by Arthur Slade
July 9, 1766 I, Andrew Bullden Starker, do begin this journal on the twenty-first year of my life. It shall verily be a collection of my thoughts, reminiscences, ruminations and observations about the natural world and the nature of all things and shall be read and marveled at by many generations henceforth to come.
Newton smiled at his ancestor’s pomposity. Perhaps it was just the way people wrote in the olden days. He turned the pages slowly, each one threatening to disintegrate at his touch. He stopped five pages in.
It was with such rapidity of thought that I brought my unencumbered mind to bear on the task ahead. With clarity, and to the obvious surprise of my guests, all slow-witted in my comparison, I said, Forty-five draught horses. There was a gasp. They were no doubt shocked at my display of brilliance. They chattered amongst themselves like monkeys.
Newton was now sure that Andrew had been the greatest ego of the eighteenth century. The next three pages were stuck together, so he skipped them and read some more.
September 28, 1777 Yesterday I carried the bell from the Old Pine Street Church in my wagon, my intention being to hide it in the straw at my farm. We do not want the Red Coats to smelt it and, in turn, fire our bell back at us. To me, at least, it seems probable that the enemy will easily control the city for some time to come. Perhaps one day citizens will forget that the bell exists, and I may be free to sell it myself, piece by piece. It is a precious metal, made more so by this conflagration.
As I was crossing my neighbor’s field, the sky grew cloudy, and the moisture on my forehead and my personal moisture under my shirt increased tenfold. Suddenly a jagged bolt of lightning struck the earth next to the wagon. The horses were severely agitated. I felt a rush of fear and even exhilaration. A second bolt landed in front of the horses, and then it seemed to me no accident. Surely it was intended for me.
I considered the proximity of the bell, the possibility of its being the attraction. Or perhaps the heavens had overheard my thoughts regarding the sale of it. No matter the cause, the weight of the bell was now a liability, preventing us from speeding away from the storm. I therefore decided to force the bell off the back of the wagon. I halted. At the rear of the wagon, I placed my hands on the bell, and at that very same moment, a bolt of lightning struck me.
Me. It did not strike the bell. The heavens aimed at me. My mind slowed down, and I felt the electric energy enter the top of my skull, the heat eliminating each and every thought.
For one illuminous moment, I saw three glowing figures.
Newton looked up, wondering if that many electrical volts could conjure up imaginary phantoms. He read on.
The figures appeared to be constructed of St. Elmo’s fire, looking up at me from the side of the wagon. They moved in such a way as to suggest a desire to communicate. Finally one spoke, but hoarsely, unintelligently. The electrical current left my hands and entered the bell with a great flash.
It began ringing, softly. It cracked, and the figures vanished.
For many moments I could not breathe. I heard the bell ring and I felt as though I were a child again. I remembered stealing taffy from the corner shop on Montgomery Street. The first sinful action of my life. Given my recent wayward thoughts, perhaps the lightning was a punishment. Or a warning.
To my great consternation I could not let go of the bell. Three hours later a surprised farmer and his men came and, with much pulling and grunting, unstuck me and took me to their humble home. No matter how much I washed, I could not rid my hands of the coppery hue of the bell.
And the figures, the entities, populate my imagination, burned there.
Newton reread the last few paragraphs, searching again for any sign of logic, a reason for the lightning to have hit Andrew Starker. He skipped several pages ahead and found another entry in ragged handwriting.
My children, my beautiful children, are dead. They have been struck down by the heavens. Now I can only pray that lightning will come for me as well.
Newton turned to the last entry, dated June 17, 1792.
We have been blessed with one last child. My son Benjamin. All the rest lost to lightning over the years. We shall not let him go out of doors. His will be a life of books and games.
The lightning will come for me soon; I feel it in my bones. I have calculated figures, I have looked for the logical answers and I have written many epistles to my relatives and have studied their replies. I have unearthed our relatives in Scotland, the MacStarkers.
And now I understand: My father came to this land not to escape the poverty. He came to avoid what I can only call the Electric Blight. And he did, as he died of cholera. Lucky man!
My father’s father was struck by lightning and killed; so, too, his father—it is beyond reason. A curse. The widows write back with family legends that tell of ancestors going back hundreds of years dying by a blow from the heavens.
Newton rubbed his head. So, it has been happening for aeons. The thought chilled him. Yet there was a glimmer of hope. After all, Andrew had survived that first strike. And his great-grandmother was still here. And Newton himself.
I cannot understand our curse. Are we too vain, we Starkers? Like Achilles, raised and dipped in our own vanity? And now the heavens punish us? When I stole that taffy, it was vanity. I believed it belonged to me because I was Andrew Starker. I deserved to have it. It is because we love no one more than ourselves.
Is it our name? We have Norse blood in our veins, and in the Norse tongue sterkr means “strong.” Were we strong? Or strongly cursed? Generation after generation have died at the whim of the gods. Perhaps they simply intend to blot us from the earth.
I know it will come for me. I see it when I close my eyes. In nightmares. I know they lurk above, those hungry tongues of electricity.
When will it end?
And that was it. Some twenty blank pages followed. Newton skimmed the last entry again. So, he had Viking blood in his veins! He had always suspected there was something heroic. But still . . . why were they plagued with lightning?
His septuple-great-grandfather had gone mad trying to find the answer.
That won’t happen to me! Never! I won’t let it.
As he went to close the book, writing on the inside of the back cover caught his eye. The embellishments on the letters made him think it was a woman’s penmanship.
Andrew Bullden Starker was murdered by lightning on July 14, 1792. He was a good father and a good husband. He shall be missed.
Newton’s Rules for Survival
* * *
9.If your hair stands on end, you are about to be struck by lightning. Begin evasive maneuvers.
10.Lightning travels down telephone wires. Use only cordless phones.
11.Airplanes are safe. Their bodies are aluminum, which is a good conductor of electricity. The lightning flows along the skin and shoots back out into the air.
12.Even if you can’t see any clouds, they may lurk just beyond the horizon. You are still in danger, as anvil lightning can travel horizontally away from the parent cloud, then strike the ground.
13.Check the weather. Recheck the weather. Check it again.
A Greek Tragic Hero in the Flesh
* * *
At Jerry Potts, Sunday morning was a day of contemplation and work. Newton skimmed through Andrew Starker’s journal again, hoping the answer to his life’s major trouble would leap out at him. Why did it have to be such a puzzle?
A knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts. He got up and opened it. “Just on my way to the mess,” Jacob said cheerfully. “Want to tag along?”
“Sure.” Though Jacob had sat with him during several meals, it was the first time he’d dropped by beforehand. Once again he questioned his mother’s no-friends policy. Surely it would be okay to have a friend so long as there wasn’t any lightning around.
As they walked across the courtyard, Jacob began explaining his new novel, which had something to do with spirits from beyond that pull an unsuspecting
character into their fantastical realm.
As he spoke, Newton daydreamed about the upcoming Outdoor Expedition. Would there be bears? Wolves? Skunks? No matter. He would build the best lodgepole lean-to, the grandest deadfall trap. By the time he was done with the outdoors, surviving in the wild would be like living in a five-star hotel. He’d get the highest mark and be remembered forever in the Hall of Heroes.
“Does your connection with lightning worry you?” Jacob asked.
“What?” Newton’s happy dreams popped like a balloon.
“Well, to be honest, I Googled your name. I read about all your relatives who’ve died from lightning strikes. I’m very sorry for your losses.”
Newton blinked. “Uh, well, thank you.”
“It got me thinking about Greek mythology. You’re a classic tragic hero, cursed by the gods.”
“Uh, I guess. Maybe.” Newton had read about Zeus, the lightning god, wondering if somehow there was a connection between old myths and the way lightning used Starkers for target practice, but he’d found no Greek bloodline in his family tree. He tried to smile. “If I’m a classic tragic hero, you can be my classic sidekick.”
“Cool, I always wanted to be an Argonaut. Anyway, I just wanted you to know how I was suddenly struck by the . . . the tragedy of your situation. Other students think it’s kind of funny.”
“Which other students?” Newton spat out. “Tell me.” Then he took a deep breath. Rule number six: Don’t get angry. Count to ten. One, two, three . . .
Jacob backed off a bit and pushed up his glasses. “Oh, don’t worry about them. They’re barbarians. What I was trying to say is, it’s not a laughing matter. These lightning strikes are real. You must find it all very frightening and maybe frustrating. Is that how it feels?”
No one had ever asked him how he felt about the lightning (other than a psychiatrist at the University of Washington who was doing a thesis; she’d been as cold as a dead fish).
“I—I, uh, yes. It’s frustrating. Very frustrating. But it gives me something to think about.”
Jacob laughed, and Newton felt an overwhelming sense of warmth. Of . . . buddiness. So, this is what friendship is. What a good feeling.
“Can I ask a few more questions?”
“Yeah.”
“Well then, how have you stayed safe all these years?”
“My mother marked the start and end of lightning season on the calendar, so I knew when it would be okay to go outdoors. And our TV is always set to the Weather Channel, and when there was a storm, we’d just stay safely inside the dome.”
“Dome?”
“Oh, I grew up in a monolithic concrete dome. My father designed it. It’s virtually weatherproof. Tornado-proof. Lightning-proof, too, of course.”
“You never played outside?”
“Just in the wintertime. The swings sure froze my butt in January.” He laughed, and Jacob nodded, smiling. They walked through the Hall of Heroes, and Newton glanced at the plaque of student names. Beyond it was the board where their marks were due to be posted the following day.
They ventured into the mess, where a swarm of people surrounded them. The air smelled like burned toast, and Newton felt an unusual warmth, and a strange sense of peace with the world. He’d shared some of his story, and Jacob hadn’t laughed at him.
“I’d like to read your new book,” he told Jacob.
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“Did you get a chance to read some of the Brilliad?”
“Uh, well . . .”
“Be honest.”
“I struggled a bit, but I think that’s because it was so deep.”
Jacob grinned ear to ear. Newton was amazed: All it took was a few kind words to make him beam like that. “I’ll print you a copy before the end of the day.”
Newton cleared his throat, and they walked on.
“Thank you for asking about the lightning,” he said. “I really don’t get to—”
The next thing he knew, he was horizontal. He’d put his hands out just in time to keep his face from smacking into the floor. Violet was looming over him.
“Be careful,” she said.
“You tripped me.”
“Don’t be absurd, Rod.”
“‘Rod’!” Newton crawled to his feet, seething. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Figure it out. You’re the brilliant one.” She turned away. Newton glared at her back, his mind clicking.
“Rod. Iron. Metal. Lightning.” He clenched a fist. “You’re calling me a lightning rod!”
Several students laughed. His neurons were firing like atoms in a nuclear reaction. Messages skipped, shot, careened and bounced from one synapse to another. Angry messages became a chorus of voices, all shouting for his attention. Newton! Newton! Over here! I’m angry! No, I’m angrier! He thought of all the times he’d been teased. Of his mother’s death. Newton felt like his brain would explode and splatter across the room.
He sucked in a deep breath.
The Second-Stupidest Words Ever Spoken by a Starker
* * *
“Violet Quon!” Newton’s voice knifed through the chatter and shuffling feet. The crowd of students parted, revealing Violet. “You are . . . atrocious!”
Violet grinned. “Please. I was only teasing. Take a chill pill, Rod.”
“A chill pill?” Newton inhaled through his nostrils and spoke the second-stupidest words ever spoken throughout the last twenty generations of the Starker family. (The worst being when Andrew Starker ran toward a summer storm clutching a lightning rod, shouting, “Give it your best shot, you spawns of the Devil!” They did. He died.) “Violet!” Newton growled. “I, Newton Goddard Starker, challenge you to a duel. I must defend my honor. Your choice of conflict. Chess! Fencing! Racquetball!”
“Boxing,” Violet replied, without missing a beat. She looked coolly at her fist. “Unless, of course, that’s too manly for you.”
“Boxing it is! Perfect! I’m ready. Bring it on!”
Newton had never boxed. Nor had he ever fought a girl.
Jacob tapped him on the shoulder, and Newton spun around, his panther-like reflexes on red alert. “Calm down, Newton. Is this wise?”
“Yes,” Newton hissed. “There’s a time for thought and a time for action. I’m done with thinking!”
A sea of kilts, bow ties and acne-clouded faces crept closer. The students formed a square around Violet and Newton. Two pairs of red boxing gloves were pulled from a locker and passed from hand to hand.
Violet slipped the gloves on and began a warm-up dance, her ghillie brogues clicking on the hardwood floor. Newton jammed his hands into the oversized mitts and tried to tie the laces, but the thumbs were too bulky to allow a good grip. Boxing is easy, he told himself. Connect your fist with your opponent’s body. Simple as that. Newton bit the lace, pulled and unraveled his knot. A seed of doubt sprouted in his mind. What am I doing? Giving in to the Starker anger. He struggled to tie a new knot. I’m about to fight a girl, for crying out loud.
“Here!” Jacob tied the gloves, grimacing at the saliva sticking to his fingers. “Newton,” he whispered.
“Don’t try to talk me out of this. I mean it. Just don’t!”
“If you back out now, you’ll look like a chicken. Of course, if you win you will have just beaten up a girl—a Pyrrhic victory!”
“A what?”
“You win but you lose. You know, like king Pyrrhus’s victory over the Romans, where he won the battle but lost the . . . Look, I’m just saying, Violet’s strategy is doubly clever. Either way you lose, so you might as well try for victory. This is how to win.” Jacob leaned in. “You’ve got to eat lightning and crap thunder.”
Newton shuddered. Why mention lightning at a time like this?
“It’s a line from Rocky,” Jacob said. “I’ve always liked it. Here’s my real advice: Hide behind your gloves.”
“Hide? I’m not going to hide!”
“Af
ter the first few blows to the head, you’ll understand. Look at the confidence in her eyes—she’s a pugilist at heart. I hear her dad’s a Mountie. Probably trained her since birth. Wait till she tires, and maybe you’ll get lucky with a haymaker. Oh, and beware—she’s a southpaw.”
Newton should have asked what a southpaw was, but instead he nodded, inhaled and set his jaw. “Prepare to defend yourself, Violet. You won’t make fun of me ever again. Never ever—”
“Put up your dukes,” Violet interrupted. “You can finish your speech from the floor.”
He raised his gloves. The combatants circled like two kilted pit bulls. She jabbed with her right and he shifted, avoiding the blow. “Ha!”
He danced around her, at one point slowing down to do a deliberate modified fox-trot. Violet stared with a furrowed brow. She swung with her right again, this time brushing his forehead. “Ha!” Newton said, with a little less confidence. She was proving to be fast. She could knock out a few teeth.
“My grandma hits harder than that!” Jacob yelled from the crowd.
Newton’s mind wrestled with the situation. How can I knock her out without hitting her? It was a Zen riddle. He didn’t want to punch her in the chest; that would be creepy. If he hit her nose, he might break it. She did have a nice nose. Stop thinking about her nose. Stop. What if she started to cry? He decided her jaw would be the most logical target. He’d lightly thump her, just enough to scare her into surrender.
“Don’t call me Rod again!” he shouted, and swung his right fist.
Violet’s left fist was a red comet, and in the microsecond it took to connect squarely, one thought resonated between his ears: Southpaw means “left handed.”
The Mysterious Event That Occurred
* * *
Newton flew backward, arms flapping, birdlike. Kilts rippled, sporrans rattled, as students leaped out of the way. His head struck the rib of a radiator. Lights sparked across his mind’s eye, and pain cha-cha-ed up and down his spine. He shuddered as his vision went black.
