

"What can you see?"

A brighter laugh erupts. "You're a smart kid, regardless of your years."

Cabe cannot disagree.

"So I'm thinking ... and I have some experience in this business, I'll warn you ... I'm thinking that when you were six or eight or ten years old, your parents started buying neurological enhancements. Pfizer has a neural growth package they sell to handicapped kids and head-injury victims. Does some incredible things with ordinary people, I've heard."

"Maybe I'm just smart on my own," the tiny creature offers.

"Yeah, but more than anything, you're wealthy," the old man counters. "First, last, and always, you've got a world of money. Rejuvenators, enhancements. These are pricey miracles. Which makes me guess that there's a fat trust fund or two involved."

Cabe says nothing, watching his companion with fresh caution.

"Neurological enhancements, and then you had yourself declared a functioning adult. Legally speaking. And afterward you joined an experimental program that you yourself funded, and you began to undergo a comprehensive rejuvenation." He winked before asking, "Now that's the general order of things, isn't it?"

Cabe asks, "How old am I?"

"Eleven years, three months."

Brown eyes widen while the toddler's mouth pulls into a little knot.

The man erupts into hard laughter, shaking his head as he admits, "Oh, I already know who you are. Cabe McAllister. Heir to the brownie mix fortune. You were nine years old when you petitioned for a provisional adult status, and except for two temporary reversions to child-status--both to help defend against pending legal charges--you have lived as an adult for the last two years."

Cabe holds his breath for a moment. Then with a tight slow voice, he announces, "I have a security system. With a word, I can have a platoon of security people standing on your chest, probably inside five minutes."

It is a bit of an exaggeration, but only a bit.

Yet the threat has little muscle. The old man shrugs him off, asking, "What do you think? Just because you change your appearance, and then spend a fortune to keep your current face out of the media ... do you really believe that the whole world isn't eventually going to hear your story...?"

Cabe stands up.

"Don't go," the old man says. "Sit down."

"This is a ridiculous game," Cabe complains. "You knew who I was when I first walked past here."

"Well, I should damn well know who you are," is the reply.

"What does that mean?"

The handsome elderly face grins at him, bright teeth catching the sun as he says, "When we were five years old, we went to the same school. Remember the Academy at Greenhaven? Cabe McAllister and Jonah Westercase. Brownie mix and concrete. Two little boys, spoiled and wealthy, and during that long-ago year, we were the best of friends."

They find a bar at the north end of the same block, claiming a booth and drinking cold root beers while bringing each other up to date. Cabe sits in a booster chair and lifts his mug with both hands, explaining, "This is a great age. The best. I get to do what I want, whenever I want. Most of the world doesn't know me from the average little diaper-jockey, which I like. And I get to say anything. People tolerate almost any shit from a toddler, even when they realize, intellectually realize, that he isn't what he looks to be." He smiles for a moment. "And the expressions I see on those faces ... well, it's worth all the bullshit that comes with this little body."

"I can believe it," Jonah says.

The foamy mug is lifted, sipped, and dropped with a hard thunk. "But what about you? What's your tale of body and soul?"

A shrug of the shoulders. "Like you, I got the neurological enhancements when they came on the market. A million, two million dollars' worth of work, and then I was almost nine, reading at a graduate school level, and I announced to my folks that I wanted to be a legal adult, provisionally speaking--"

"They let you?" Cabe asks.

Jonah rolls his eyes. "When haven't we gotten our way?"

They laugh and sip their sweet dark drinks. But then Cabe stares up at the bar, watching the drunks who can't take their eyes off these odd interlopers.

"But why hurry the aging process?" he finally asks.

"Why not?" Jonah grins. "At first, I just wanted to look and function like an adult. Which is easy enough, since the rejuvenators aren't just rejuvenators ... working in either direction, as they do. But what age is the best age? I mean, if we live in a world where you can pick your body's maturity, why do convention and commonsense imagine everyone is going to end up looking as if they're thirty-five? In a hundred years, is everyone going to be the same damn age? I don't think so. I think there's a lot to be said for other stages of life. You're an example of that. And how about the elderly? Not that the old farts are particularly wise people, of course. They aren't. But our culture tells us to listen to our elders, and that's what I wanted to be. An elder. I wanted to be able to make my little pronouncements, and people who didn't know me would think, 'My goodness, what a sharp old granddad he is.'"

Cabe sits back in the hard plastic seat, ready to pose another question. But the phone rings inside his backpack, and he pulls it out--

"Cute toy," Jonah declares.

And he runs a check on the caller's number. Then he cuts the connection and slips the phone back between a pair of clean diapers.

"Wrong number?" his friend inquires.

He says, "Probably." Then he stares at the weathered face, asking, "But how did you get so old so fast?"

"Easy enough," Jonah promises. "Inside, I'm in my early twenties. Fit and clean and ready to start living. But the skin and hair ... well, there's an old set of technologies, and maybe you've heard of them...."

"Cosmetics?"

"Exactly."

Cabe laughs quietly, one hand fiddling with a tiny pink ear.

"The hair is dyed, and the skin ... well, that's more complicated. Every couple weeks or so, I have it damaged. UV light and some nicely caustic chemicals give me this look." Then he winks, adding, "There's some ladies I know ... they say I look a lot like my old grandfather, and I fool around like him too...."

Cabe dips his head, not quite laughing.

"Your folks fought your adulthood. If I remember the rumors right."

"My father contested my petition. My mother fought him."

"Wait, that's right." Jonah squints for a moment, and then adds, "She supported your bid, didn't she? Now that I think about it."

"She wasn't critical to the process," says Cabe.

"No?"

"We always get what we want," he reminds Jonah. "Without either parent helping, I would have won the fight."

Jonah waits for a moment. Then he asks, "So who called just now?"

"Nobody."

"You could just let it ring," he suggests.

Silence.

"Or not carry a phone." The laugh is young and a little bit teasing. "There's about a thousand better ways to handle your communication needs."

Cabe regards him for a moment, and then speaking to his root beer, he says, "Go blow yourself."

"If only I could," Jonah replies.

Then both of them are laughing, and for that instant, in the gray light of a dusty old bar, they look and sound rather like eleven-year-old boys, happily trading insults and giggles.

"How did you find me?" Cabe finally asks.

"Maybe I just stumbled across you."

"Maybe," he allows, pushing the half-empty mug into the middle of the table. "But you were sitting on the precise block which I'd be strolling along. Which makes this seem like a carefully planned event."

"I might make the effort to track you down ... an old buddy of mine from the Greenhaven days...."

The brown eyes widen while the tiny face seems to grow even smaller. Then after an uncomfortable pause, Cabe announces, "I have something to do."

"Too much root beer?"

"Yes."

He climbs off the booster chair and then out of the booth, dragging his pack by the strap. But he doesn't manage one step before Jonah is beside him, remarking with a curious tone, "A lot of two-year-old bodies can hold it."

"Why diapers?"

"To complete the illusion, I'm guessing."

"No," Cabe says. Insists. "It's just that a person of my size can't navigate his way through your average public toilet."

"Sure. Of course."

The men's room has a stall and a grimy urinal, plus a sink cleaned with every full moon. As the door closes behind them, each looks at the other's face, negotiating the terms for this peculiar moment.

"So do you lie down when you do it?" Jonah inquires.

"No, I stand. And I do it by myself."

"Then I'll let you," his one-time classmate replies, vanishing inside the stall and locking its door.

With crisp, efficient motions, Cabe drops his shorts and old diaper, the Velcro straps crackling as they come undone. He retrieves his electronic money and slips on a fresh diaper and then pulls another tool out of the backpack--the Chinese-made taser--dressed up to look like a tiny tube of ointment that he slips with his money into the crack of his bottom. Finally he retrieves his little reader, having just enough time to pose a few questions to a favorite search engine.

The big toilet flushes with a roar.

Out comes Jonah, throwing a mysterious wink in Cabe's direction. Then like a boy would, he runs cold water over a few fingertips and wipes his hands dry with a single brown paper towel. "So what's your mom think?" he asks, pressing the towel into the tiniest possible wad.

"Think about what?"

"This." Jonah points to the pack and his tiny companion. "I mean, she was all for you becoming an adult. That's what you told me. But then you went and did this business with your body."

"It's my business," says Cabe.

Jonah opens the restroom door for both of them. "Did I say otherwise?"

"She was all right with it," Cabe reports.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," he says, the word sharp and final. Then he pauses for a moment, surveying the long bar. A narrow grin builds, and setting out toward a couple of the barflies, he calls out, "Gentlemen."

The drunks are giant men wearing sharp beards and dirty leather vests and several pounds of cheap jewelry; youthful fat is spread thin over a wealth of youthful, steroid-laced muscle. Riding on their bare arms is an assortment of vicious and obscene brands. Until this moment, they looked sleepy and inert up on their high stools. But it's as if cold water hits their faces, and they sit up straight now, eyes bulging as they gawk at the swaggering little creature.

"I have a wager with my friend here," Cabe announces. "He claims you're out of work due to the vagaries of the new economics. Hard luck cases, and I should feel pity for you. While on the other hand, I believe that you are just a pair of lazy idiots, and you have consumed your adult lives pickling in whiskey and your own well-deserved despair.

"Now which of us is right, sirs? Will you tell us?"

Jonah hangs back.

"Or don't you understand my question?" Cabe persists. "Do you not comprehend English? Should I employ a more guttural tongue?"

One of the drunks manages a low curse.

More than anything, the men are confused, glancing at Jonah while trying to take a better measure of the situation.

"Gentlemen," says the older voice. "I am sorry. Very sorry. My grandson is a rude little boy, and I would like to apologize for both of us."

The mood still teeters between resignation and vengeance.

Then Jonah adds, "And please, let me buy you your next drinks. And those after that, too."

He throws a wad of bills between the giant men, winning enough time for them to slip out the front door.

A wide smarmy grin fills Cabe's face.

Bending low, placing himself in front of his companion's face, Jonah says, "You really are just an evil crap. Even when you were five years old, it showed. Evil and cruel, and god-awful vicious. And you know what else? Back then, all I ever wanted was to teach you a lesson, even for just half of the bull that you pulled on me, mister."

The grin dissolves.

Cabe starts to fiddle with his backpack, reaching for the reader. But Jonah snatches the pack up, saying, "You're tired. It's heavy. Let me carry it for you."

"With a word--"

"You'll call in your security people. I know."

Cabe stares at the man looming over him, one hand reaching back, fingers trying to find the taser.

"I know your story," Jonah rumbles.

Both hands drop. "What story?"

"My mom ran into your mom last week. In Alaska, at a fund-raiser."

"What fund-raiser?"

"Bring back the Stellar Sea-cow, or something like that." Jonah laughs in disgust. "Anyway, they hadn't seen each other for a few years. They used to be halfway friendly, back when we were classmates. And my mom has a talent. Unlike some of us, she can make people like her. Perfect strangers will confess and confide in her. So when she asked, 'How's Cabe doing now?' ... Well, that's all it took to get the story flowing...."

The little body walks a few steps, pauses and then walks again, following a slightly different path.

"Stop," Jonah commands.

"Why?"

"Just stand here. While I'm talking, stay put."

Again the boy reaches for his taser.

"Your mom did support your bid for adulthood. Yes. But your father was right. You weren't ready, not in any sense. And it wasn't just being a prick that got you in trouble, was it? Today a lot of lawyers are able to afford enhancements to their own children, all because of the ugly legal work necessary to keep you out of some species of prison."

Cabe looks up and down the sidewalk. They are close to the city library again. Directly behind him is a long alleyway blocked at the far end by a delivery van. Just now, no one else is close by--except for the librarian who has come out to enjoy another much-needed cigarette.

"Your poor mom," says Jonah. "She decided that she'd made a ton of mistakes, and it was just a matter of time before the courts ganged up on her only child. There was one way left to protect the world from her boy, from that little monster, and to protect her little monster from the world.

"The legal grounds were shaky. But there was an answer. Difficult and very expensive, but doable.

"Your mother found a judge and bribed him, and he handed down his sentence, and that's when you had no choice but to undergo the reversion therapy. This look of yours ... it wasn't your choice at the beginning. What you are today ... it's just the point you reached before you bought another judge who would suspend the process, at least for these last few months...."

Cabe pulls out his taser and shouts the single code word that will bring his security people.

Jonah shakes his head now. "Unless of course I've compromised the transmitter inside that new baby molar of yours...."

"Did you?" the boy mutters.

Then he thinks of another, more pressing question. "Why did you come to see me today?"

"Why?" Jonah gives a big laugh and steps closer. "In theory, because my mother asked me to find you. To see if I could talk some reason into your bullish head. Convince you to accept your sentence and go marching off to prison. For everybody's good, and all that crap."

Cabe steps toward the library, but Jonah blocks his way.

"But what I decided to do ... I decided that it would be better ... more fun, and more satisfying ... if I just gave back a little of what you gave to me when we were kids. The way you used to tease me. Or worse, those times you paid those older, poorer kids to beat on me...."

Jonah says, "Everybody else in the world is afraid to smack a two-year-old turd. But I know what he is, and believe me, I can do all the ass-whipping that I want--"

Cabe aims the taser and fires, pumping Jonah full of a withering dose of electricity. The prematurely old body stiffens and then drops hard to the pavement. Then Cabe turns and runs. He fully expects footsteps to follow him. How much damage could that little spark-box manage? But nobody comes up from behind, and the librarian is stubbing out his butt and walking in his direction, his expression puzzled, and then alarmed.

Cabe stops, turns.

Jonah is still facedown on the sidewalk

The boy returns, deciding to retrieve his backpack, and that's when it occurs to him that something is very wrong, and wrong in ways he never anticipated. The bony body isn't moving, not even to breathe. Cabe has to reach under a motionless shoulder to retrieve his bag. And then the librarian is kneeling beside him, trembling hands examining the fresh corpse.

"Murderer," says the tobacco-roughened voice.

Cabe retrieves his phone, making the only call left to him.

Into the waiting silence, he says, "Mother."

He has never felt so scared, not once in his life. The world suddenly seems full of menacing giants, and he sputters, "Mommy," as he collapses onto the pavement, too breathless to speak again or even cry.

There will be light, where he is going. And there will be windows of a narrow sort. Sterile bioelectronics will give him a combination reader and display screen, and the doctors promise enough coordination to use the tools within his reach, including making calls to the world outside his prison cell. The procedure is exceptionally rare, but nothing about it is impossible. Indeed, one of the attending nurses jokes with him, claiming that nothing could be more natural, in a backward way, than what is happening to him now.

The operating room is crowded and sterile, busy and exceptionally quiet. Cabe sees taut white sheets and robotic limbs, and for a moment, he finds his mother's face floating on a small pillow, her eyes half-open and blind from the anesthesia. But his neck is too weak to hold his head where he wants it to be. Then the nurse turns him around, cuddling with him while machines and surgeons recheck the placement of his new placenta. "Honey," she says, and wipes at his forehead and the area around his mouth. "You are so darling," she tells him. "I can't see why this is necessary ... you seem like such a dear...."

"This isn't at all necessary," he agrees.

Surprised by the clarity and strength of his voice, the nurse blinks.

"This is a travesty," he growls. "A vicious injustice!" Then with a near-wail, he adds, "As soon as I find a worthy attorney, I promise, I will destroy all of you bastards!"

But the nurse ignores his fuss and fury. She even manages to laugh at Cabe, winking when she says, "I saw your parents talking about this. How they made you finally agree to the procedure ... by fooling you like they did...."

The closest surgeon says the nurse's name, in warning.

"What's that?" Cabe asks. "Fooled me how?"

She glances at the surgeon, begging to say it.

"What do you mean, madam? Explain yourself!"

No one tells her to stop. So she looks down at Cabe, explaining, "Your friend wasn't really your friend, you know. Jonah was just some actor hired and coached by your parents to play the role. And you didn't kill him, even by accident. A neurotoxin dropped him into a coma. He's somewhere in Europe, I guess ... wealthy now, and performing Shakespeare in the park, or some such pleasure...."

Cabe stifles a scream.

But really, can he be surprised by any of this?

"Your parents wanted you to stop fighting the court's judgment," the nurse confides. Then with a quiet and impressed voice, she adds, "They must love you very much. Particularly your mother, who must be some kind of saint for agreeing to this ... this procedure...."

Again, he is lifted.

Mechanical hands carry him to the far end of the table, and he is turned until the top of his head is pointing at his unconscious mother. Cabe can't help but stare at her tanned legs and what is between them, pulled open by hormones and clamps. And then he is being carried closer to her ... and as they begin to shut down his lungs, preparing him to be immersed in the ugly salty fluids, Cabe cries out to everyone in earshot, "This is not done. Don't think otherwise, my fools!"

Even as the strong hands shove him into the wet choking darkness, he tells them, "I still have means and a mind!

"You stupid clowns!

"I will escape this trap! You will see! You will see!"

Next month we'll take you to southern Africa with a first-rate historical fantasy. In "iKlawa," newcomer Donald Mead takes us into the heart of Zulu territory to show how the tribes face the oncoming British threat with courage and with magic. Don't miss this one.

Also scheduled for April, we've got Daryl Gregory's "Gardening at Night," a thoughtful science fiction story about ... hmm, how do you describe this one? It's about a team studying the evolution of artificially intelligent critters, but that doesn't really do the story justice. Just take our word for it: you'll like this one.

In the issues ahead, we'll also bring you new stories by Terry Bisson, Matthew Hughes, Claudia O'Keefe, M. Rickert, Steven Utley, and much more. Did we mention what a great belated gift F&SF is for that person you missed in your holiday shopping? Just use the reply card in this issue or log onto www.fsfmag.com and give a gift that brings joy throughout the year.

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BOOKS-MAGAZINES

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Wild Card, by Raymond Hawkey and Roger Bingham (1974)

Wild Card begins with a terrorist nuclear bomb exploding under the Lincoln Memorial. Good thing: it wakes the President from his nightmare in which the meat on his mother's dinner plate begins to bleed. After he reads the overnight digest of terrorist attacks, he drives to Dulles Airport, discussing a solution to the country's troubles with his Science Adviser. He rejects it as drastic and ridiculous. Then the newest terrorist group tries to assassinate him.

Welcome to the United States just after the Age of Aquarius. Terrorists of all stripes have the nation panicked. The President decides his Science Adviser's plan to a) build a fake spaceship carrying b) faked aliens then c) crashing it into a residential area of Los Angeles then d) bawling on television that the monsters are coming, man your battle stations, followed by e) an instantly unified country ready for war--is not ridiculous.

The rest of the novel works out this notion. Frustratingly, it ends with only a hint of what might happen if humanity thought a space invasion was imminent. It's as if the media coverage on September 11th stopped after the second tower collapsed.

Today Wild Card interests readers for its description of a frightened nation adopting harsh measures to defend against enemies, many real, some not, none in plain view, but popping up through the media and then vanishing. This won't happen here. But what has happened to us is what makes Wild Card appealing.

--Gregory J. Koster