400 Boys and 50 More (18 page)

“I was desperate for money,” my father said. “We’re a bit overspent, you know. But the publisher was no less desperate for the book. Audiences have been calling for it! It’s on the market already. The printers went to work on it an hour after you handed it to me.”

I opened the book and gazed in amazement at the words I had written, the story I had invented. Yes, it did seem marvellous, the work of a genius. Only fear stopped me from confessing everything to my father at that moment. I wished with all my

heart that he could have known the true author of the tale. And yet I was sure that the knowledge would ruin him.

At that moment there was a knock on the downstairs door. My father disappeared and returned a moment later rubbing his hands together, grinning, followed by a rotund man in much-worn clothing whose reddish hair sprang from his balding head in twisted sprigs.

“Maven,” he said, “we are honored with a most esteemed guest. This is Castor Donothex.”

Castor Donothex, the world’s most honored living author, himself an emulator of Strapon Thing. I sprang from my bedding, but he had no interest in me. All his attention went to the bound copy of
Good 'n' Evil
that my father thrust into his hands.

Mr. Donothex was speechless, but not for long. He opened the book and began to read aloud in a high-pitched oratorical style. After a few minutes of this he gave forth a great sob and clutched the book to his chest. There were tears in his eyes.

My father gave me a look of tremendous satisfaction and a fond wink. Then he produced the original typescript of
Good 'n' Evil
and put it into the great author’s hands.

Castor Donothex gasped for breath. My father quickly retrieved the manuscript and bade the great man sit in his comfortable reading chair.

“Might I have a drop of absinthe?” he begged.

“Maven! Be quick with the bottle! You know where it is.”

I uncorked one of the violet bottles full of my father’s distillate, splashed several inches into a snifter, and gave it to my father, who set the glass in Mr. Donothex’s trembling hands. He drank greedily and required another splash of absinthe, although this time diluted with a few drops of sterile water.

Then he climbed down from the chair, directly onto his knees, and reached out for the manuscript. Closing his eyes, he put his lips to the fat packet. I was faintly repulsed by the sight, for there was a sheen of sweat on his lips; I hoped he would not stain the fruit of my labor.

“Now I may die in bliss,” he intoned in a sepulchral voice. “To have touched the actual manuscript of the Master’s greatest work....”

His greatest work! I nearly collapsed at the statement.

The book’s reputation had preceded it into the corners of the literary world. Strapon Thing’s masterpiece—and I had written it!

I hardly noticed Donothex’s exit. The rest of the day passed in an ecstatic haze. I did not truly surface from my thoughts until the next morning, when I knew that Dorky Coxset would be waiting for me in the dingy, prisonlike confines of the typewriter repair shop. I thought of handing in my resignation, for now our fortune was assured. No other pages need issue from the Underwood. I intended to tell my father that the mysterious gentleman’s archives were exhausted.

As I let myself out of the house, I was surprised to see a party of men and women in striped frocks hurrying up the avenue in my direction. I looked behind me, seeking a route of escape, for there was something in their attitude and bearing that impressed me with the thought of danger. However, a similar party was in progress at the other end of the street, this comprised of scholars from the College.

I wondered if I should rouse my father from his absinthine slumbers, but my panic was too great. Ducking my head, I crossed the street and sank into the shadows of an alley. From this safe vantage I observed the meeting of the two parties. They were decidedly hostile and I half expected them to meet like opponents in battle. Instead they joined forces at the door, and in the manner of allies called for my father’s immediate appearance. His head, still decked in a nightcap, soon emerged from the window above. He looked completely confused by the manifestation.

“We’ve been had!” someone shouted up at him.

“Duped!” said another.

“Confound you—we’ll have back the monies we paid, or else we’ll have your hide!”

My father looked from one face to the other. I could see he was at the verge of a trembling fit.

“What—what do you mean?” he asked. “What is this nonsense?”

“‘Strapon Thing,' bah!” shouted a curator of the Museum. “A cursory reading of your ludicrous forgery shows a thousand inconsistencies, including outright lies about the cause of the Turbulation! Had you bothered to check your histories, you might have avoided some of the more obvious errors—but many are secrets of Prior History in any case, reserved in the confidential comparative archives to protect society from exactly such hoaxes as this. Your little game is up. Now come down from there this minute!”

“A forgery, you say?” my father cried, his astonishment not quite as thorough as he pretended.

“But—but I had a gentleman’s word!”

“There is no gentleman, I’m sure,” said Professor Lickman. “It’s all the product of your fevered imagination, wrought by absinthe and uncontrolled greed.”

“No,” my father said. “You must be mistaken.”

“I assure you, we are not. You have cast unforgivable stains on the name of Strapon Thing. Had your facts not given you away, the dreadful clumsiness of the prose would have considerably degraded our appreciation of all his true masterworks!”

My father looked wildly about the street now, as if seeking some means of escape. By chance, he noticed me. My trembling must have betrayed me, even in the shadows. His arm shot out; his finger pinned me to my place.

“There!” he cried. “You can see plain enough how the truth affects him. There’s your forger, there’s the boy who duped you—just as he duped me! I’ll disown you for this, Maven! I’ll disown you, do you hear?”

Two dozen heads turned toward me; black coats and striped frocks grew flurried with the agitated motions of the historians. For a moment I was frozen but then they made their charge. I stumbled backward with a shout and fled for my life down the narrow alley.

Fortunately, I was well acquainted with the byways of the neighborhood, and I soon left the houndlike sound of their pursuit behind me. But I was desolate, with nowhere to go, no home to call my own, no confidant, no friend in the world. I had not even the money for a ticket that might carry me far from the scene of my crimes. Already I regretted the day that I had ever learned to type.

As I wandered in a sulking mood, a face sprang up from my memory. I thought of one man who might understand me, who might hear me out without passing judgment. Surely Professor Tadmonicker, I thought, would appreciate the truth.

I hastily made my way to the College. Avoiding the departments of History and Literature, I went on to the Science wing, the Department of Artifactual Analysis.

I found the Professor in his office, reading from a huge volume spread open on the desk before him. He was laughing aloud with all his might, but when he saw me he shut the book with a thud and was all seriousness again, as he had been on our first encounter.

“I’ve just been reading
Good 'n' Evil
,” he said. “I believe at last my colleagues will be exposed for the fools I’ve known them to be all along.”

I nodded, still speechless.

“And what brings you here, my friend? You must have read the manuscript. Even you must realize that it is a clumsy bundle of lies and fabrications. Or has your gentleman friend fooled even you?”

I found my voice at last. “No, Professor Tadmonicker. I was never fooled. Of course it is nothing but lies. No one knows it better than I.”

“So,” he said, his mood lightening. “You’ve come to confess then, have you? I think that would be wise. Why don’t you have a seat?”

I accepted his offer gratefully. “I’ll tell you everything I know,” I said, “if only you will promise not to betray me. I need a friend. I need your advice.”

“Betray you? But what do you have to fear, Maven?”

And so I told him everything.

Father, dear Father, now you know that I did it all for you. What the public believes is of little importance to me. It is your opinion alone that matters. Look kindly upon your son; find forgiveness in your heart, if you can. I had hoped that my actions would bring us closer, but I was cruelly disappointed. Even so, can you not see how I was motivated by filial affection?

I will deliver a copy of this confession to your cell in the Debtor’s Prison, and another to the news printers who have agreed to lay the whole story before the world. Perhaps then your reputation will be restored, and the judges will mercifully see fit to free you, so that we might be reunited. Our house, I realize, has been taken by creditors; but surely we do not need a mansion to keep us warm. As long as we understand each other, and speak only truth from now on, will not our affections sustain us?

Signed,

Your loving son,

Maven

* * *

"Good 'n' Evil, or, The Once and Future Thing" copyright 2016 by Marc Laidlaw. First appeared at marclaidlaw.com.

LOVE COMES TO THE MIDDLEMAN

Upon the wall, the neighborlings were arguing. Jack listened to the piping voices with increasing anger. The problems of the little people sounded all too much like his own, except smaller.

He opened his eyes and searched for the offending home among the array of tiny buildings stacked to the ceiling of his room. In most, the lights were dim or out completely; in a few, tiny shadows moved against the curtains. The smell of almond tobacco smoke drifted from half-open doorways; newspapers rustled. As a rule, the smaller citizens went to sleep early, and those who stayed up kept their voices down once he’d turned off his light.

Tonight, the Pewlins were the noisemakers:

“If you can’t stay inside your budget, pretty soon we won’t have a budget!”

“It’s not me wasting money on drink and gambling.”

“It’s not you making money, either. I need my recreation.”

“Recreation? You’re a drunk with bad luck. It’s not like you’re developing a skill. You just get drunker and unluckier. And the next time—”

On his knees now, Jack rapped sharply on the door of the Pewlins’ house with a fingernail. “Hey, in there. I’ve got a heavy day tomorrow.”

At the sound of his voice, curtains stirred in the windows of other houses. The Pewlins, too embarrassed to face him, merely began to mutter.

“Told you you’d wake him. We’re going to lose this house and end up in somebody’s sock drawer.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m going to bed.”

As Jack crawled back into his bed—a lumpy mattress laid out on the floor—someone scratched on his door. With a sigh, he got up and opened it.

His house was halfway up the wall of the next room. The giant and his wife shared that room. She was out there now, leaning so close to his door that he could have stepped onto her nose.

“Having trouble in there, Jack?

“It’s the Pewlins again. They went to bed. Thanks for asking, Nairla.”

“If they’re any trouble, we’d be glad to take them out here. We can hardly hear them, they’re so small. I know the neighborlings’ voices can be so penetrating when you’re trying to sleep.”

How do you know that? he thought, but didn’t ask. He had kept her awake a few times, no doubt, with his infrequent parties.

“No, seriously, it’s not a problem now. Thanks anyway.” He leaned out of the doorway and she turned her head so that he could whisper into her vast ear: “I think you’ve probably intimidated them.”

She pulled back and smiled, a very nice smile. Nairla had always taken a special interest in him; for his part, he’d always been attracted to big-boned red headed women. But not as big as Nairla. She was quite out of his league. And besides, her enormous husband lay out there like a range of hills, snoring away. The houses and office buildings along the giants’ walls were all dark; Jack’s samesize neighbors kept similar hours. He only wished his neighborlings could be so quiet.

“Sleep tight,” Nairla said.

“Would you ask her to keep it down?” piped a voice from a corner of Jack’s room. “Some of us have to get up in the morning.”

* * *

Jack awoke with a groan on his lips and a vile taste in his mouth, and the complaints of the neighborlings in his ears: “Turn off that alarm clock! We’re awake!”

As he reached out to switch off the alarm, he realized that he was sick. Swimming head, upset stomach—the flu had been going around at the office. This had to be it. He would just lie here a while and hope it didn’t get worse.

False hope. He lurched out of bed and ran into the bathroom. When he looked up from the sink, the houses along the window ledge were coming to life. Complaints came drifting down to him: “Was that birdsong I heard? What a way to wake up.”

“Sorry,” Jack said.

From bed, he called the office. The phones weren’t being answered yet. He would have to lie and wait a while.

An hour later, he awoke to the sound of buzzing. Tiny private fliers darted among the buildings on his wall. Some of them maneuvered around the ceiling of the room, caught in elaborate flight patterns as they waited their turns to exit through the vents near the ceiling, then headed for neighboring pueblos in other houses. The configurations confused him; they were like specks swimming across his eyes.

Late, he thought. I’m late.

He sat up abruptly and grabbed the phone, fighting nausea as he dialed the office. Mrs. Clorn sounded mildly amused by his illness; apparently she didn’t believe him. As he hung up, a tiny voice asked, “Jack, are you sick?”

He glanced up at the nearest wall. A young mother and her child stood on the ramp outside their house.

“Oh, Revlyn, hi. Yeah, I’ve got the flu.”

“Wish I could help. I make soup for Tilly when he’s sick . . . but you know how much I’d have to make for you.”