by Anthology
"When a building is about to fall down, all the mice desert it. Your own Natural History, Book VIII. Right, Pliny?"
Artemis' second turned to Prosper with an appreciative bow. "Ruinis inminentibus musculi praemigrant, aranei cum telis primi cadunt, Prosper. May I assume you're quoting my own work at me to signify you are in this fiasco to the bitter end?"
"Oleo tranquillari... You said that in Book II."
"Ah, yes. Oil as a sovereign balsam in troubled situations. You, Sir Mouse, are slick as a greased hooker in the Forum Boarum. I catch your drift." Pliny's eyes brightened. He would soon be back in Paradise with his beloved Baywatch tapes.
I nudged Prosper. "What the hell is going on?"
"Shut up and bowl," replied the mouse demon.
I approached the line and scuffled my bare, un-rosined feet on the alley, testing the purchase. Nothing but purchase. I could not slide. Rosin residue from the goddess' pitches gripped me tight to the floor. With each step I had to peel the soles of my feet up like a deep sea diver walking through a kelp bed.
Prosper saw my problem. "Bring your ball and let's get back up to the bar. We'll get you cleaned off."
I picked a house ball from the return trough and sauntered to the bar where the minks had gotten into the pearl onions and maraschino cherries. With the smearing as they rolled about, spraying their musk, the scene looked like a slaughter of eyeballs painted by a crack addict. The bartender was oblivious, happily polishing Manhattan glasses with a bar towel.
"Wipe your feet, Everhardy. Then run like hell, stop and let go of the ball when I tell you. You might stop short and go buns over teakettle, so hold onto your nose. For luck," he added. Prosper gave his colander a quarter turn and focused his eyes on the acoustical tiling of the Chuck-A-Bowl's hung ceiling as he mumbled an exhortation in what sounded like an ancient language.
A mink bit me on the ass and I hurtled forward.
"Foul line! Stop!" shouted the mouse demon. I stopped and slid right up to the line, remembering to let go of the ball. Leftover rosin grabbed at my feet. I ground to a precipitous halt and clutched my nose as I careened head first onto the polished maple floor. The 21/2 pound candlepin ball shot forward in a fireball curve. I noticed it pick up speed as I slid right up to, but not over, the foul line.
When the ball connected, the number seven and ten pins dodged while the others fell. The ball rebounded from the bumpers and returned to take them down, too.
We won.
And then we had to face the wrath of the goddess. And me with a bloody nose.
Artemis, the Lady of the Wild Things, Ephesian Diana, etc., etc., was whistling up her minks and packing to leave. She seemed in a good mood, for a disappointed Personage.
She handed me a large basket. "If you are here to cut a deal, you are too late. Here, hold my snakes and thrysis. Initiates may see my mysteries elsewhere. You really should get that nose looked after. Behold! Ecce Bocce: a bowling alley. What a shabby field of honor! The fields of my epistemology are awash with mice, beer and salted nuts."
She wriggled her shoulders. "I am a figure of religious fervor. Heat and reflection don't mix. You think you have a role to play in eternity. Well, you don't. As you go through life, Jim Everhardy, remember the parting words of the Lady of the Wild Things: Shut up and bowl. And be careful what you wish for."
I hadn't wished for anything. This time at least. I spoke up. "Uhn..."
"Speak up, you ninny," thundered Artemis. No more Ms. Nice Guy.
"I was just minding my own business-"
"No excuse. Not valid. Shut up. You were sucked into Prosper's machinations by a vortex of avarice."
"Yes, ma'am."
"I find you guilty of betting on a doctored sporting event. I told Pliny to tip you off about the greased ball stunt."
"Then you suckered us."
"You fell for it. You are therefore guilty as charged."
"But we won."
There was a smattering of applause from the Lovegroves in the neighboring alley. Artemis stared them to silence.
"Madam..." Pliny was edging in for a word. "If I might get a word in, edgewise as it were?"
"Not even sideways, you doddering old letch. Keep your noble Roman mouth zippered if you ever want to see another Baywatch."
Pliny persisted. "They did win. You cheated; they cheated. So it would appear you are even-up. And screw Baywatch. It's only silicone."
"You, Gaius Plinius Secundus, are sentenced to spend what remains of your eternity viewing Little House on the Prairie!"
At this, the senior statesman and preeminent natural scholar went ballistic. Screaming, "An indulgence, Madam!" Pliny reached beneath his purple-bordered toga and, in a fit of pique, drew forth a hubcap and skimmed it at Artemis' head.
Ahh, Prosper's fallback strategy. I closed my eyes and sent a silent prayer winging heavenward.
"The coveted '38 Dodge, chrome and all!" shouted Artemis. "And intact, too. Museum quality. The old hidden hubcap trick, not unheard of in dirty bowling. Leave it to a scientist. Ball greaser!"
One superbly formed arm shot forth and caught the hurtling hubcap in mid flight. "Aha! How's that for a Frisbee goal?" The other arm made a rather theatrical gesture of triumph.
"You don't get it, do you?" said the goddess. "It doesn't matter if you won or lost. I want all the hats. And whatever Lola wants..."
She snatched the beribboned colander off Prosper's head and tossed it aloft along with her homburg and the '38 Dodge hubcap. Dots of light reflected from polished chrome sparkled and bobbed on the ceiling.
"You can't knock perfection," said Artemis, sister of Apollo, as she juggled the three hats, "and the homburg is perfect."
As a finale, she took the hats gracefully out of aerobatic rotation, bouncing them one by one off the back of a heel.
"I shall keep the homburg." The supercilious curl returned to Artemis' celestial lip, this time with an evil tic she didn't even attempt to get under control. "But I am willing to share," said the goddess with a self-congratulatory chuckle.
"Prosper, here's your new hat." Artemis tossed the chrome hubcap at the mouse demon. "I'll be keeping my colander, too. Everhardy, begone, you belie your name. Pliny, get likewise lost. I banish you to the 21st Century. Prosper, I want words with you. Stay."
****
Well, that's about the story. I sometimes wonder how Prosper fared at the hands of the Divine Artemis. I have adjusted to writing inventory control codes for Wal-Mart. Bonnie and I also have a semi-permanent houseguest.
Ask me about the shelf life of a live mink. Go ahead. Ask me how Pliny and I got home.
Thanks, we had to hoof it. We passed the hat and washed dishes to get up enough cash and made the last leg by bus. The minks tracked us, Pliny and me, all the way. I tried to visualize polecats, ferrets, weasels, the wild cousins of the goddess' coat, lining the road and cheering the lads on, north and eastward, up the New England coastline. The Divine Artemis' coat must have raided one hell of a lot of garbage cans on the road to Willipaq, Maine. On the bright side, they have since cleared our neighborhood of mice and rats. Like I might have said, negotiating with the gods is playing house rules against house odds.
Pliny, my wife and I make macaroni and cheese and watch Baywatch reruns nightly as our penance. Pliny did wangle us a plenary indulgence from Little House on the Prairie. Somewhere in this exchange, I ended up with the '38 Dodge chrome hubcap cum disco mirror ball. Don't ask. I have tried to get the hubcap off, but every time I try, the computer crashes.
And so it is I am writing again, in the time I free up by being good at writing inventory control codes. Be careful what you wish for, even if it's only for a better mousetrap. I love my wife, we put up with Pliny, and I wear my hubcap all the time. Even to bed.
LEGENDS REBORN
Carol Hightshoe was born in 1964. Carol grew up in San Antonio, Texas and eventually found her way to Colorado Springs, Colorado. An avid reader at a young age, her desire to write came fro
m her love of (her husband calls it her obsession with) Star Trek. It was this that led her to the Science Fiction and Fantasy genres. Carol's current "day job" is as a Deputy Sheriff with the El Paso County, Colorado, Sheriff's Office. Working the midnight shift she can dedicate a large amount of her time on her days off to writing while the rest of her family is asleep-keeping normal human hours. Carol's family includes her husband Tim; their son John; and two dogs-Kans and Schadue. All of whom, somehow, manage to tolerate her imaginary friends and worlds. Visit Carol's homepage, Realms of Imagination, at www.carolhightshoe.com. Email her at [email protected].
* * *
Gwendolyn Robbins clutched the stack of papers, the wind tearing at them trying to steal them from her grasp, as she walked through the Wildlife Foundation's maze of buildings. She paused in the relative shelter of the main administrative building and brushed her tangled black hair out of her eyes; thankful the strong winds were keeping the flying insects away for now. Almost two hundred years and it still hasn't returned to the brilliant blue of legend, she thought, glancing up at the brightening amethyst sky.
When she reached her office, there were at least ten notes attached to her door. Just what I need after sitting in the analysis center all night, she thought.
Gwendolyn shifted the stack of papers to free her right hand then began taking the yellow slips off the door. A quick glance showed several were from Tomas Whelan. She frowned slightly at his multiple invitations to dinner. She had considered going out with him a couple of times before her promotion to Director of the Genetics Department. Now, she wasn't sure she wanted to deal with the headaches that could arise from dating one of the regional coordinators. While she wasn't his supervisor, she was the one who made the decisions on which projects received priority. The risk of perceived favoritism was high. No, it's probably not worth the headache.
The other messages were regarding the status of various projects her department was working on. One got her attention quickly; "We Quit!" was all it said. The small bird drawn on the note showed it was from the team working on the avian project. She knew they weren't really quitting; this was just their way of making sure she read their report first thing. As if I don't have enough to do this morning, she thought.
"Good morning, Gwen. Did you get my note?" a voice asked behind her. Gwendolyn turned to see Tomas smiling at her.
"Good morning. I did. All six of them. The answer is still no." She shook her head and fought the smile that threatened to turn into a giggle at the crestfallen look on her friend's face.
Tomas laid a hand on his chest and took a step back. "She mocks me. I lay my heart out for her, and the lady mocks me." He dropped to one knee, clasped his hands together and held them up in a gesture of supplication. "What must I do prove myself to you, my lady?"
Gwendolyn sighed softly and decided the best way to deal with Tomas' theatrics this morning was to change the subject. "How are the wolves working out?" she asked.
"Pretty good-so far." The sandy haired coordinator stood up, dusting his dark pants off. "Looks like it may be a while before I get the proper balance of predator to prey, but I think it's a good start."
"Glad to hear it. It's nice to know something may be working right for a change." Gwendolyn shifted the stack of papers again as she reached for her door.
"Allow me." Tomas said, opening the door and giving her a bow.
"Thanks," Gwendolyn said, walking into the office and dropping the papers on the desk.
"What's all that?" Tomas asked, gesturing at the papers.
"The animal census reports. I only have a few days before my presentation to the Council. They're trying to shut the Foundation down. They claim we're interfering and upsetting the Balance! Like there was a Balance for us to upset!" Gwendolyn clenched her fists for a moment then relaxed.
"So the rumors are true," Tomas said.
"I'm afraid so," she whispered.
Tomas reached up and gently squeezed her shoulder. "Have you considered that they may be right? We do interfere with the Balance and the natural recovery," he said.
"The natural recovery?" Gwendolyn pulled away from the coordinator. "We've tried that. It's really working isn't it?" She jerked the curtains in her office open to reveal the pale purple of the morning sky. "The damage done to the ecology of this planet in the last war is too severe for us to just sit here and do nothing!"
"By the Balance! Do you realize what you're saying?"
"Yes, I do. Do you really know what The Balance is? True Balance can only come when everything becomes a part of the ecology of this planet." She crossed her arms across her chest and stared at her friend. "The Council still clings to those draconian capitol punishment laws for interference in the Balance, but man is a part of nature and a part of the ecology. We should never presume to dominate this planet and its resources the way the Ancestors did, but neither should we completely withdraw either." She turned and walked over to the window. "That's what we're doing, and it's destroying us. Mankind is disappearing from this planet," she whispered.
"If that's what the Balance decrees, do we have a right to say otherwise?" Tomas asked.
"We may not be able to say otherwise, but are you willing to just give up without at least trying?" she asked turning back to face him.
Tomas glanced up at her, and Gwendolyn was pleased to see a look of determination in his gray-blue eyes. "No, I suppose I'm not," he said. "If you need any help getting your presentation ready, let me know."
"I appreciate that." She smiled softly.
"Do yourself a favor, Gwen. Stop pushing so hard. Take some time for yourself." He reached up and caressed her cheek, then turned to leave.
Tomas stopped at the door and turned to face her, a crooked grin on his face. "By the way, don't think I'm going to stop trying to get you to go out with me."
"You keep trying. Maybe I'll give in out of pity one of these days," she said, smiling.
"Pity? Okay, I'll take pity. At least it's a place to start. How about tonight? I know this great cook, and his place has wonderful atmosphere," he said.
"Nice try, but I'm not quite to the pity stage yet." She gestured to the papers scattered across her desk.
"Maybe next time. Oh, before I forget, how's your pegasus project going?"
"I'll be releasing my first pair into the Foundation's habitat tonight," she said. Something that constantly surprised her about Tomas was his ability to change the subject of a conversation and his mood quickly. In many ways, he reminded her of the wolves they had recently reintroduced into his region. He had a very playful but mercurial nature and could be deadly serious when he chose.
"But, how? You just got initial approval. How can you have a pair ready for release that quickly?"
Gwendolyn looked at the door, still standing partially open, and Tomas reached back and shut it completely.
Gwendolyn grinned. "After I prepared the proposal, I went ahead and tested the material and data by developing the first pair. Meet me after work and I'll show you the pegasi."
"See you then," he said, turning and leaving the room.
Gwendolyn stared at the closed door for a few minutes surprised and a little disappointed he hadn't seized the opportunity to ask her out to dinner again. After all, she had given him a perfect opening by asking him to meet her after work. While she knew all the logical reasons to not get involved in a relationship with Tomas, she still enjoyed the attention.
She glanced down at the papers now scattered across her desk then out the window at the lavender sky. What's the point of being involved in a relationship anyway? She grabbed the curtains and yanked them shut. Fewer couples are succeeding in childbearing, and only a few of those actually born survive infancy. Gwendolyn picked up Tomas' notes. "Besides, a lover is just one more person to lose in the next famine or plague." She placed the notes in a wooden box on her windowsill. As she closed the lid, her fingers carefully traced the rearing unicorn inlayed on it in silver. A hope chest, she thought, that'
s what Tomas called this once. Pandora's box is more like it.
Gwendolyn sat at her desk and read the remaining notes. There was nothing that required her immediate attention, so she set them aside and picked up the report folder. As she had expected, the news was bad. For the past five years, the Foundation had been working to reintroduce various bird species. Despite the availability of genetic material in facilities like this one, all of their cloning efforts had failed.
The continuing damage to vital food crops from insects, coupled with the ban on the use of pesticides made this project a priority. At least in her opinion, it was a priority. The rising mortality rates across the planet should have made it one for the Council as well, but they seemed to be taking a wait and see attitude with the situation. Then again, they had given initial approval to her pegasus project, which was a little more proactive than she would have expected. True, the Council had withheld final approval pending the reports from the test stage, but this was more than she had actually hoped for considering the Council's decisions in the past.
The report contained no significant information from the group's recent search of the archives, except for a brief note from one of the junior members.
"Director Robbins, I believe the problem may be with the atmosphere. The birds we are able to clone all appear to be demonstrating respiratory problems. I found a reference in one of the records, which indicated birds were once used to detect the presence of dangerous gasses. Based on this, and I realize it isn't much, I would surmise birds have very sensitive respiratory systems.
"With the changes in the atmosphere after the war, it's possible all the birds died before they could adapt, as other species have. Just a thought-Jayson."
Gwendolyn pulled the curtains open and looked out the window again, shook her head and silently cursed the Ancestors and this mix and match world they had created with their last war. All over the planet, equipment sat in lifeless testament to knowledge lost or incomplete.
