Grantville Gazette, Volume 72

by Bjorn Hasseler

  Except Star Trek. I'll be honest: I'm such a big Star Trek fan that when the Chris Pine reboot happened, I was adamantly against it all. (James T. Kirk is perhaps my favorite media hero—in more ways than one. Confession: all of my notification ringtones are from classic Star Trek. All of them.)

  I was convinced that no one besides William Shatner could play James T. Kirk, and I figured that no reboot of classic Trek would ever meet my exacting fannish standards. So . . . …the film opens, with Chris Hemsworth's George Kirk, saving the day in delightfully Kirkian fashion—just as baby James T. was being born—and okay, I cried. Those were happy tears. They came straight from my fannish heart, pleased that there would be more classic Star Trek in my future.

  Wonder Woman, on the other hand—I liked her but I had never warmed up to her. I liked her a hell of a lot better than Supergirl who simply pissed me off. Sent to Earth to frickin' babysit Clark? Seriously? Why didn't Mom simply get in the pod and hold the baby? Or Dad? Or someone responsible. And why was she Supergirl, not Superwoman?

  Wonder Woman was a woman, though, and she was strong and pretty—and her secret guise was Steve Trevor's secretary. AAAAAARGH! Plus, I never much got the bracelets or why, if the dang island was so perfect, she left, or why no one had discovered it, or how the Greek Gods fit into this whole mess in the first place.

  As a teenager, I dutifully watched the Lynda Carter TV show, but I just didn't fangirl over it. It didn't speak to me.

  So, when it came time for the reboot, I noted how the DC movies had done recently and decided I would withhold judgment on whether or not to see the film until I knew whether or not it would be turgid. (So many of the superhero films had become slow and pretentious.)

  Then I saw the trailer and decided, Okay. I'm heading to the film on opening weekend.

  Which I did.

  And cried.

  Not from fangirl joy. But because the movie is damn good. It is a treatise on war and humanity and being strong and fighting for what you believe. There's lots of love in there, and a big fight scene (I love big fight scenes), and a woman who constantly surprises men because she just doesn't listen to them.

  This Wonder Woman is Steve Trevor's secretary for one sentence—literally—and then that stupid plotline (sop to fans) is completely forgotten.

  The sidekicks are a man suffering from PTSD, a Native American, and a man whose skin, in his words "is the wrong color." The world of myth is bright and sunlit and beautiful; the world of man (and I do mean man here) is gloomy and dark and rainy.

  The film is well done, and its depiction of war and its aftermath so accurate that I couldn't watch one sequence; I had to keep my eyes covered.

  The film also explained the Greek myths in the superhero universe well enough to me to make this entire film work.

  So, why did I cry?

  Because the film—the story—the characters—moved me to tears. Wonder Woman isn't just a great superhero movie; it's a great movie. The events in it captured my heart.

  It's also the kind of movie that can't be replicated. This particular origin story has closed the door on any sequels set 100 years in the past. The sequels might occur, but the power and the impact of some of the characters (I'm trying to avoid spoilers) won't be there. Nor will Wonder Woman's delightful naiveté—which was necessary and natural for this kind of story. She's still in our world, according to the film, and after 100 years, she clearly understands it better. She will (and does) make different choices now.

  Just like all of us make different choices than our younger selves.

  My younger self would have loved this movie—and not just because it made me cry. She would have loved it for a variety of reasons, most of them having to do with a strong female lead.

  I appreciated a few other things: I appreciated the steady hand of director Patty Jenkins. She avoided a lot of the traps that others make in doing films with female leads. Even the clothing sequences are accurate. You can't fight in Edwardian clothing. Just not possible. And that was noted, and then used as a plot point, not as a joke. (Well, it was funny, too.)

  So yeah. I cried. And I'll probably cry when I see it again.

  Because I will see the film again.

  I love great movies. They hold up to repeated viewings, to sharing with friends, to three days of thinking obsessively about it.

  This is a great movie. Go see it.

  But don't forget the tissue.

  ****

  This Issue’s Cover – 72

  Ode to the Legal Pad

  Sometimes it's the little things.

  While reading David Carrico's very amusing 'Whodunnit?' I was struck by the following passage, the feelings of a downtimer lawyer toward the new uptime technology he has embraced:

  "Andy pulled one of his beloved legal pads out of a desk drawer—he could forgive the up-timers for a multitude of sins for bringing the concept of legal pads back with them and showing down-time papermakers how to make them-"

  That's a pretty strong statement. Even something as ubiquitous as a legal pad can play an important role in our daily lives, right up there with electricity and the automobile. I know I would be lost without my black ballpoint pens and spiral notebooks, or any number of little things- they add up to a lot!

  With apologies to Rembrandt, I think of the fellow on the cover as one of Andy's senior partners. I felt the need to have something written on that pad, so I went with their firm's motto- Non Illegitimi Carborundum- Don't let the bastards grind you down! Good advice, indeed!

  Van Meer rose from the ground like a ghost from a tomb. It was not yet dawn, cold and black beneath the trees. Frost was thin this deep in the forest, but there was a snap to the air and Van Meer's breath condensed on his mustache and beard. He walked among his stacked stones and hunkered down next to the three-day-old fire pit. He had no trouble finding his way. He wrapped his arms about his knees and waited for the dispersal of the dark. He would have preferred to stay in his cozy grave but he felt the pressure, the push at his back, and knew better than to struggle against it. When light began to find its way beneath the trees he stood up and looked about.

  They had desecrated his work, taken away his best stones and moved others to make the fire pit and spit. The stones were not ordered or tidy or configured correctly. It made his palms itch and he rubbed them on the worn wool of his pants, to no satisfaction. The campers had scuffled through the patterns Van Meer had made with thumb-size pebbles. They stamped all unknowing over his sand circles and gravel collections, spoiling everything. Van Meer looked about and wept. For three mornings in a row he had looked and wept.

  He needed his rock collection to make a cover over his sleeping hole; something big enough to sit up in that could be heated by a banked fire, to keep him from the deadly cold to come. But he could not touch the stones again, dirtied as they were by other hands. He would have to find another place before the first snow.

  He thought often about that second option. He longed to sit quietly at the edge of the woods and watch large soft snowflakes cover the world with something new and pure and untouched. To slip away at such a moment seemed as perfect an oblivion as possible and there was comfort in the thought. But the tragedy of his despoiled stones disturbed him deeply and the pressure at his back was unceasing. It was time to leave.

  He went to collect his things, mourning quietly for the ruined symmetry of his work. He put the strap of his oilskin bag over his shoulder and checked the contents; his Comfort, his pens, the little cross and chain. He tied the leather pouch of oats to a belt loop on his pants, put the leftover deer meat in his one spare sock, looked about one last time at the discordance of stones and left, weeping.

  Walking soothed him. His feet were healed; he wore boots and felt no discomfort. His memory was dotted with holes and soon there would be another. A fragility to the day, a melancholy in the air, said snow was on the way. Van Meer walked slowly, stopping often to record some small beauty on a corner of his dwindling paper s
upply: branches that shaped the sky, knots of wood with sensuous lines, dry leaves still on trees in dying profusion. In a while he was beyond himself and content.

  Van Meer's bending path brought him to a glade in the woods recently cleared of trees. Stumps stuck out of the mud and trampled grass like shattered bones. Sprays of sawdust and wood chips mixed with churned black earth. Leaves and broken branches littered the ground or humped up in gathered piles like rabbit warrens. Across the wasted field a rough log cabin sat, unchinked and without a door. A stone chimney at one end promised a fireplace within, though the whole building couldn't be but four strides long. Van Meer watched entranced as snow began to fall and the world turned white. The glade transformed; one moment exhibiting a tragic destruction, the next, a courageous chin-up beauty. Van Meer watched, feeling God's presence, knowing he could never paint such an ephemeral moment but could only keep such a treasure in memory. Maybe. He crossed the field to the cabin. Inside he found a profound surprise, his own work, a lost page from his Comfort framed and glassed and hanging on the wall.

  He was going to explore further, start a fire, and try to understand, but without transition he found himself walking among the trees parallel to a road. Fifteen or twenty minutes without conscious memory might have passed, but such was a frequent experience for Van Meer.

  Up ahead he sensed worry and fear. The whole area teemed with frantic people. Apprehensive, he turned to leave but as soon as he lost focus his steps circled back. God's path was once again taking unexpected turns. Van Meer resigned himself. At least he was wearing pants.

  From a roadside ditch, he watched the bright light that was Ella. She stood in the road with her arms folded around her for warmth. Her worried spirit jangled harshly against Van Meer's nerves but he could not turn from her. Thoughts of her bowman stirred a morass of emotion within him but he could not recall why.

  The snow's texture changed to a drier steady fall that would pile up fast. Ella walked from side to side on the road, looking into the ditches and calling. People near and far were searching. Voices rose in panic. It took very little understanding to grasp the situation. Someone was lost.

  Ella spotted Van Meer. She stopped, surprised by the sight of him. She turned to look up and down the road. Van Meer looked too, he did not wish to be taken by his compulsion. But no one was too near. Ella did not approach him. She tried to smile. "Van Meer! You have your coat! Fritz will be pleased." She rubbed her face in apparent anguish. "There are twenty people searching and I'm still praying for help. Would you? I—we have a situation. A child has wandered off, and the weather's turned brutal. Time is crucial. Can you help us look? Please? Her name is Leisl." Her expression firmed. "I know you have at least one God-given talent. Perhaps you have another." Van Meer wanted to turn away but Ella's distraught spirit called to him, a simple, wordless help.

  She had saved his life. He was grateful for the coat he wore and the boots on his feet, and for paper. A bright slip of intuition told him the tiny cabin with the picture on the wall was also her doing. He nodded assent. Ella nodded back in response and turned to answer someone's call.

  Van Meer backed beneath the trees and wandered about, not knowing how to proceed. He knew only to avoid the other searchers. His undirected legs took the path of least resistance, down slope as might the legs of a lost child. In a short while he fell into a steep gully, erosion hidden by border shrubs and filled with dead brown leaves. Further downhill the gully softened and widened, but here at its source it was a sharp gouge in the land. He jarred his hip in the unexpected fall and lay quietly to recover.

  He heard a stirring and saw a dog lift its head. Its tail thrashed the leaves. The dog lay next to a small unmoving body, providing warmth. Van Meer must have picked up some of the emotions of the extant people all about for he was overwhelmed with intense relief and an equal measure of fear. The little body did not move. Van Meer struggled to his feet. The dog's tail thrashed harder.

  Barely breathing, Van Meer bent over the tiny form. She was still alive. A bruise marred her temple. Her lips were blue. Snowmelt on her cheeks glistened, feigning teardrops. She was dressed in a quilted jacket and pants. The dog looked trustingly up at Van Meer. He took off his coat, wrapped the small form in it and picked her up. He worked his way down the gully until it was no longer steep and he could scramble up the side. The dog followed. Snow sifted through the trees. He was nearly back to the roadside when a voice behind him called out. "Hey! Hey you! Do I know you? What's your name? What have you got? Wait there, 'til I catch up!"

  Van Meer sprang away like a startled squirrel. He clutched the child to him, hiked his knees high and sprinted for the road. The arms of the coat flapped out behind him. The man followed, shouting. Van Meer gained the road not far from Ella, his legs churning like a yearling elk and a look of pure terror in his eyes. He braked to a stop in front of Ella, pushed the coat-wrapped bundle at the startled woman, turned sharply left and took off, knees and elbows flapping. His oilskin pouch bounced wildly at his hip. The ragged cuffs of his shirt fluttered. Ella stared after him until he was hidden by falling snow.

  Ella felt the child stirring in her arms. She could have made mulligan with the wild mix of her emotions. She was turning back to the house when one of the searchers came puffing by. He was followed by Ella's dog, Rex. "It's okay," Ella said. She was having trouble getting words past her constricted throat. "You don't have to chase after him! Look! I've got little Leisl. She's found! Call them in, let everybody know. Ring the bell by the gate."

  Through the thickening snow and across the woods and fields the sound of the bell pealed, thanking God for little miracles.

  Van Meer's panicked gallop through the storm left him overheated. He sat in a protected corner of the cabin, cold and wet, positioning himself so he could watch the weather through the open doorway of the shelter. He pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them. He had a blanket somewhere. An unlit fire lay ready in the fireplace and he had oatmeal in a small leather bag on his belt loop. He could make gruel if he could start a fire but he lacked the means. It didn't matter now. Lethargy settled like a sandbag across his shoulders. He reached for his oilskin to draw out his Comfort and stopped short to look up at the picture on the wall. Smiling, he trapped the bag between his knees and wrapped his arms about them. Eventually his head fell to rest on his knees and he slipped into dreams, shivering in the night.

  Chapter Four

  "Time is a property of distance. Observed time is a property of waiting. Every sensible person understands this."–John Roberts

  "Fritz!" Ella banged into the kitchen blowing on her hands and stomping her feet to warm them. She nodded a greeting to Bru, turned back to yell out the door, and squashed her nose on Fritz coming in. She shoved him in mock annoyance. "Found. Baby Leisl's found and by our broken man, our own lost soul!" Her mood shifted abruptly to worry. "He doesn't have his coat, Fritz. He left it with the baby."

  Fritz nodded understanding. He tapped his thumb on his chest and made a sweeping motion as if petting a dog, meaning; "I'll look. Me and Rex."

  "Yes. Rex can help. And you found him once before." She paused, remembering. "God's hairy knuckles, be careful!"

  Fritz gave her a comic leer and clutched his crotch, saying, "You mean God's hairy balls." Ella shoved him again, grinning.

  Bru placed an ugly mustard yellow mug on the table. "Drink, Fritz. Tomato soup. Won't take a minute. If you're going out in that weather you'll need something hot in your belly."

  Ella blinked. John's favorite mug. How often had she seen him sitting there with his big work-scarred hands wrapped around it, holding forth on his favorite subject? No, not just holding forth. Lecturing. Teaching. The one thing John really missed was his students. "The Now is all pervasive, like an ocean to a fish. It's always the same time; always high noon in the ever-present now, though there's a growing faction of scientists who claim it's always five o'clock. Don't let this concept of an eternal Now confuse you. It does
not negate past and future, it encompasses them. However. Given the eternal Now, space/time can be defined as; space is the distance between objects, time is the distance between events. Certainly a subtle distinction, but vital to understand."

  Ella reached for the mug, took a commemorative sip and handed it back, feeling a fragile comfort. If only distance separates us I will come to you when I find the right direction. She knew what John would say: "To leave this timeline you have to be leaving anyway." She poked surreptitiously at the lump under her breast. You may not have long to wait, love.

  John was still in her head. "My theories are just meaningless equations if based on a false premise. I need proof I can point to. But how can I say so-and-so's from cross-time? A time refugee looks like any other undocumented alien." He paused to sip from his infamous cup. "Ella, the right conditions for cross-time travel here are temporary. As conditions change there will be a kind of hiccup, a balancing of forces characterized by a bio-mass transfer, a balancing across a cluster of timelines. It falls between different parameters than human refugees, and it will manifest differently. Fish falling from the sky, manna from heaven, swarms of locusts, lemmings falling off a cliff not into the sea but onto some far shore. Something. Maybe it'll rain toads. Sounds almost biblical, doesn't it? But whatever it is we must watch for it. It's my proof, my prediction come true. Or I'm a temporal theorist who's full of shit." An idiot smile lit his face.

  Sky toads splatting on the road would be the most important moment of John's life, the culmination and vindication of his work. But Ella needed to get his predictions on record before the event, whatever it was, happened. To that end she was taking John's work books and journals to his physicist colleagues in the city. She'd also made appointments at the medical center for herself and Fritz. The doctors hoped to give him a tongue. And she had, well, whatever she had.