His first class was on basic mechanical properties. He suppressed a small laugh when he saw the teacher, a surprisingly attractive woman named Mrs. Evans. He stopped quickly when she wrote a series of mathematical equations on the chalkboard. Mrs. Evans turned to the class and said, “That's where we begin."
Henry swore under his breath; he should have glanced at the textbooks he'd bought fourth-hand before he came to this class. Still, he was here. He began to write.
His next class was on logic. It was more mathematical symbols. He leaned over to one student, a small, spectacled boy, and said, “Is everything here math?"
"Excuse me, Mr., uh,” said the instructor glancing at his seating chart. “Vick, is it? You have a question?"
Henry turned bright red. He couldn't see it, but he knew from the warmth in his cheeks and the laughter of the others, which only made him color more. He thought to say no, he was sorry for interrupting. Then he thought of Mr. Brightman's words. “Yes, sir. Is everything mathematical?"
The man's eyes were dark and from this distance looked hard. He narrowed them as he leaned against his desk and folded his arms. “Let me ask you a question, young man. No, I will ask you a question. Have you ever met someone from far down north? Good. How do they sound?"
Henry said, “I don't understand anything they say."
"Of course you don't,” said the man. “You don't speak the same language. But if he put two stones before you and you two before him, what would each of you write? The number four, of course. So, what does this tell you?"
Henry felt very stupid when the others raised their hands.
"That mathematics is the universal language,” said the boy beside Henry, glaring at him under his spectacles. Henry turned away and stared straight ahead. He said nothing again, but wrote down everything the instructor did and said.
His final class was history. He was terrified. The book was A History of the North American Peoples, thick enough that a child might use it as a stool. His fear intensified when the instructor said they were to read the next chapter for the next class, which was two days from now. Then he saw her across the room.
She saw him at the same moment. He smiled; but she paled and looked horrified. She took the furthest position she could. He heard her name as roll was called: Kelly Delacroix.
Later, she held her books close to her chest; she would not look at him. “Look,” she said. She tried to walk faster. “I need it to pay for school. Please, just please, just don't talk to me.” She covered the side of her face nearest him with her hand and fled.
* * * *
That day he found a letter slid beneath his door.
* * * *
My Dear Henry,
I am so glad you have met someone. Who is she? What is she like? Will she make a good wife? Will she make me a grandmother? I would dearly love to see a grandchild before my time is past. I have met someone too but he would not make a good father. We fit together well I think.
Your loving mother,
E. Vick
* * * *
He replied immediately.
* * * *
DEAR MOTHER,
SHE IS LIKE YOU. YOU WOULD LIKE HER. CLASSES ARE VERY HARD. I DON'T NEED TO READ OR WRITE WELL THOUGH. I WILL VISIT NEXT HOLIDAY. ARE YOU NOT WELL? I WILL COME SOONER IF SO.
YOUR LOVING SON,
HENRY
* * * *
With tremendous care, he made certain that each gear and arbor (he'd learned that word after many hours of painful reading) was oiled. Following his book and his carefully laid out pieces, he began to reconstruct the mechanism. Each piece had to be connected to the previous and the next; and each addition required him to test each piece. But he had schoolwork as well. He'd only just finished installing the great wheel and the barrel when he saw the sun beginning to set through the western window in the belfry. He climbed the staircase and sat in that window, legs dangling. He felt a profound unhappiness at that moment.
He went back down and lit the fat candle on its beaten brass pricket. There was the sharp smell of sulfur. A little black smoke curled away. He held a book between his crossed legs and began to read. After only four pages, he quit the history text; by then it was quite dark. From the belfry he read the stars and hurried back down. It was past the middle of the night.
The mechanical book was easier, requiring not as much reading as mathematics. He scratched his head; and then scratched his quill on the cheapest paper he'd found. The nib cut straight through it. He slapped it to the floor, stared at the clock mechanism. That was so easy; it came to his hands as easily as words came to his mother when she met a man. He pushed that thought away. He didn't want to think of her.
Still, this was not as awful as that history book. He glared at it then shoved it into a corner unlit by the candle. He scribbled symbols for a long time until he filled one sheet (torn and ripped, but filled with ink). By then his eyes were heavy. He laid on the hard wooden and dusty floor and slept.
He woke from the cry of a crow perched above. He heard the fluttering of wings, the soft coos of doves and doves, and saw a few feathers drift down. When he looked up he saw that a big black bird was strutting around a flock of agitated doves. He saw that the sun had risen high enough to flood his space with light.
Then he realized it was his space. No one knew he was here; and if no one knew that, he could perch here as easily as the birds. Besides, what was there in his room but the awfulness of the close space and the odor of previous occupants? Here, he could smell the fresh air and the pleasant oily smell of grease. He could stretch as far as he liked. He could watch the sun rise and set, and see the sky when it was blue and when it was black.
He realized he was late for class.
* * * *
He had to wait his chance. Kelly was a very popular girl it seemed, yet she blushed and tilted her head away when a boy spoke kind words to her. How he wished to have her do the same for him. He rehearsed words each night, trying to match the cadence to the soft cries of the doves. He watched these too, their white feathers ruffling gently in the breeze while they sat side by side.
While he mortared a few bricks into a crumbling chimney, he saw that she sat in the courtyard alone with her head in her hands. He watched her for a moment and when he was certain she was not leaving for a while he went down to her.
"Hello,” he said, at a distance he hoped was not too close.
She lifted her head suddenly. Her eyes were red, her face wet. She sniffled. Valiantly she smoothed her hair back and wiped away the tears. Her face was blotchy.
She shook her head. “I told you to forget me."
All of his rehearsed words fled his mind. “I just thought I would ask what was wrong."
She smiled a little. “Thank you. But, it's my business."
He nodded, his head hanging a little. “Well,” he said. “I hope you can figure it out.” He tried to leave but only just stood there as if suddenly struck dumb.
She continued to stare at him. “Well, what's the matter then? Please don't try to hurt me. I always carry my knife."
"I just, well, you seem as if history comes to you so easily. I can't really read."
It was her turn to look dumb. Her mouth hung open for a moment. “How did you become a student?"
"I'm really good with my hands.” He saw her face and said quickly, “Not like that. When it comes to machines. I feel how they should fit together."
She nodded. “I noticed. When Mrs. Evans gave us those gyroscopes. It took you, what, half the time it took the rest of us?"
He felt the color in his cheeks rise.
She came to him and took one of his hands in both of hers. Her eyes were brown as chocolate, and yet sad. “Thank you. For a moment I've forgotten. But please remember that while you are nice, we fit together only like this.” She made an O with her left hand and inserted a finger from her right. Then she meshed both hands like two gears. “But not like this. I like your hands, but they were made for
other things.” She patted his hand, looked at him for a moment, and then collected her books.
* * * *
The clock was nearly finished. The pinion and fly of the striking chain were the last to fit in. He did so with a cry of joy, his arms raised in the air. Grease dribbled from his elbows. Doves took flight at the sound of his voice with a great flurry of white wings.
He sat on the edge of the western window watching the sun fall below the horizon. The air was getting cooler now that the leaves had turned. He would have to buy a blanket or perhaps two.
The patterns in the stars felt different. Not that they were; only that there was a subtle change, something far too small for him to see. He returned to his books below.
He was learning to read more swiftly now, the words and phrases coming with more ease. He no longer struggled to keep up with the lowest part of the class, though he was not nearly so quick as Kelly or her friends. Twice he'd saved enough money and gone to find her; but each time, though he was certain he heard her voice, she had vanished (if she'd truly been there at all).
Maybe he'd try again tonight. He went down to his room to collect his mail from the last several days.
There was a letter from the town in which his mother lived, but not from her.
* * * *
Mr. Vick,
It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that your mother has died. The man responsible has been convicted and hung. The wheels of justice are swift. I am sorry that we could not wait to hear from you. If you would like to collect her things, please send a letter.
My sincerest sympathies,
Reeve John Leary
* * * *
He sat on the unused bed for a very long time. The chain with the green stone lay in his hand, and when the sun came through the window it cast a gangrenous color on his palm.
* * * *
The abandoned winding handle lay in one dark corner. He gripped it so tight that his knuckles were white. He slipped it onto the chiming train, which had the heaviest weights. He turned the handle slowly. The ratcheting sound was synchronous with his heart, a steady tick-tick-tick.
The sun was coming up; he could just see the shadows of the belfry from where he stood. Next was the striking chain but its weights were less than the chiming; and then finally he wound the going chain, with the slightest of weights. There were locks on each so that until he let them go they would stay wound. He set the face itself with a single lever with which to set the clock. This was green from the copper. It threw a pallor over his body when the light struck it.
Sweating from the effort, he laid down to sleep. He dreamed of his mother.
When he awoke, the sun was high. Below, from the belfry windows, he could see the rhythmic motion of the people below. He removed the locks from each chain. A steady tick-tick-tick sound came from the pendulum.
He left his books and papers and quills. He left the key in the lock.
Outside, the sun was bright. From here he could see the sun striking the face but not what it said.
He had no means of knowing exactly when, so he waited. The clock suddenly struck, the bell making a thunderous noise. A cloud of white doves exploded from the belfry; their sounds could not be heard for the clamor. Below, the people stopped. He saw the looks on their faces, and felt pleased.
They pointed to the clock.
Someone said, “It isn't right."
Someone else said, “It hasn't rung for half a century."
As if spellbound, the crowd stood beneath the clock listening to the peal of the great bell. From against a wall, Henry could watch them without being seen. He saw the door of the school open, the students filing out. There was a brief flurry of activity as the students found places in the crowd; and then they too stared silently at the unseen face.
Henry saw Kelly and made his way beside her. He touched her hand briefly. She glanced at him, turned away, and then turned to stare at him. “You did this. I can't see your face in this light, but I know you did this.” When he said nothing, she said, “Why?"
Softly, he said, “My mother used to tell me everything had a purpose. A person is where they are because they should be; and yet, I am not. The clock has a purpose but because it cannot be seen it is not used. But look how they respond. You,” he said. “You are not what you should be either. Your place is in the school, not on the streets.” He pressed something into her hand. “I never paid you for the last time. This, I think, should be enough."
She stared at the thin gold chain, at the small gem in the center. She shook her head “I can't. I would like to, but I can't.” She tried to press it into his hands but he held them closed tight.
He said nothing for the space of three peals. Then he said, “Use it to become what you should be.” He bent suddenly and kissed the top of her head.
"Where are you going?” she said.
"Home.” He meshed his fingers together, and then said, “These were made for other things."
* * * *
* * * *
June 25, 2005
Dear Editors:
I would like to withdraw my six thousand word feature article, “Born for the First Time: Black
Sabbath's Missing Album."
I have recently come to realize the article's premise—about a long-forgotten Black Sabbath album entitled Born to which Sabbath's Born Again (1983) was a sequel—is neither funny nor
"in sync” with your readers’ interests.
Although I had made heavy use of the thesaurus in my attempts to match song titles from the non-existent Born to Sabbath's criminally underrated thirteenth album (partial listings below), I
see now that I could not approach the heights reached by the members of the band themselves in titles such as “Digital Bitch” or “Disturbing the Priest."
The idea and the article may have survived as a humor piece if it were not for my clumsy and ultimately disappointing illustrated timeline for the Born recording sessions leading up to the 1981 release date. Even casual Sabbath listeners would be aware that legendary Deep
Purple screamer Ian Gillan did not join Sabbath until January 1983. It was out of line to suggest that Tony Iommi (number one heavy metal guitarist of all time, Guitar World, March 2004),
Geezer Butler (bass), and Bill Ward (drums) had managed to work with Gillan during the period ex-Rainbow lead singer Ronnie James Dio (5/79-11/82) was attempting to fill future MTV-star
Ozzy Osbourne's shoes.
I still cannot fully explain why the idea of a prequel to Born Again has had such a hold on me. I have spent most of the last three months working on it and am shattered by the realization that it has come to naught. (I still find myself going through my source material looking for links between Sabbath and Gillan tour dates.)
What inspired this article? Although I have long known Sabbath's Stonehenge stage set for Born Again was the inspiration for the set in This is Spinal Tap, it was the success of Fargo Rock
City, Motley Crue's biography, and Metallica's therapeutic documentary Some Kind of Monster
which led me to my belief that 1980s heavy metal had somehow managed to attain a new level of cultural relevance.
I am withdrawing my article to save everyone involved any possible embarrassment on publication and offer my apologies for any time you may have taken on it and this follow up.
Sincerely,
[Name Witheld]
[Back to Table of Contents]
Jenny Ashley is married to a man with beautiful feet. She lives in San Luis Obispo,
CA, and teaches freshmen how to fall in love with words. Her stories and poems have appeared in The Allegheny Review, Mars Hill
Review, Oxford Magazine, and The Peralta
Press.
Gwenda Bond communicates to us through the local MI5 dead letter office. She is working on a young adult novel. She is funnier than you. She did not write this bio.
bondgirl.blogspot.com
Chris Fox. Aries. Born: Cincin
nati, OH.
Attended Appalachian State University.
Resides: Greensboro, NC. Employed:
Benjamin Branch, Greensboro Public
Library. Fiction: The Bishop's House Review,
Slave, and the News and Observer. Poetry:
Wavelength and Rosebud. Guitar: political ghoul-punk band, Crimson Spectre.
Scott Geiger lives in New York. The
Fall 2005 issue of Conjunctions includes two of his stories, “The
Frank Orison” and
"Walpoliana."
Eric Gregory lives in Abingdon, VA, and enjoys writing about himself in the third person. When he's feeling particularly frisky he changes a few names and settings and calls the whole kibosh
fiction. He is inestimably grateful to Liese Markle and Sam Mills for their input and support on this particular arrangement of paragraphs. To be honest, words fail him—
Michaela Kahn is an indentured servant tied to the slavingmeat—wheel of mindless, meaningless labor.
She's heard there's a ritual you can perform out in the desert with a penny, a piece of yellow legal paper, sage, a fountain pen, mouse-droppings, and the recitation of a few choice phrases that will put an end to global capitalism. She's currently searching for the correct words.
After his brief stint as the Dalai Lama,
John Kessel earned his living exclusively by selling kelp to passengers of the
Orange Line in the 14th Street IRT station.
www4.ncsu.edu/~tenshi
Matthew Kirby lives in Brooklyn, NY.
He is a frequent contributor to the film criticism journal Metaphilm.com, and his fiction has appeared in 3rd Bed, Diagram, and The
Brooklyn Rail.
Ursula K. Le Guin is the author of twenty novels, ten short story collections, six books of poetry, four volumes of translation
(including Angélica Gorodischer's Kalpa
Imperial), and thirteen books for children.
She lives in Oregon. ursulakleguin.com
Yoon Ha Lee's fiction and poetry have appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy &
Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 16 Page 12
