Olly, Olly, Oxen Frey

by Paul Manchester

  Millie took a breath. “Should we make some rules about exactly what a homeless person could feasibly do? Most of these people don’t have the luxury of “designing” their carts.”

  Cynthia snorted. “Don’t be such a spoil sport, Millie. They have oodles of time and if I were homeless, I’d have a fabulous cart,” she bragged. “My cart would be so amazing and high tech that I’d be offered a job! It would happen so fast I wouldn’t even be homeless anymore!”

  Ruby the teacher took a big breath and gave her best yoga smile. “If you’re not sure what to do, Millie, meditate on what it means to be homeless.” Ruby meditated on this subject every month when it came time to pay the bills. It was why she was teaching this class instead of creating art.

  “Can I spaz it up with lights and a battery? I bet I could do something spastic with chasing LED lights,” speculated Jimmy who hardly ever spoke up – but when he did, he always managed to conjugate “spastic” into a wide variety of sentences. Ruby didn’t think he actually knew what the word meant.

  * * * *

  After class Millie and Not-Finn rode their bikes toward home. Millie had been quiet for most of the ride.

  “Millie! What’s up?” asked Not-Finn for the third time. “Are... are you worried about Finn and the others?”

  Millie thought a minute and glanced over at Not-Finn. “Of course. Yes. But for some reason I trust you when you say that Finn is okay. I don’t understand it. But, I... sort of trust you.”

  “Maybe, you shouldn’t. I’m not human.”

  Millie coasted along beside him. “You seem more human every day.”

  “I know Finn’s alive. But, I don’t know anything else. Jack and Jenny are alive too. We’re connected. Somehow. It totally freaks Not-Jenny out.” Not used to so much exercise, Not-Finn wiped the sweat dripping into his eyes. “But something is bothering you.”

  Millie sighed. “Oh, nothing, I guess. This class assignment just seems weird.”

  “Weird?”

  “Wrong.”

  “How’s it wrong?” asked Not-Finn feeling mystified.

  “Well. I don’t know,” she reflected. “If it makes money for the homeless shelter, I guess that’s good. But none of these kids really get what it means to be homeless. They’ve no idea. Homeless folks are more worried about where they’re going to sleep next, or where their kids are going to get their next meal. How will their kids stay warm on a cold night? Rigging up a grocery cart with LED lights isn’t a priority for them and would probably just get them arrested or mugged.”

  “Homeless people are not very creative then?”

  “No, I mean, well... I guess they’re like anyone else... some are creative and some aren’t...”

  “But, you’re angry...” Not-Finn was confused.

  Millie let out a scream of frustration. “It just seems like a really shallow concept for a project about the homeless. I don’t know what to do without it looking like it was created by a clueless rich kid.”

  “Hmmm. Well, I don’t think that you’re clueless. It probably doesn’t make sense to me, ‘cause I’m not really human. I have an idea for the project, but it’s probably not very creative. It’s not colorful or anything.”

  Millie slowed her pedaling. “What?”

  He slowed his pedaling to match hers. “Just do what you said.”

  “What’s that?” Millie stopped her bike in the shadow of an old tree at the end of their street. She looked at him.

  “Well, I could get a lot of old blankets, pillows, and a baby doll from our basement. We’ve tons of old stuff with all the foster kids that go through the house. I could fill my grocery cart so that it looks like a safe place for a baby to sleep. Maybe store some baby toys around the outside. I could call it... hmmm... Baby Hopes?”

  Millie was quiet.

  Not-Finn stopped next to her. “It’s probably a stupid idea. It won’t be cool looking with flashing lights and stereo. I don’t know about design. But, maybe you’re thinking too much about it. Making it too complicated. Maybe the point is to show what people without homes need? Shouldn’t the purpose for art be more important than fancy colors and lights?”

  Millie stood and stared at him with an open mouth.

  “You are creative after all! You’re right! I was getting all crazy about Cynthia, but I was doing the same thing! I was competing with her. Trying to be more sensitive to the homeless than she was, I...” Millie gasped. “Wow, I need to totally rethink what’s possible here.” She jumped on the bike pedals and shot off down the street with Not-Finn following behind.

  He wasn’t sure what just happened. He shouted after her. “I’m not creative! I was just being logical!”

  But, maybe creativity wasn’t all gut instinct and designer colors... maybe it was problem solving? His brain was reeling. Maybe creativity was also about caring. With each day, he was increasingly starting to care more about someone other than himself.

  Millie was waiting for him at the next corner.

  * * * *

  When Not-Jack walked into the breakfast room on Saturday morning, he was surprised to see his parents already at the table.

  Usually he was down first. Then Not-Jenny. They were the early risers in the house.

  But, today - no Not-Jenny.

  Instead, here were the adults that he generally tried to avoid. Not-Jack was suddenly afraid that his parents were going to ask something that he couldn’t answer.

  Impersonating Jack was tough.

  As far as Not-Jack could figure, the real Jack had different personalities around different friends. Each group of friends expected Jack to be just like them. One group liked sports, another group hated sports. One group talked about nothing but video games, but Not-Jack found a journal where Jack had written “I hate video games!”

  Jack actually kept notes about what each of his friends liked! Those notes had been really helpful to Not-Jack. There was a version of Jack who talked golf and football with his dad, and a Jack that seemed to like cooking. There was a Jack who had hidden old Playboy magazines in a chest in the tree-house to pull out for Bryton and Finn. But at the bottom of that same chest - beneath a board, he found a stash of stories Jack had written about guys-falling-in-love-with-other-guys. Nobody knew about that stash. Maybe Finn knew about it. But Not-Jack didn’t think so.

  Not-Jack studied the stories that the real Jack had written. In each story Jack became someone new. He couldn’t figure out who this Jack kid was. It was bewildering to try to become him.

  Maybe over time, Not-Jack could become his own person. He could cut his hair differently and dye his hair. Maybe he could run away and leave the other Jack behind? If Not-Jack was no longer trying to be the real Jack – if he became someone new – would he still disappear when the real Jack returned? If he was no longer just a miserable copy?

  So, much that he didn’t know!

  Not-Jack spent most of his time with Not-Jenny (who was always angry), and Not-Finn (who always talked about Millie).

  But Not-Jack had survived a whole week!

  His mother coughed.

  “Jack, could you sit with us for a moment?” asked his Mother.

  Not-Jack slipped quietly into a seat at the end of the table. His mushroom heart was beating hard. Was this it? “Where’s Jenny?” he asked.

  His Father uncomfortably cleared his throat and said with a bit of surprise, “Uh, your sister is misting the mushrooms. She seems to like it down there. It gives us a chance to talk... with you.”

  “Okay.”

  His Mother took a deep breath. “Jack, your father and I have been talking... we know this is a really hard thing to discuss, but, if you ever need to talk to us about... um, sex type things, we want you to feel... uhm... comfortable bringing uh, those types of things up.” She looked incredibly uncomfortable. She looked pointedly at his Fat
her – clearly indicating it was his turn to talk.

  “Uh, yes,” said his Father. “Uhm, well... you know you can always talk to me about anything. About sex, uhm things. I’m always here for you.” His Father looked like he wished he could be anywhere else other than sitting at that kitchen table.

  Not-Jack felt relieved. He’d read a blog post about this. How to comfort parents who don’t want to talk about sex, but feel like they have to. “Oh. Thanks Mom and Dad. I, uh, think that I’m good. The Internet and all... uh, I think I’ve got that stuff figured out.”

  His Mother got a worried look. “You’re not watching porn, are you? You know that Pastor Steve warned –”

  “Stop! Of course, I don’t watch porn.” (Though of course he did. How else was a fifteen year old going to learn about sex in a house that doesn’t talk about sex.) “I visited that church site that explains it all.”

  His Father looked doubtful but looked too relieved to question Not-Jack’s truthfulness. His Mother clearly wanted to believe.

  His Father pushed back from the table, but his Mother yanked him back down to his seat.

  She paused. “Are you... do you ever have sexual feelings about other boys?” asked his Mother.

  Not-Jack felt a giant virtual spot light shine down on him. He wasn’t sure what to say. He’d not really figured it out. He was barely a week old.

  “Do I have to make a decision now?” he asked.

  “No, of course not!” His mom blurted out. “You know, we don’t really understand it, but we uh... love you no matter what,” she whispered. “But, maybe you’d like to talk to Pastor Steve about it?”

  Pastor Steve was the youth pastor who visited Not-Jack in the hospital. He was at the bible study earlier in the week. The young pastor was tall, blonde, muscular, and kind of hot. But, of course that didn’t mean anything.

  “I’d love to see Pastor Steve.”

  * * * *

  Not-Jack met Not-Jenny in the mushroom cellar a little bit later. Her face held a look of absolute hate.

  She asked him, “Can you feel them sometimes?”

  “Sometimes.” Not-Jack whispered.

  “It’s creepy!” she hissed.

  “It is kind of weird.” Jack agreed.

  Not-Jenny snapped an Oyster mushroom out of its cluster and started picking off pieces like she was picking apart the real Jenny. She looked angry. She looked frightened.

  “It’s like a little tug behind my tummy,” she muttered. “I see ‘em in my dreams. They’re going to come back.” She yanked up a new mushroom and twisted its head off. “Then we’re dead.”

  “You scared?” asked Not-Jack, watching the mushroom bits pile up on the planting medium. She’d picked apart quite a few before this one.

  “Of course I’m scared! And I don’t like that Millie either. She knows too much.”

  Not-Jack squirmed. “Millie’s okay. She just wants to help.”

  Not-Jenny gave him a look of disgust.

  “They’re going to come back! We have to be ready! It’s either them or us. Time for you to pick a side, buster. Time for you to get angry!”

  Not-Jenny transformed right in front of him.

  Not-Jack didn’t feel angry at all. He felt terrified.

  Chapter 42

  The Cottage

  By The Sea

  Finn didn’t see any cottage down in the river valley. It was quite a distance down. He did see a sort of mound. There was a lot of foliage which made it a little difficult to make out. It would be a hike. He was still getting used to walking with his new feet. It was like wearing swim flippers. Though perhaps easier – as the fins were part of him and could flex, and contract, and grip the path.

  The morning air was cooler as they got closer to the ocean, but it wasn’t uncomfortable on his bare skin. There was a light fog in the lower valleys. He gently carried his mother down the rough path. The hidden sun still lurked behind the hills. Which meant they walked westwards. The hour was still early.

  Below, lacy trees with lavender flowers poked out of the mist. Sleepy wildflowers of every description surrounded the path – the small closed blooms waiting for the day to wake them up.

  It was dreamlike.

  The nearby tree trunks were gnarled and made Finn think of ancient beings guarding the valley. The trees twisted in tandem with the others across the hillside as if dancing in slow motion to the wind’s music. He itched to draw them. The trees seemed to watch as he and his mother passed beneath their branches.

  The fog dissipated somewhat by the time they reached the river valley.

  It was windier as they got closer to the ocean. He couldn’t see the ocean from here, but he could smell it. The salt breeze was brisk but not bothersome. His mother’s hair whipped about her face. Finn was glad his hair was short enough to stay out of his eyes. Seeing was good. He was carrying fragile cargo.

  She dozed in and out and wasn’t looking great. Her light blue skin had become flaky and almost pure white in areas. Did he even know enough to keep her alive once they got there?

  The switchback reached the bottom of the hillside, and then it expanded into an open path which followed the bank of the river to his left. On the right, the land ascended in tangled vines and dancing trees.

  The level path allowed him to increase his pace. Finn worried. Meryth reminded him of a pet salamander he once had. It had died. There was so much he didn’t know about with how to keep things alive.

  He crossed a stone bridge which arched over a subsidiary creek babbling out from a wild mess of undergrowth. To his left the river was about fifteen feet wide and very deep. He felt a crazy desire to dive in.

  “Oh! We passed it!” Her quiet voice surprised him. He’d thought she was asleep. She pointed back behind them.

  “Where?” Finn looked around. All he could see was the wild mound of... it looked like rose vines. They seemed to encompass the entire side of the hill there.

  Back there – up that creek,” his mother whispered.

  “He crossed back over the arched stone bridge. An overgrown path led deep into the tangle of vines.

  “Okay.” he answered. The thorns looked sharp.

  “It’s there...” she said weakly.

  Finn looked down. She was passed out.

  He inspected the long unused path. He shifted his mother’s small form, and with one hand he carefully lifted an overhanging branch. The way was rocky. Finn proceeded about twenty feet till the way was barred by sharp vines.

  Clearly, no one had come this way in years.

  He wasn’t sure what to do. It was hard to even turn around as the thorns seemed closer than they were a moment earlier.

  “Mom?” he whispered to her still form. “I’m not sure what to do here.”

  “What d’ya want?” burst out a tiny gruff voice.

  Finn looked up but he didn’t see anyone. Just vines, thorns, and rosebuds. Yellow rosebuds. Vivid yellow petals.

  “Bud! Ya gonna answer me?” came the voice again.

  Finn whirled around to find the source of the voice and gashed his arm on a thorn in the process.

  “Ouch! Where are you?” he asked impatiently.

  “I’s right in front of ya! What are ya, blind?” barked the little voice.

  Bleeding, he turned more carefully this time and saw a rose’s petals moving like little lips and gesturing with nearby leaves. The rosebud shouted,“Well?”

  “I think we’s got what we need!” came a voice near Finn’s elbow.

  He glanced to his elbow and instead of seeing red blood he saw his blood was white and opalescent! That explained why his skin was now so... alabaster. He wondered again how permanent all these changes to his body were. He couldn’t go home to his foster parents like this!

  Finn squirmed when he saw the yellow rosebud near
his elbow eagerly licking around the thorn that had drawn his blood.

  The little authoritative voice in front of him continued, “None can enter without de blood of der majesties Meryth or James in der veins.

  “Buddy! He’s yummy! He’s a little of each! Hey! Can I gets me anudda’ taste?” begged the little voice below him.

  At once and from all directions many small voices begged for a taste of Finn. It’d never occurred to him before how bloodthirsty roses were.

  “Nope! All o’ you’se back off now!” the first rose hollered over the rest. “Young Majesty, Yer Rose Buds welcome ya! It’s been a long time since we had royal blood in dese here walls. Who’s de dead fish?”

  Finn held her more tightly to his chest.

  “The Princess Meryth,” Finn responded with hesitation. “My mother.”

  At once all the rose vines retreated with a gasp to reveal a round, wooden door which had once been green. Whispering among themselves with surprise and excitement, the vines continued their retreat. He soon found himself on the front step of a cottage built into the side of the hill. Beside the covered porch, the cottage wall arched over the creek that was now more visible due to the retreat of the vines. The water was deeper than he had realized and it apparently traveled right through the cottage’s interior.

  Yellow rosebuds clustered and whispered about the roof-line and the round mullioned windows. Their vines wound about the rough timbers which criss-crossed the aged plaster. For some reason the feisty rosebuds reminded him of affectionate guard dogs who impatiently longed for attention.

  “Thank you,” he said to them with as much graciousness as he could muster.

  “If dat’s Princess Meryth, de medicine cabinet will help ya,” whispered a helpful bud near the door.

  “Uh, thanks. I appreciate that,” Finn answered. He asked himself how the heck he was supposed to know what type of medicine she’d need, even when he found it!