The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  “I wouldn’t walk; I’d ride,” the clown said brightly.

  “All right, you mount your fandruff and you can ride around in fifty winds.”

  “Not on my fandruff.”

  “What’s the matter, is your fandruff sick?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “All right, get back on your feet. You can walk around in fifty winds. But if you were going to dig a ditch around, it would take you fifty winds to get from here to the hill.”

  “If my friends helped?”

  “It would take a hundred winds if you depend on them.”

  “I’ll dig it myself.”

  “If you dig for another world it’ll take all your life, and your son’s and your grandson’s. In a thousand seasons,” said Ecker with a supercilious smile, “your descendants might get this far.” He drew a line straight out from the center circle.

  The funny man squealed like a fandruff calf caught in a fence.

  “What’s the matter?” Ecker barked. “You’re digging in the wrong direction. There’s no world out there. It’s down here.” He pointed to the circle in the corner. “I should dig this way.” He fitted his arm to the angle on the map to catch the direction. He pointed to the ground, grabbed a tool and started digging like mad, keeping his eyes glued on the chosen angle.

  “Stop it!” Ecker yelled.

  “Wrong way again?”

  “There isn’t any right way.”

  “But I thought you said—”

  “I was simply showing you: If there was—but we know there isn’t. Go home and read your Witfessal Laws.”

  “What’ll I do with all that hole I dug?”

  The funny man and Ecker both looked back at the heap of loosened dirt. Just then an imitation fandruff entered. It was two men under a robe, the front man wearing an imitation fandruff head with long ungainly horns.

  The mock-beast gave the excavation a serious look, and proceeded to kick the dirt and rocks back into it.

  Everyone howled.

  The funny man scratched his ear, and said, “Soak me with rain. That fandruff’s smarter than I am.”

  And that was the end.

  XXI

  The loud cheering fanned the flames of Hajjah’s rage. His fists clenched and he breathed hard.

  “Don’t do anything,” Moo whispered. “The people are all on his side. This is no time to start a row.”

  “I’ll get him alone,” Hajjah snapped. “He’s not going on with this play.”

  “Wait, Haj. Think it over.”

  “Every word was a slap at Crassie—and Voileen—and us. I’ll not have it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Listen, Moo,” Hajjah breathed tensely. “You go to Ecker. Tell him someone wants to see him over by the bridge. He won’t know it’s me. He hasn’t seen me—”

  “Not by the bridge, Haj,” Mooburkle warned, glancing at Hajjah’s cheek. A thin scar had adorned that cheek since the last meeting at the bridge. “He’ll know it’s you. He’ll bring some fellows to help him—”

  “By the school pen, then. He’ll think it’s Voileen. Tell him to come alone.”

  Their whispered plans were interrupted by an announcement from the center of the improvised stage. Two honored guests were present. They must rise and speak.

  The first distinguished person was Nome. He rose and made a few careful statements about the quality of the dramatic performance.

  To Hajjah, his words were too colorless for notice. Hajjah was already boiling with outraged feelings, and the appearance of Nome had no soothing effect. On the contrary, the honored guest’s manner was distinctly irritating.

  So this was Voileen’s father. No wonder she had preferred to live with her grandfather. Nome’s every word or motion was an exhibition of severe precision. He was so correct that he repelled.

  Hajjah guessed that such a nature was a rebound from Crassie and Madman Hill. This man had no stomach for the criticisms that had been hurled at his radical grandfather.

  Hajjah scowled his undefined hatred toward this man.

  The final guest to appear before the assembly was no other than Mombal, himself, the High Servant of the King.

  Hajjah recognized the blue and red robes as this important little old creature slipped quietly through the murmuring crowd to stand before them.

  Mombal was entitled to wear the most princely of costumes, for no person in all Wanzuura was as important as he. (Excepting the legendary King Witfessal, himself.) The Agents who worked with Mombal knew him to be the most stubborn defender of the Law in all the realm.

  In spite of his power and his position, not many people knew him except as a quiet little old mystic who always attended public functions and somehow gave an impression of being wise and mysterious.

  Mombal praised the drama In customary superlatives.

  “I wish to give my personal thanks to the young man who wrote this excellent play. It has taught a lesson that no one can forget.”

  Then Ecker appeared, to receive handsome approbations from the lips of this high official.

  “Look at him!” Hajjah whispered hoarsely. “See how he gloats. That face won’t be so pretty when I get through.”

  “You don’t dare,” Moo warned doggedly. “After these words from Mombal, you can’t. People will hate you. Can’t you see, Ecker’s made a hero of himself—”

  “Have him meet me alone,” Hajjah repeated. “Come on, we’d better get out of the paths before the meeting breaks up.”

  They scouted away and circled the crowd until they reached the footbridge. There they parted. Mooburkle went back toward the stage. Hajjah hurried on to lie in wait near the deserted school yard.

  XXII

  Hill’s notebook: My boy ‘Crassie’ is growing up to be a scholar. He and a friend named Mombal study and play together, and I predict that both boys will some day become persons of importance.

  I broke my rule of strict secrecy and allowed Crassie and Mombal the privilege of looking through my field glasses, and they were amazed. I’ve promised to give Crassie the glasses again some day.

  But this confidence is an exception. All my secret preparations for leaving I keep to myself. Progressing rapidly.

  XIII

  Hajjah’s heart pounded like rocks thumping together. Through the cracks in the pen of dravoth stalks he could see Ecker coming. Ecker and Moo—they were alone!

  At last, thought Hajjah, accounts would be squared.

  From another road he could hear the passing talk of persons returning home from the play. What a splendid moral that funny play had contained, they were saying. However, taking liberties with the Witfessal Laws was no joking matter. They would like to see harsh punishment for anyone who tried it.

  Out of the welter of talk, Hajjah once heard the name of Crassie mentioned.

  But Hajjah shut his ears to these rumblings of trouble. Ecker was coming . . . Ecker was crossing the footbridge . . . Ecker was taking the shortcut through the patch of tall dravoth . . . Ecker was only a stone’s throw away.

  “Hajjah! Hajjah! Come quick!”

  Hajjah whirled around. The surprise call shot chills through him. The boy was running toward him, calling breathlessly.

  “Hurry, Hajjah! Voileen wants you to come. Teacher Crassie is dying!”

  This boy was the son of the Agent who cared for the sick ones. Voileen had sent him.

  “My father has done all he can do,” the boy panted. “Voileen has been helping. But now Crassie knows he will die. And he wants to talk with you—and Mombal—and Nome, if Nome will come—”

  “You’ll find them in yonder crowd,” Hajjah yelled. He was already off on a dead run down the road. He called back over his shoulder, “Tell Moo where I’ve gone!”

  XXIV

  Hajjah found Voileen waiting in the doorway of Crassie’s house. She threw her arms around him eagerly.

  “Father won’t come, I’m sure,” she said. “But you’ve come. Crassie will be please
d.”

  “I’ve missed you terribly,” said Hajjah. He studied her face, trying to read the deep trouble it held. “Crassie—has it happened suddenly?”

  “He’s been ill all through the past season. At first I thought he was pretending so I wouldn’t have to join Ecker’s actors. I didn’t guess he was so near the end. He tells me I mustn’t feel sad. And I mustn’t worry, even if Nome does try to claim me again.”

  “Let me claim you instead, Leenie.” He drew her close in his arms.

  “We’ll talk of that later, Haj . . . I’ll tell grandfather you’re here.”

  She left him waiting in the outer room.

  The moments were filled with whirling thoughts. It was hard to adjust to such a shock.

  To Hajjah this was more than the tragedy of the death of a friend. It was the passing of a source of visions, knowledge, hope.

  What secrets of mind lay hidden within the body of Crassie no one would ever know. Soon that body would be a dead thing, changing to dust, and the mysteries that dwelt there—where would they go?

  Hajjah’s thoughts could not get past that question.

  Where would Crassie’s knowledge go?

  Naturally enough, Hajjah sought an answer in terms of the great King Witfessal, whose knowledge was supposed to be supreme. Somehow it seemed wrong for Crassie to die without handing his knowledge over to the King, so that it would still be here, for everyone to see and understand.

  “He’s ready to see you, Hajjah,” Voileen called softly.

  Together he and Voileen entered the old man’s room and stood before the heap off dravoth mate that formed his bed.

  “Hajjah!”

  The old man’s whisper was barely audible. It was like the dying wind.

  “Again we three are together,” Hajjah said, “You and Leenie and I.”

  “Soon it will be . . . only you and Leenie . . . But you love her, Hajjah.”

  “Very much,” Hajjah said, and he knelt with Voileen at the low bedside. “I’ll always love her.”

  “Do.” The dying face was smiling. “She is lovely . . . Her laughter . . . The spring of her step . . . You’ll always love her.”

  “Always.”

  For a few moments Crassie was silent. Wisps of his long white hair that draped over the edge of the low bed trembled with the slow rhythm of his breathing. Almost gone was the glint of life in his steel blue eyes, deep under the folds of his drooping lids. “Hajjah . . . Leenie.”

  “Yes, grandfather,” Voileen breathed.

  “I want you to know . . .”

  “We are listening, Teacher Crassie.”

  “There is another world . . . with other life . . . other kings . . . and food . . . somewhere . . . if you dig on . . . and on . . . Do you believe me, Hajjah? . . . Leenie?”

  Hajjah’s lips tightened. The question was like an unexpected jab from a sharp sword. Did he believe? It was one thing to be willing to search for a new world, ready to be convinced if it could be found; but quite another thing to take that new world on faith, when, in reality, no one had ever seen it.

  Hajjah thought of Ecker’s play—the clown with the big ears who had less sense than a fandruff.

  “Do you believe me?” the old man repeated. “Do you believe enough . . . to go on digging?”

  Hajjah glanced at Voileen. She was shrinking from the challenge, and her wide blue eyes were full of fear. Was she, too, thinking of Ecker and Mombal, and the people who had called her great-grandfather crazy?

  “Yes, Teacher Crassie,” Hajjah answered quickly. “We believe what you tell us. And we’ll go on—” Voileen’s fingers tightened on his arm, trying to arrest him before he blurted any bold pledge. But Hajjah had plunged.

  “We’ll go on, Teacher Crassie, digging—”

  “Then I’ll tell you . . . a secret . . . before I go.”

  He paused. His breathing grew fainter. Perhaps he didn’t hear the light footsteps from another room. But Hajjah heard; and he and Voileen turned to see the bright red and blue robes at the doorway. Mombal, the High Servant of the King had come.

  Mombal held back hesitantly, as if waiting for an invitation to join them.

  But now the dying man’s lips were moving again, revealing that secret that was meant only for the ears of Hajjah and Voileen.

  “Before I go . . . I entrust you . . . with something that no one knows . . . My father—”

  “Yes?” Voileen gasped, leaning close.

  “My father,” Crassie’s whisper came strong like the last bright flicker of a candle, “was not born . . . in our Wanzuura . . . He came . . . came here . . . from another Wan . . . Wanzuura . . . another world!”

  “Hush, grandfather!” Voileen blurted.

  “What is it, Leenie?”

  “Mombal has come. He’s here. He heard!”

  “Mombal,” Crassie breathed the word with a warmth of feeling. “Mombal must keep . . . my secret . . . You will . . . won’t you, Mombal?”

  The slight lift of Crassie’s fingers invited the old friend to come. Hajjah and Voileen stepped back while the two aged men had their last words together.

  How curious, Hajjah thought that these two had remained friends to the last, though their lives and their beliefs were as far apart as the opposite poles of Wanzuura.

  Now Crassie spoke of the gift he had saved for Mombal.

  The little old mystic found the package on the shelf and returned to the bedside so that Crassie could be sure. When the dying man had pressed his fingers against the dravoth leaf wrappings, and had heard this old friend’s softly spoken thanks he smiled his last smile.

  Teacher Crassie closed his eyes to invite the final sleep.

  XXV

  Darkness was over the road-crossings of this valley. Rains spattered down on the lakes until their surfaces were only bleak, gray masses of steam.

  Hajjah could see the dim outlines of the lake road, which he watched anxiously. Soon they would be coming—Voileen, her sister, and Moo, and all the other friends who were faithful enough to brave the rains—and the scornful words of the people.

  Hajjah was hiding in a shed only a few steps from the entrance of Crassie’s house. The fandruff calves were huddled under the leaky roof of this shed, and the air was strong with their odors. The dumb beasts gawked at Hajjah as if sensing there was something unnatural in his being here, clinging to the walls with such caution.

  Over the sounds of falling rain Hajjah could bear the men talking. There were three of them, hard-bitten old herders, stationed in the entranceway of Crassie’s house—waiting for trouble.

  Trouble had multiplied swiftly since the passing of Crassie. The presence of these men testified to that. And so did their talk. Hajjah could hear nearly every word.

  “I don’t think three of us are needed,” one of them said. “One man could guard this house. It seems to me these Agents and Ecker and Nome are taking matters all too seriously.”

  “Don’t you realize,” said another, “that Hajjah and his friends plan to come here with tools and try to finish what Crassie started?”

  “Maybe, But I can’t see us having to chase them away with clubs. We’ll just tell them the house is closed; that they can’t come in. That will be the end of it. I don’t think that young Hajjah is such a bad boy.”

  “Ecker says he’s vicious.”

  “How could he be? He’s the son of Zimluff, the herder. He was a good scholar, and I’ve never known him to desert his herding or lose a fandruff in a storm.”

  “Ecker says he was the worst one of all for listening to Crassie. He’s the one who has organized this party to go on with the digging.”

  “Why not let him dig? He’ll tire out soon enough.”

  The herder discovered upon uttering these statements that he had earned resentment from both the other guards. Hajjah, taking it all in, could readily understand why.

  “You astound me, saying such things,” said the man who had stood up for Ecker.

  And the thir
d man who had been sitting silent, trimming a dravoth staff with a meat knife laid his work down on the step and slowly rose.

  “I agree with Grannz,” said the staff whittler. “This loose talk has gone far enough. We all know, if we study our Law that it would be bad—very bad—for anyone to believe there was another world.”

  The more liberal of the three tried to defend himself, but he had made a weak stand. He had to admit, when the argument drove him into a corner, that the very act of digging—or even talking of digging—was a sinful admission that there might be something outside the Law.

  “Exactly,” said Ecker’s friend. “The very thought is blasphemy. It’s good that we have young men like Ecker. His play has pointed the way. But if these young rascals persist, and violence becomes necessary we must be ready. Otherwise, the coming generations might fall victim to a sweeping storm of doubt.”

  “I agree with Grannz,” said the staff whittler. “We should be ready for violence.” He picked up his knife and the shaft of dravoth and resumed work.

  For a time the talk quieted, and the herder who had spoken up for Hajjah had a chance to think over his errors. Soon he must have decided to fall in line with the others, for Hajjah heard him say, “You’re right, it is blasphemy.”

  But evidently he wasn’t satisfied to let the matter rest without some further questions.

  “I hate to see Hajjah get in trouble, but he’s bringing it on himself, I suppose. What he should have done was to go to Mombal, the High Servant of the King and explain—”

  “He did go to Mombal,” said Grannz. “Mombal forbade him to talk of other worlds”

  “Then he organized his party after he was forbidden?”

  “He did. And they have been holding meetings. Ecker tried to attend one of them but he wasn’t admitted.”

  “Hajjah—a bad boy,” the troubled herder said. “Hajjah, the son of Zimluff.”

  “But with the madness of Madman Hill,” said Ecker’s friend. “Madness doesn’t always pass from father to son. Sometimes it jumps across barriers, like one lake overflowing into another.”