Unseen (part 19)

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On Wednesday and Thursday I spent the daylight hours at Mrs. Townley's, learning theory, and most of the night walking through Corey with her and observing as she put that theory into practice. In the process, I discovered that all students in Corey were on a complex schedule, since not everyone learned everything at once, or even in the same way. Some students, who readily took up new ideas and learned at a faster pace, received new ideas from Mrs. Townley on an almost nightly basis; others, who had resistant mental structures or who took time to process a new thought, only received additional instruction when they'd had sufficient time to digest the latest idea. (I was deeply curious to know where I had fit into this schedule, but I didn't dare ask, and Mrs. Townley didn't volunteer the information.) I was getting home at 3 or 4 a.m., usually going in covertly by my bedroom window, and getting by on a scant few hours of sleep.

No one seemed to see how hard I was pushing myself or that I was consistently shading my mind, with the possible exception of Dad. Despite the long hours I was putting in, I slept only fitfully and was often peevish and cranky at breakfast, and Dad noticed.

"Where's my happy little girl got to?" he asked on Friday morning.

I glared at him over my one-eyed sandwich. "Daaad. I'm not 'little' any more."

"You're not happy, either," he observed. "Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?"

"It's too early and you're not funny," I snapped. "Just leave me alone."

Some small part of my mind was cruelly satisfied to see how easily I could wipe the usual cheery smile off Dad's face. It took a few minutes for the meanness of what I'd done to hit me -- but not hard enough to make me apologize. My eyes dropped to my plate and to the now tasteless sandwich, whose eye-like yolk seemed to be staring at me in shock.

Mum immediately told me off for rudeness, but Dad stayed silent all through breakfast, which was worse. After finishing his meal, he hugged Mum and went off to work, still without saying a thing. Silence from him as I washed up the breakfast dishes, silence as I gathered my commonplace-book. But on my way to Mrs. Townley's, I got a quiet message from him: You have the ability to hurt others. Be careful how you choose to exercise it. In my mind's eye I could see him in the workshop, creating a stepladder, and I saw the strength behind the chisel he was using, how easily the tool could be wielded to mar and destroy the work.

At Mrs. Townley's, I didn't have to put on much of an act; I really was exhausted, and my low-level sense of misery over snapping at Dad just added that much more depth to the performance. Two hours into the morning tutoring, Mrs. Townley paused.

"Child, you look as though you haven't slept in three days," she said.

"I'm feeling tired," I admitted. "Dad says I'm not myself lately."

Peck cocked an eye at me, and Mrs. Townley rested her chin on her hand. "I have been working you pretty hard the last little while," she said thoughtfully.

Now was my chance. "Mrs. Townley," I asked, as though the idea had just occurred to me, "do you think maybe I could have today off? Just for today," I added, "and I'd join you later tonight for practice. Would that be all right?"

Mrs. Townley considered. Mentally, I held my breath. My plans for the evening hinged on her willingness to let me out of service for the day.

"Oh, very well," Mrs. Townley finally said. "Go on home and get some rest. I'll see you this evening. If your mother asks what you're doing, have her speak to me about it."

"Yes, ma'am." I didn't wait to give her a chance to reconsider. In less time than it takes to tell about it I had packed up and was headed home.

Mum had opened the windows to the morning air, and the rhythmic chk-chk-chk-chk of her treadle machine blended with birdsong and the distant bleating of the Phillipses' goats. I'd already decided to sneak in; that way I wouldn't have to deal with another potential tongue-lashing about rudeness. As long as I could hear the machine running, I'd know where Mum was. I crept around to the back of the house and looked up into the higher branches, toward my open bedroom window. I'd taken to leaving it open so I could sneak out to keep my evening appointments with Mrs. Townley.

My plan was very simple: basic misdirection. If Mrs. Townley thought I was at home, and everyone else thought I was at Mrs. Townley's, I could be pretty much anywhere I wanted to be. The secret nature of Mrs. Townley's service to Corey meant she wouldn't want to risk loosening the charm that helped keep the secret in place, so she wouldn't venture to ask anyone where I was if I happened to run a little late. All I had to do was lay low in my room for a few hours, getting some much-needed rest and reading another half-dozen creepily delicious Poe stories. Then, some time in the early afternoon, I'd quietly leave Corey and head straight for the village library.

I just had to get up to my room without being seen. But I'd gotten pretty good at going in and out by my bedroom window without making much noise. It wouldn't be too--

"What're you doing?"

I just about jumped out of my skin at the voice. From the shadow of the trees John Woodbury emerged, carrying a wire basket.

"John!" I hissed. "What... why are you even here?"

He held up the basket. "Doing some service for the Phillipses. I was just coming to see if your mother was in need of eggs." His face was turning slightly red again. "I... thought you'd be at Mrs. Townley's this time of day."

I thought as fast as I could. "I was," I said. "Earlier. But we've been cleaning house and, you know, uh, she was really tired out... and she decided she could use a nap. I told her I'd come back later this afternoon."

If John was skeptical of this explanation, he didn't say so. Instead he followed my gaze upward to my window. "You know, it is your house," he said. "Why not just use the front door like a normal person?"

At that moment I was deeply grateful for the ability to hide my thoughts from others. "I... John, I'm trying to put something together for my mum's birthday," I whispered. "I really want it to be a surprise. Please don't tell her I'm here. It would ruin the whole thing."

John looked mildly horrified. "You can't ask me to do that," he protested. "I can shade a little bit, but I can't hide stuff from your mum. I don't think anybody can."

Odd to think that only a few days earlier I would have agreed with him.

"Well, then, just don't stop by with the eggs. Then you won't have to explain anything." I gave him my best puppy-dog look. "Please, John?"

He blushed a deeper red, looking almost like a beet under his white-blond Woodbury hair. "Fine, all right," he muttered.

I gave him a quick, impulsive hug, flew straight up to my window and silently let myself in. I thought to give John a little wave of thanks, but when I leaned back out he had already made himself scarce.

Leaving the window open, I sprawled out prone on my bed and started in on the Poe, but found it surprisingly hard to follow. Odd things kept creeping into the stories, like the presence of Janie Herrick as the Red Death or Montresor bricking Dad into a wall, suggesting that I might not be as fully alert as I supposed. Eventually I pushed the book away, too drowsy to continue, and pillowed my head on my arms for a quick nap. But Poe's phrases and poems followed me into my dreams -- "You are not wrong, who deem that my days have been a dream..." "To dream has been the business of my life..." "And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming..." -- along with the faraway sound of weeping. Once I even thought I heard someone crying in the spare room nearest mine, but when I woke up the sound was gone.

Most of the afternoon was gone as well. My clock showed it was twenty minutes of five. I was going to have to hotfoot it if I wanted to reach the village by five o'clock -- the only thing for it was to take Mum's bike again. Wishing for the departed fashion sense of my broken mirror, I hurriedly made myself as presentable as I could, then grabbed Keefe's book and let myself out by the window, floating gently to the ground.

It took a few minutes to find Mum's bike, but soon I was whizzing along -- technically a little too fast, and a little too high off the ground -- down the long road that led out of Corey and toward the village. And if someone happened to see me leaving, and wondered where I was going, I certainly was too focused on my own plans to notice.

Once out of Corey, I had to keep the tires on the ground and stick to normal bike speeds, but even before I got in sight of the library I could feel that Keefe was there, waiting for me. He was pretending to read, but the shape of that quick, beautifully structured mind was all pointed in my direction. When I stopped the Schwinn in front of the library steps, he immediately looked up.

"You came!" he said, and the smile in his eyes brightened his whole face. At that moment, I thought I would have gladly lied to Mum or Mrs. Townley or anyone on earth just for a chance to see Keefe Godwin smile at me like that. "I didn't think you would."

I swung off the bike. "Of course I came." Who in her right mind wouldn't? "I couldn't resist the lure of candlepin bowling and ice cream."

"Well then, sounds like my wily plans are coming along nicely." He stood up. "Do you want to leave your bike here, or would you rather stick it in the back of the truck for safekeeping?"

"Let's put it in the truck," I said, thinking of the last time I'd left it at the library. "I don't really trust leaving it here."

"True. It might get ideas and start wandering around by itself again." He bounded down the steps and picked up Mum's bike as though it weighed a few ounces. "Oh, hey, you brought the Poe back. Thanks. What did you think?"

I can't remember exactly which direction we drove in, or how long it took us to get there, or much of anything else except that I was with Keefe, talking about "The Cask of Amontillado" (he had a much greater understanding of the story than I did, helping me appreciate it even more than I had when I read it alone) and being awestruck all over again by his astonishing mind. I was doing my best not to pry into his head, since I knew how rude I was being, but it was almost irresistible. Since I'd started studying concept introduction theory with Mrs. Townley, I realized how amazing the vaulted structures of Keefe's mind really were. Not one member of the Conscient whose mind I'd glimpsed in the past few days possessed anything like what I found in Keefe's head. It was beautiful. Like the inside of a grand cathedral, my familiarity with it bred not contempt, but a greater sense of wonder.

"He was smart to work Montresor's coat of arms and motto into the story," he was saying. "Nemo me impune lacessit? Tells you a lot about his temperament, and suggests the lengths he's willing to go to for the sake of revenge." He considered (and the way his thoughts moved! It was like watching a dancer, an acrobat, an angel move all at once) and added, "But the most amazing thing about the story is how Poe takes an unrepentant, cold-blooded murderer like Montresor and turns him into a sympathetic character. He actually makes his readers root for the man who bricks up an enemy alive inside a wall. How many writers could do that?"

I thought of Montresor slowly, implacably burying his erstwhile friend alive, and shivered. "Montresor is creepy, though. I mean, Poe makes you assume that all those snubs and insults that Montresor talks about at the beginning of the story are real. But Fortunato probably didn't do anything that was worthy of death. He might not even have done anything bad. It's all about one man's point of view -- it's totally subjective."

We pulled up in front of New England Lanes, a slightly scruffy-looking building sandwiched between a strip mall and a tire store, and Keefe said, "Wait a minute." He hopped out of the truck and went around the back. At first I thought he was checking on the Schwinn, hidden under a tarp, but then I caught a glimpse of his thoughts, so I wasn't completely surprised when he came around and opened the passenger-side door for me.

"Yeah, I know, you can open the door yourself," he said, somewhat apologetically.

"I know," I said, smiling a little. "I know that's not why you do it. Thank you."

He seemed surprised, but pleased by this. I wondered who had raked him over the coals in the past for showing common courtesy, but decided it was probably best not to find out.

As we walked in, Keefe breathed in through his nose. "Ah, eau de bowling alley," he said appreciatively. "Smells like 1963 in here."

I sniffed experimentally. "I never realized 1963 smelled like stale cigarettes and pizza."

"See, you learn something new every day." He smiled. "Let's get you some shoes. What's your size?"

"Shoes?"

He looked at me quizzically. "You've really never gone bowling before?"

I cast around wildly for a good excuse, and found none. "Um... I guess I don't get out much," I finally said.

"Well, you need to rent special shoes when you bowl so you won't slip and fall in the lane. You return them and get your regular shoes back when you finish playing."

I knew better than to ask what it meant to "rent" shoes; I'd read about the practice of renting in a few library books. I still didn't get the point of paying someone to use an object for a short time, when it was so much simpler just to borrow it and return it in good condition. But, I reminded myself, this isn't Corey. Outsiders do things differently.

A frizzy-haired girl behind the counter smiled broadly as we approached. "Hey, Keefe!" she sang out cheerily.

"Hey, Sandra!" Keefe hollered back, and they high-fived across the counter.

"Are you coming back to league, you traitor?"

"I wish I had the time," said Keefe. "There's only so much a man can do in a day."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Sure, whatever. And who's your friend?"

Keefe introduced me. "She's never been candlepin bowling before, if you can believe it."

Sandra looked me over and grinned. "First time? Better watch out for our man Keefe here. He thinks he's the second coming of Justin White." She pulled out a pair of shoes for Keefe. "Men's 8, right? What's your size, hon?"

This I was sure I'd get right; Mrs. Putnam had measured my feet for new shoes only a few months earlier. "9 1/2 inches, with an 8-inch circumference," I said confidently.

Both Sandra and Keefe stared at me, nonplused. "I mean, what's your shoe size?" Sandra asked.

"I -- uh..." How many times this evening was I going to put my foot in my mouth? "I'm not sure what the right size is for bowling shoes," I said.

"Well, hand me your street shoes," Sandra said. "I'll figure it out."

I slipped off my shoes and handed them to Sandra, who seemed impressed. "Wow. Your shoes are really nice," she said. "Where do you get them?"

"Friend of the family," I offered, hoping it wouldn't make me stand out even further. But Sandra was too busy comparing heels and toes. "OK, women's 7," she said, handing me a pair of garish two-tone shoes. "Enjoy!"

At first I thought I must be the butt of some kind of joke -- surely no sane person would wear shoes this offensively ugly -- but when I turned to Keefe, he was nonchalantly lacing his up, so I reluctantly put mine on as well. As it turned out, everyone who was bowling wore the same crazy footwear, so at least I wasn't alone.

Candlepin bowling turned out to be pretty fun. The ball weighed only a couple of pounds, a little larger than a softball, but smaller than a melon -- Keefe said it was "like bowling with coconuts" -- and after the first few boxes I was starting to get the hang of it: you could use the downed pins to help knock over anything that was still upright. Keefe was a good teacher, and I could see why they wanted him back in the league; he beat me easily. I was sorely tempted to maneuver the ball a bit using my knack, but I figured I'd already drawn enough attention to myself for one evening. Besides, it's more satisfying to get a good score without cheating.

When I finally got my first strike, I turned back toward Keefe with a triumphant smile -- and just as I did, I picked up a thought from him. It was the memory of a poem, though not one by Poe, and not one I remembered reading:

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face...

I was struck by the beauty of the words before I wondered why he was thinking of them, and curiously probed a little deeper. And in a flash I saw the connection in his mind. My face went suddenly hot, and I dropped my eyes, but I could still see Keefe's eyes seemingly looking down into my soul, making one of those effortless mental connections between the poem and the girl before him. The poem was how he saw me.

After that I must have been unusually quiet, because at one point Keefe turned to me and asked, a little anxiously, "Are you all right? You're not bored with this, are you?"

"No, no, not at all. It's fun," I assured him.

"Well, maybe we'll finish up this string and get some ice cream. I know a good place."

Keefe beat me again (though a little more narrowly, I noted with satisfaction), and after getting our shoes back we hopped into his pickup and headed a few miles down the road to a tiny ice cream parlor, painted pink and white, with a walk-up window and three or four wrought-iron tables and chairs set outside. Keefe confidently stepped up to the window and ordered one apple crisp scoop and one ginger scoop. Then I had a really good look at their signboard, which was covered with flavors. I'd had ice cream exactly once, years ago when I was traveling with Mum, and now there were so many flavors to choose from that I felt almost dizzy with choice.

"You should try the Black Bear," the guy behind the counter finally suggested. "And maybe a scoop of vanilla to go with it."

"Trust him," Keefe said. "He's probably tried them all."

I smiled. "OK. I'll try that."

Black Bear turned out to be blackberry ice cream with a chocolate ribbon, studded with big chunks of chocolate, and it might very well have been the most delicious thing I'd ever eaten. I ate it very slowly, making it last as long as possible, and listening to Keefe.

"There's a place in Somerville that apparently makes avocado ice cream," he was saying. "Avocado. I'm just trying to get my brain around what that would taste like."

Considering the many ways I'd made a fool of myself already that night, I didn't mention that I'd never even tasted an avocado, let alone ice cream made from one. "Different, I'd guess."

"Well, yeah, but in a good way or a bad way?"

"Maybe we should go to Somerville and try it some time," I said.

"Hmm. Maybe we should."

I savored another spoonful of Black Bear, wondering why it was that we didn't make ice cream in Corey, or play candlepin bowling, or do so many other things that outsiders did.

Well, I knew what Mum would say -- these things weren't necessary.  But neither were the elaborate scenes Dad carved into the backs of his chairs, or the imprint on Mrs. Phillips' cheeses, or any one of dozens of unnecessary but lovely things we did around Corey. In fact, it seemed to me that based only on the events of the evening, most of the things the outsiders did weren't bad at all. What was so wrong about the way they lived, that made them so untrustworthy? They might not rely on each other as much as we did, but they still made beautiful things. Worthwhile things. If what I'd been taught was true and we really couldn't live among them in safety, then why couldn't we bring some of the best of their ways into Corey?

For that matter, why did some outsiders have to be outsiders at all? Wasn't it likely that there were more just like us -- gifted with the knack -- who were trapped outside Corey? And wouldn't they be in just as much danger as we would be, if we were forced to live like outsiders? There had to be a better explanation why Corey had been closed for good. I needed to ask Mrs. Townley.

"So tell me about you," Keefe said. "I'm curious to know more about this woman of mystery."

I must keep Corey safe and secret. "I, um... I'm really not all that interesting," I stammered.

"Oh, come on."

"What? I'm not really that different, am I?" I sincerely hoped not.

"Hmm, let's see... you're homeschooled, your family doesn't have a car, you've never gone bowling until tonight, and you don't want me to know where you live," he teased. "See? Mysterious."

What could I tell him that wouldn't give too much away? "Well, um... I'm an only child. I haven't really decided what I want to do when I grow up. I like to draw. I mostly make sketches, nothing too amazing. And I love to read, especially histories. I like swimming and bike riding and summer dances, and I like to sing -- in groups, not alone. And I've just discovered that I like candlepin bowling and ice cream. And Edgar Allan Poe." And you, I wanted to add, but thought better of it.

Keefe grinned. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Well, what about you?" I asked. "Time for you to tell me about you."

"Let's see." He'd brought the Poe with him from the car, and absently ran his fingertip along the edges of the cover as he talked. "I'm the second oldest of four. I have an older brother named Finn, and two younger sisters, Cait and Tara. I mostly take care of the girls. I want to go to college, and I'm busting my hump in school so I can qualify for a scholarship. I love poetry and essays and pretty much any fiction I can get my hands on. I like to fix things that are broken so they work again. And I like candlepin bowling and ice cream, and Edgar Allan Poe." He smiled. "And I... like to spend time with you."

I could feel myself blushing. The word he'd used in his head wasn't "like."

"You think about what you read," he went on. "You don't assume the narrator is always telling the truth. Which is good, because sometimes you're right not to trust him. Like in 'The Tell-Tale Heart,' for instance..." and he opened the book and read the words I'd written hastily across the flyleaf, and had forgotten to erase.

I froze.

Keefe looked up at me, confused. "Who's Mrs. Townley?" he asked.

next

No, I'm not dead.

I'm just writing. Sometimes it takes a while.

Explain this to me

INCE at least the 1970s, there's been a great deal of public discussion on the combination of genetic and environmental factors that go into the formation of an individual's sexual orientation. But that's not what I want to ask about today.

Here's what I need to have explained to me: what, precisely, goes wrong in the minds of certain people that leads them to think it's a great idea to beat up a total stranger?

And yes, I feel confident saying these were total strangers, because the man who was most recently attacked, C, is a friend of my family. He is one of the sweetest, gentlest people you'd ever have the pleasure to meet; there's not a mean bone in his body. To know him, truly, is to love him. No one who knew C even casually would ever be tempted to do him physical harm. So these had to be strangers.

C is also having difficulty trying to understand what went wrong in the minds of the attackers who beat him and broke his nose. "They must have some real issues they're dealing with. I feel sorry for them," he is reported to have commented to his boss.

You know what? I believe people can have legitimate differences of opinion regarding issues of moral behavior as applied to human sexual expression, because there are numerous ideas about what constitutes moral sexual behavior. But I don't think anyone is ever justified in beating up another human being because of his or her sexual orientation. That is one idea I don't have any trouble labeling as categorically wrong. (Call me judgmental, if you must. I don't care.)

The unknown color

Color wheel by Jemima Pereira

Imagine that you wake up one morning, and you're able to see a new color.

It doesn't appear on any color wheel or in any standard paint pigment. You can't really compare it to any other color in the known spectrum. It doesn't even have a name. And yet the new color, or traces of it, is everywhere -- in the high branches of trees and the shade of boulders, in the shape and movement of animals, in certain paintings and sculptures, even in the faces of some people you meet. Further, some quality in the new color makes everything seem clearer, sharper, more detailed, more beautiful. As you move through your day in a kind of daze, your continued ability to see this new color completely transforms your perception of the world around you.

Then comes the sunset. In addition to the usual vivid scarlets and oranges and purples, there is a visual blast of the new and unknown color that almost brings you to your knees with the sheer force of its beauty. Overcome by the experience and wanting to share its power with another human being, you reach out to the first person who passes by.

"Look at that sunset!" you say. "Isn't it the most amazing thing you've ever seen?"

And the stranger glances at the sunset, gives you a slightly odd stare, shrugs, smiles politely and hastily continues on her way. In that moment you realize that she doesn't see the same color you see -- can't even imagine it -- and that if you even tried to take the time to explain what it was like, she'd think you were a harmless kook, best-case scenario.

What would you think of all this? Would you trust the evidence of your own senses, or assume there was something wrong with you? Would it make any difference if you discovered others who could also see the unknown color -- some of them having become attuned to it only recently, like you, and others who had been able to see it from childhood on? How would you react if intelligent, well-educated, well-respected persons who could not see the color derided those who could, and publicly spoke out against "phantom color delusion" as a mental disorder?

What if, by convincing yourself that your perception of the color was only a delusion, you could make your ability to see the color slowly dim and disappear, until you could scarcely even remember what it was like? Would you do it to fit in?

How to break a bone

N sixth grade, I hated P.E. with a fiery passion usually reserved for mathematics, bullies and bad fiction. P.E. class seemed to be a form of torture purpose-built to humiliate pupating geeks like myself. I was slightly overweight, pigeon-toed, bookish and uncoordinated, and I wore a biteplate to correct the space between my front teeth; the only things I lacked to round out the stereotype were horn-rimmed glasses and a pocket protector. I didn't play any school sport well -- I couldn't do a pull-up to save my life, in baseball I tended to cringe rather than swing at a pitch, and I gladly would have given myself a tracheotomy with a plastic cafeteria spork if I'd been given the choice between that and playing flag football. (Needless to say, I wasn't given the choice.)

Mrs. Wheeler, who grew sick of my constant whining and increasingly creative excuses not to participate, forced me to play German dodge ball along with the rest of the class. Linda Navé had the ball and, not surprisingly, was preparing to hit the clumsiest girl in the sixth grade (that would be me, for those not following closely). I backed away, stumbled over a rock or a piece of tanbark or maybe just a sudden gust of gravity, fell backward -- and my left wrist slammed hard into the blacktop.

At first it just felt numb. Then, after only a few seconds, it began to hurt a bit, then a bit more, then quite spectacularly bad. Mrs. Wheeler, assuming I was playing up the pain in order to get out of P.E. again, ordered me to get back in the game, but I cried so much and was so determined to call my parents that she finally let me go to the office. Presently the cavalry arrived (in the form of Dad, driving our family's orange VW microbus) and carted me off to Dr. Sapunour's office. Sure enough, I'd broken my wrist.

When I returned to class the next day with a cast on my arm, my teacher was so horrified her face actually turned pale green -- afraid, I suppose, that my parents were the typical sue-happy Californians and that she was about to lose her job. But she needn't have worried. My mother, who had been a teacher herself, didn't think for a moment that Mrs. Wheeler was at fault. Besides, my parents were even more sick of my whining than Mrs. Wheeler was, and they'd been enduring it for far longer than she had.

I hadn't been very popular that year, but it seemed like everyone wanted to sign my cast -- especially Linda. It still wasn't worth it. The pain, the insane itching under the cast, the inability to take showers, all my natural awkwardness hyper-intensified by having one arm immobilized, and the fact that I BROKE MY LEFT WRIST when I'm a righty, which meant that I wasn't even able to get out of doing homework -- feh.

So what have we learned, class?

• If you are klutzy, DON'T PLAY GERMAN DODGE BALL.
• If you can't get out of German dodge ball, at least learn how to tuck and roll.
• Bend a wire coat hanger and stick it down your cast for itch relief. The doctor will tell you not to do this. The doctor has probably never broken a bone, either. Feel free to tell him where he can stick his coat hanger.
  
• Don't despair, klutzes. There's some kind of physical activity out there that suits you. (Mine turned out to be swimming. I might have been awkward on land, but I was remarkably graceful in the water. Plus, you can't whine much when you're underwater.) It all works out.
  

Beaver Lake Back-to-School

Every year Miss V's school holds a potluck picnic at a local park before the school year starts.

This year was no exception.

Beaver Lake is a pretty little park with its eponymous lake...

...its National Park-like picnic shelters...

...its traditional totem poles...

...and its manly men, manfully grilling up meat. Manly!

We had a pretty good turnout for such a small school.

Me, I sat in the picnic shelter happily munching on a hamburger patty grilled in manly fashion, and considered the possible names of the totemic sculptures to be found therein. (Erm. In the picnic shelter, not in my hamburger.)

I settled on "Sounds Alarm When Relatives Visit"...

..."Shirtless In Seattle"...

...and "Dog Took The Family Jewels."

(I sense I'm going to get letters about this.)

Anyway, it was pleasant enough and V got to meet up with friends.

Meanwhile, poor Captain Midnight was recuperating from having had his wisdom teeth forcibly removed earlier in the day. He was sore and puffy, like a cheesed-off chipmunk. When we went home to check up on him and see how he was doing...

...we discovered the existence of a new and funky lawn ornament in our front yard.

And something else as well... a whole slew of new trees in the side yard.

Lo, Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane.

V found the sudden spate of new trees amusing. Either our landlords are celebrating Arbor Day early or they're trying to create a privacy screen.

CM is coming along well enough after his trauma, subsisting on a steady diet of chocolate pudding and half-melted ice cream bars, and enjoying the pharmaceutical magic of Tylenol with codeine. I think he'll be back up to speed in a reasonable amount of time. Feel free to send him well-wishes in any case; I'm sure he'd enjoy them.

Flash fiction: Domesticated

NCE there was a wild thing that lived in the wood.

It slept in dark places, and it hunted in cool shadows. When it hunted well, it ate of warm salty redness, and when it did not hunt, it felt a deep hollow hurt from its ribs to its reins. At times it swam through swift waters, and at times it crackled through brittle leaves, and at times it keened a wordless cry when the cold light came.

And it did not know fear, or what it was to be alone.

But one time, after it had hunted well, it saw a strange sight. It was a light, like the warm light but low to the ground, and it flickered and moved like swift waters. And around the light moved many strange flickering shapes that wore skins not their own and bit the air with noises like brittle leaves and walked, not on all fours like the wild thing, but on their hind legs alone. And the wild thing's ears dropped low against its head, and the hairs rose on the ridge of its back, and it shrank back into the blind of the wood.

It found a dark place, but it did not sleep. Sluggish movements, like stones in still water in the darkness, disturbed its mind, and it thought of the light and the many shapes around the light. And so it knew that it was alone.

Another time, when the cold light had come, it saw the shapes with skins not their own moving through the wood, and it did not dare to cry out to the cold light. It crouched in the cool shadows and watched. And the shapes walked on their hind legs in the cold light, and their movements were the movements of the hunt. But they did not hunt and bite and crunch like the wild thing. They carried a tree branch with them, and when they pointed it there was a sound that bit the air, and the prey fell and did not move again. Then the wild thing thought they would eat of warm salty redness, but they did not. They gathered the fallen prey in their forepaws and took it away, toward the place of the warm light.

The wild thing lay so still in the cool shadows that it might have been a stone, and it watched the shapes and the tree branch they carried. Though it had hunted well, it felt a deep hollow hurt from its ribs to its reins. And so it knew fear.

Another time, when the brittle leaves crackled under its paws, it heard a sound it did not know. The wild thing crept closer to the sound as it rose and fell, like birdsong. And in the clearing, making its sounds in the warm light from the sky, was one of the shapes. Its forepaws were full of leaves, and it flickered and scattered them in all directions, making more strange sounds.

It was very close, closer than the wild thing had ever come to any of the strange shapes, and so the wild thing saw what it had not seen before. It saw that this shape sometimes walked on four legs instead of on two. It saw that this shape was small, like prey. It saw that this shape moved sluggishly, with no movements of the hunt, and that it carried no tree branch with it. It saw that this shape wore skins not its own, like the others, but that under the skins was the smell of warm salty redness. And it saw that the shape was alone, far from the others of its kind.

The wild thing thought of hunting well, of biting and crunching. It crept closer to the small shape, and its thoughts were dark thoughts of warm salty redness. And because the shape was so like prey, the wild thing thought it would flee like prey. It did not think the shape would rise up and grab its muzzle with its forepaws.

But that is just what it did.

"Da-da-da-da-da! Da-gee!" the small shape cried, clinging to the wild thing's fur, and the wild thing did not know what to do. The small shape looked at the wild thing, and the wild thing saw that its eyes were like the sky. And the small shape showed its teeth, but not to bite or crunch, only to make more of its strange sounds. And the wild thing felt a deep hollow hurt from its ribs to its reins. It saw the small shape was alone when it should be with the other shapes, and it knew what it was to be alone.

So the wild thing pushed and pulled and dragged the small shape back to the place where the warm light flickered on the ground, and the many shapes flickered around it. And when they saw the wild thing and the small shape, their strange sounds bit the air, and one of them raised a tree branch and the wild thing knew then what it was to be prey.

But they did not hunt the wild thing. Instead they gathered the small shape in their forepaws, and they saw it was not harmed. And they saw how the small shape put its forepaws close to the wild thing and made the strange sound of "Da-gee, da-gee." So they gave the wild thing some of the prey from their hunt, and the wild thing dragged it away and ate of warm salty redness and was full.

Another time the wild thing came back to the place of warm light, and the many shapes gave it some prey again, and this time the wild thing did not drag it away, but ate of warm salty redness by the flickering warm light before it went to find a dark place.

And then came the time when, as the wild thing was eating by the warm light, one of the shapes reached out with its forepaw and touched the wild thing's fur. And the wild thing's ears dropped low against its head, but it did not shrink back into the blind of the wood, and it suffered itself to be touched by the shapes.

Then there was a time when the cold light came and made the whole wood cold and the swift waters sluggish, and the wild thing did not hunt well. And it crept back toward the warm light with a deep hollow hurt from its ribs to its reins, but this time the many shapes did not give it prey to bite and crunch. They turned the warm light on the ground to cold ash, and they gathered the skins not their own in their forepaws, and they turned to move out of the wood, to be close to the warm light in the sky. And the wild thing again knew fear, and what it was to be alone, and it keened a wordless cry to the cold light.

And so the wild thing followed the strange shapes out of the wood, wherever they went. When they hunted, it hunted with them and had a share of the prey. When they touched it with their forepaws, it no longer shrank back. When they made warm light on the ground, it slept in warm places. And when the small shape named it "Da-gee" and curled up next to it and slept resting on its fur, the wild thing knew what it was not to be alone.

So it was that the wild thing was tamed. But not entirely.