The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 1

by Donald Harington

  Sam discovered that he was standing up now, though his gitalongs were weak. He was standing and cheering, rooting for his father.

  Abruptly Man’s jaws clamped shut.

  INSTAR THE FOURTH:

  The Consequence

  Chapter twenty-five

  Doc was at a loss. The Patient’s skin was moist, clammy, cool, and it had, in what light fell upon it from the reading lamp, a distinctly morbid grayish hue. The Patient’s pulse was weak, almost imperceptible, but quite rapid, so rapid that the pauses between beats could barely be detected: more a hum than a pulse. The Patient’s respiration was hardly discernible. All of the symptoms of shock were present, but, Doc was the first to admit to himself, he had no experience with shock in human beings, and shock in roosterroaches manifests itself in somewhat different sequelae. Quite possibly the signs here were of shock exacerbated by intoxication, or vice versa. Whatever the exact condition and its prognosis, the Patient, in addition to His other traumas and pathology, now had a Periplaneta lodged in the oral cavity somewhere between the palatine papilla, or the palatine raphe, and the sulcus terminalis linguae. The immediate concern, as Doc saw it, was that the patient might swallow, involuntarily, with unfavorable consequences to both the Patient and the Periplaneta, who could become lodged in the esophagus or, worse, the trachea…or, worse still, as far as the Periplaneta was concerned, end up in the stomach. Even if the Periplaneta remained in the anterior oral cavity, the prognosis was especially complicated by the possibility that Bacillus tetani had entered the gunshot wound of the patient and might within forty-eight hours release tetanospasmin toxins, resulting in rigidity of musculature around the jaw, or lockjaw. Doc checked for any sign of risus sardonicus, the sardonic smile sometimes seen in the early stages of the disease, but the particular twist of the patient’s mouth could be the result of a natural sardonic smile, not the onset of lockjaw.

  Examining up close the configuration of the smile, Doc thought to holler, “HEY, HANK, ARE YE IN THAR?” but the Patient’s teeth and lips were so firmly clamped as to preclude any sound escaping from behind them. Nor could Doc’s sniffwhips detect any scent of the Squire, overwhelmed as it was by scents of bourbon whiskey, unbrushed teeth, nicotine, and a general effluvium of westwardliness.

  Should efforts continue to wake the Patient? Thus far everything had failed, including the attempt of the squire himself to excite the interior of the Patient’s mouth. “Boys, we might as well take a rest,” Doc called to his helpers, who were still clambering upon Man’s face. If the Patient woke too suddenly, He might gasp, indrawing air that would swallow Squire Hank. Better to just keep an eye on things and think, Doc told himself.

  Hours passed. Doc wondered what his friend the squire was doing. If it was me, Doc told himself, I would be a-kickin and ajumpin and carryin on and doin somersaults and backflips even. But knowing Squire Hank, he was probably just laying low, keeping as still as could be, not wanting to make any move that would cause Man to swallow. That, or he was already in Man’s stomach, being slowly disintegrated by the juices there. Even if he weren’t swallowed, Squire Hank’s body would be diluted by salivary secretions and possibly even decomposed by the enzyme ptyalin.

  One possibility eventually occurred to Doc: perhaps Man had one or more missing teeth. If so, and it were possible to determine where the missing tooth was located, the lips covering that spot might be forced apart, with the combined efforts of all his helpers, sufficiently to permit Squire Hank to squeeze through. Roosterroaches are, after all, designed to flatten their bodies for passage through the most narrow openings; the squire could easily pass through the space of a missing tooth. But was a tooth missing?

  Doc sent his helpers to spread the news throughout Holy House and Carlott, and to ask if anyone could recall having seen the Lord’s face close enough to determine whether or not a tooth was missing. Several individuals reported back that, yes, they had seen the Lord’s face only recently when he was lying in the grass of Carlott, but he had not had his teeth bared. A fellow was located who claimed to have been still awake one morning, in the Lord’s washing room, when the Lord was brushing His teeth, but he had not been able to see the teeth because they were all covered with the white frothy and foaming toothpaste.

  Somebody reported that there was an image of the Lord on the wall in the ponder room, and the teeth were exposed in a smile. Doc himself went to investigate, instructing his helpers to keep a close watch on Man’s Adam’s apple, in case Man showed any signs of swallowing. Doc had never been to the ponder room before, and he was impressed. The walls were lined with books, the several filing cabinets climbing halfway up the wall, Man’s great oak desk topped with the black creature of fifty eyes staring upward, a “typewriter” it was called. On one wall, sure enough, there were several glass-covered images, icons, representations of Man alone and Man with other Men and Women, Man with rows of other Men, Man holding an infant, Man delivering a lecture in some kind of arena. Only in this picture did Man have His mouth open, but His teeth were not visible. But there was one portrait, the only picture of Man alone, in which Man was smiling, and His teeth were visible, His front teeth at least. It was not exactly the sardonic smile that Man naturally wore; it was more of a forced, artificial, obligatory smile; edges of the first molars were visible, all of the bicuspids, canines, and incisors, none of them missing. Doc sighed.

  While he was in the ponder room, Doc could not resist, as long as he had climbed up the wall to take a close look at the picture, climbing further along the wall to the bookshelves, and examining Man’s library, which, from what little Doc knew of literature, was almost exclusively concerned with poetry: complete sets of complete works of complete poets, incomplete sets of incomplete works of incomplete poets; poets of all centuries, major poets and minor poets, biographies of poets, and critical studies and interpretations of poets. Even the few prose writers were those who wrote poetically. In what seemed a place of honor near Man’s desk were double copies or triple copies of four titles: Where Knock Is Open Wide: The Life and Work of Christopher Smart, by Lawrence Brace; Yet What I Am Who Cares: The Life and Work of John Clare, by Lawrence Brace; The Heart without Story: A Sort of Life and Work of Richard Jefferies, by Lawrence Brace; and Life Is Whose Song?: The Wrong Life and Right Work of John Gould Fletcher, by Lawrence Brace. There were six copies of the latter, and Doc concluded that that was all that had been printed.

  The desktop itself was a mess, surrounding the typewriter, the black creature with fifty eyes, which, Doc discovered on closer examination, were not eyes but, rather, nodules imprinted with letters of the alphabet, numerals, and doodads. A strange steady purr came from the machine. Doc observed that one of the elongated nodules bore at either end two contradictory messages: “On” at the depressed upper end, and, at the raised lower end, “Off.” Beside the typewriter were piles of white note cards, small slips of paper, some of them blank, others scribbled with an indecipherable handwriting, and a stack of books: The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, Roget’s International Thesaurus, and Clement Wood’s Complete Rhyming Dictionary.

  Wrapped around the roller of the typewriter was a sheet of paper, which had typed at one corner of the top, “Stay More, Arkansas,” and beneath that, “Lawrence Brace,” and in the center of the page, “Myth, Meaning and Narrative in the Poems of Daniel Lyam Montross,” and then the beginning of a sentence, “What are we to make of” The rest of the sentence was incomplete…or at least Doc, losing his footing on the paper and sliding off the roller down into the innards of the typewriter, could not later recall having read more than that. He climbed up out of the machine and returned to the loafing room, where Lawrence Brace had not changed position upon the couch, had not moved, had not stirred, and was wearing the distinct beginnings of a sardonic smile, with parts of two upper bicuspids visible. Neither tooth, alas, was missing. But there was a minute crack between them, and Doc was able to press up to this crack and yell, “AHOY, SQUIRE HANK
, AIR YE ANYWHERES ROUND ABOUT IN THAR?” Quickly Doc stuck a tailprong anent the crack, and heard his words echoing eerily in the chamber of the oral cavity.

  Then came a voice, muffled, liquescent, irritated, but calm, “Is it daylight yet out yonder? Can I go to sleep yet?”

  “Naw, Squire, it’s still night, but gittin onwards to dawn,” Doc called in answer, conversationally. “Are you all right?”

  “Wal, it’s purty damp and all,” Squire Hank allowed. “Too wet to plow, I’d say.”

  Doc laughed. “Have you seen the White Mouse?” he called.

  “There’s somethin real furry in here,” Squire Hank said, “but I think it’s His tongue.”

  Doc laughed again but asked solicitously, “How’s yore outsides? Any itches or irritations? Anything that feels like it might be a-sloughin off?”

  “Hard to tell, Doc,” Squire Hank answered. “Hit’s so blamed dank and cloudy, I caint tell what’s mine and what’s His’n.”

  “You jist take it easy,” Doc called, “and we’ll figger out some way to git ye out of thar.” Then he asked, “Could ye sort of feel around and see if any teeth are missing?”

  There was a long silence, and then Squire Hank replied, “Wal, my uppers is kind of wobbly, but there’re all here.”

  “Not your teeth, Squire,” Doc said. “His teeth. See if one of ’em’s missing big enough for you to crawl through.”

  Another long silence, then Squire Hank answered, “Yeah, they’s one of ’em gone, but it’s way down in the back.”

  “Third lower molar,” Doc said to himself, “the wisdom tooth.” He called out to his helpers, “Okay, boys, here’s what we got to try to do.” He explained to them the plan, and then he explained it to Squire Hank. A dozen of the strongest fellers would simultaneously press against the lower lip at its corner, forcing it downward enough to uncover enough of the missing molar for the squire to squeeze through. It would have to be well-timed, because they could only exert so much force for just a fraction of a second. Doc selected, from his knowledge of their medical histories, the twelve strongest fellows, and arranged them in position, and said, “Now, when I give the signal, shove as hard as ye can!”

  Doc gave the signal and everybody shoved, with much grunting and groaning, and managed to move the corner of the lower lip a tiny fraction of a millimeter, not even enough to reveal the edge of any gap of any missing molar.

  “Hey!” came the voice of Squire Hank from within. “Which side of the mouth are you fellers on?”

  “The left,” Doc Swain hollered back.

  “Which left?” Squire Hank answered. “Your left or His left?”

  It took Doc more than a moment to figure it out, wiggling his left toucher and then his right toucher, and he realized he meant, scientifically of course, the Patient’s left, that is, Larry Brace’s left, which would be Doc’s right side as Doc faced Him. That would also be Squire Hank’s left, assuming Squire Hank was facing this way.

  “Wal, the tooth that’s missing is over on the right side,” Squire Hank informed them. “His right side.”

  Doc directed the Stay Morons to shift position from the left side to the right, and once again he gave the signal and called “SHOVE!” and once again they strained and grunted and squealed and managed to move the right lower corner of the mouth back and downward a larger fraction of a millimeter, just enough to uncover a distant view of a missing molar, behind which Squire Hank’s face was expectantly waiting.

  But it was not enough. The gang collapsed, panting and sighing, and the corner of the mouth snapped back into its original sardonic smile. Doc realized he needed some stronger roosterroaches. Who was the strongest roosterroach in Stay More? Why, Squire Hank, of course, but he was on the wrong side. Who was the second strongest roosterroach in Stay More? Unquestionably that would be Squire Hank’s only son, Squire Sam, but he…

  Doc realized with a pang of conscience that he had been so busy attending this Patient, Larry Brace, and then trying to rescue Squire Hank, that he had woefully neglected his original patient, Squire Sam. Excusing himself from the company once again, and reminding them to keep a close watch on the Adam’s apple for any sign of swallowing, Doc made his way down from Larry Brace and over to the cheer-of-ease, and up it to the seat cushion, where Squire Sam lay as before, near the edge, taking in the view of the bustling activity on the couch across the way.

  “How you doing?” Doc asked, but received no answer because Sam couldn’t hear him. He checked Sam over. Respiration normal. Pulse normal. He tested Sam’s reflexes. Reflexes normal. Eyes okay. Prongs deaf. Sniffwhips straight and keen. He poked at Sam’s thorax and abdomen, to test for any internal injuries, but Sam did not flinch, nor wince. He spoke closely to one prong: “HOW YOU FEEL?”

  “Hungry,” Sam admitted.

  That was good, but Doc Swain had nothing more at hand to feed him, and everybody in Holy House was grumbling with hunger. Maybe Doc could persuade some of the folks to give up their funeral feeds for the worthy cause of nourishing convalescent Sam. Doc wondered how to explain to the deaf boy the task that was expected of him. “THINK YOU CAN WALK?” Doc asked loudly of one prong.

  Sam nodded, and said, “I’ve been watching. You want me to get over there and help, is that it? I’ve just been waiting for the doctor’s permission.”

  “YOU GOT IT,” Doc said. “CAN YOU STAND UP?”

  Squire Sam stood up. His six gitalongs were rickety and wavered a bit. Slowly Sam walked around in circles on the seat cushion, then widened the circle with stiffer gitalongs. He really oughtn’t to be exerting himself, Doc realized, but it was a matter of life and death for his father. He motioned for Sam to follow as he led the way down the side of the cheer.

  It was slow going, getting Squire Sam down off the cheer-of-ease to the floor. They could’ve flown, but the landing would’ve been jarring for both. Sam clung frantically to the fabric of the side of the cheer and lowered himself tail first, an unusual and clumsy manner of descent. They crossed the floor to the couch, and prepared to ascend a leg of Larry Brace, but were met by a mob of Crustians blocking the way, with Preacher Chid in the forefront.

  “Morsel, Chid,” Doc said, and eyed him warily.

  Chid did not return the greeting, but intoned solemnly, “The Lord is west.”

  “Not yet he aint,” Doc replied, but wondered if in his absence Lawrence Brace’s vital functions might have ceased. He moved to get a closer look, but Chid blocked the way.

  “Yea, verily I say unto ye,” Chid raised his voice, addressing not just Doc but the entire crowd of Crustians and non-Crustians alike, “our Lord has westered off and abandoned us. I don’t aim to preach His funeral. But the elders and deacons of my church has decided, and I agree, that we will have to move on out of Holy House and seek our salvation elsewhere.” A chorus of affirmations went up from the crowd, folks yelling, “You bet!” and “Shore thang!” and “Yessirreebob!” and “Yo’re darn tootin” and “Tell it, preacher!” and “Amen” and “Let’s eat!” Chid waved his sniffwhips for silence, and went on, looking straight at Doc Swain, “And there is only one place for our salvation, and that is Parthenon.”

  “So?” said Doc Swain. “How does this concern me? I got a few patients here to take keer of, including one who’s got his body all covered with a Man’s mouth.”

  “Wal, that ’un’s west too, as far as we’re concerned,” Chid said. “Aint no way you can git him out.” He pointed at Squire Sam. “And aint no way that this one can stop us by hisself from taking over Parthenon.”

  “Chid, you’re lucky he cain’t hear ye,” Doc said. “He’d make ye eat them words iffen he could hear ye. Now step out of my way, so’s we can git up yonder and see about them other two patients.”

  “Deef, is he?” Chid looked curiously at Sam, and then spoke to him, “Did you get yore prongs hurt as punishment for what ye did to the Lord?”

  Squire Sam, of course, could not hear this question, but Doc answered for him, “Th
at wasn’t what did it. And he may be deef, but he’s still powerful enough to keep ye out of Partheeny.”

  “Keep us out of Partheeny?” Chid said, and scornfully laughed. “Heck, Doc, you don’t understand. You got it backwards. It’s gonna be us keepin him out of Partheeny, once he ever gits thar. Time he gits thar, we’ll already have the whole place to our-selfs. Right, folks?” The crowd of hungry followers of Chid chorused, “Yeah Brother!” and “I mean!” and “Betcha boots!” and “Pon my word!” and “Let’s eat!” Chid took six or twelve dramatic steps in the direction of an exit hole out of Holy House and shouted, “What are we waitin fer? Let’s go!”

  Tolbert Duckworth exclaimed, “Wait, Preacher! Half the country between here and Partheeny is under water!”

  “And more comin down,” someone said.

  “Pitchforks, cats and dogs,” added a third.

  “WE CAN SWIM, CAIN’T WE?” Chidiock Tichborne screamed.

  As if in answer to this question, as if the Lord Himself, west to all the world, had spoken a final word, a word of protest against His people abandoning Him, there was a sudden near flash of lightning, followed instantly by the most enormous crack of thunder anyone had ever heard. It literally knocked the multitudes off their feet. The light of the reading lamp, the only illumination in the great loafing room, went out. The electricity throughout the house went out. Clocks stopped. The Fabulous Fridge westered. The typewriter went off.

  In addition to the three patients he already had, Doc had to minister to several ladies and one or two males who had fainted. The rest of them, those who could get back on their gitalongs again, dispersed, either to their favorite hiding places or to places where they could pray to their Lord, who, Doc was both gladdened and disturbed to notice, showed signs of rousing from His coma, as if the thunderclap had awakened Him. There was not a minute to lose: Doc grabbed Sam by a gitalong and the two of them scurried up the body of Lawrence Brace to His face, which was twitching in imminent threat of preparation for one big swallow. They fought their way through the thicket of hairs in His beard.