PERFECTLY FINE WOMBAT.
Using the English language, there were tens of thousands of anagrams that could be made from the letters in perfectly fine wombat. They featured words like inept, farce, lefty, and womb. Using all the other languages of Earth, hundreds of thousands of anagrams existed. Rearranging the sounds in the words, even more meanings emerged from even more languages collected from other planets. Using symbols that could be drawn from the lines in the letters, there were even more meanings. Perfectly fine wombat could be scrambled up and made to represent almost anything.
However, its first meaning was clear. There was nothing special about this wombat. And yet this wombat was everywhere, was everything, and at the very moment that Luna’s light covered the entire universe, something astonishing happened.
The universe sprouted holes, like pockets of air in a loaf of bread. Then Luna opened her mouth to yawn—apocalypses are tiring, after all—and out of her mouth came a torrent of glowing animals. Nonillions of entirely suitable bush babies, exceedingly adequate tapirs, completely satisfactory coatimundis, and so on.
(FYI: a nonillion = 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000.)
The nonillions of glowing animals plugged up nonillions of holes. The holes led to other universes. Some a lot like our universe, some a lot different. The animals were now the corks that separated the universes. Their glows were glows of knowledge, emotion, wisdom, and creativity.
When all the holes except for one were plugged, Luna had a choice of what she could do with her universe. What she chose to do was to start over. To give the planets life again, to give the stars light again. To turn back the clock, to start time over and let her universe, just one universe among countless universes, find its own path.
So Luna became nothing but a perfectly fine wombat. Her glow was faint, like the day she met Rosie and Hamish, and her feelings were straightforward. She had one desire: to feel water pitter-pattering on her head, like she did on that rainy afternoon along the road, like she did when Rosie gave her showers.
Her wish came true, and she ended up in a pool beneath a waterfall, along a creek that flowed through a forest similar to the forest where she’d met Rosie and Hamish. In that pool, beneath that waterfall, she plugged up one last hole. She became the cork that held back a universe that some people call Aquavania. It was a universe of possibility, of creation, a place where kids could go and create anything they could imagine.
Yes, she was a perfectly fine wombat, but she wasn’t a perfectly fine cork. That was okay. She didn’t need to be. As that waterfall cascaded over her, and as the water flowed from the pool down the creek into a river, then into the ocean and up into the clouds, which rained the water back over the land, it carried with it whispers from Aquavania.
The whispers said, “Come visit sometime.”
And kids—the ones who were hurting, and scared, and confused, the ones who saw death, the ones who felt death, the ones who needed to create, the ones who had holes in them—they heard the call. They came to visit. They lived in Aquavania. They constructed worlds there. They fixed themselves. Then they went home. Then there were more whispers and more kids and on, and on, and on, and on, always … to be continued.
MONDAY, 1/1/1990
MORNING
Where did Luna come from originally? Who put the sign around her neck?
Hell if I know. Maybe someday I’ll write that story, but could that ever satisfy anyone? They’ll always ask, Well, what came before that? Knowing me, I’ll probably say I don’t know, a whirling bandicoot, I guess. And before that, a burping ocelot.
Forget that stuff. That’s not what this story is about. This story is about … well, it’s about how God is a wombat, because why can’t God be a wombat? I’d prefer a wombat to some bearded dude who hands out commandments, asks us to kill our kids to prove that we love him, and floods us to the edge of extinction because he had a bad hair day or something.
When I first came up with the story, that was the first thing I thought about. A wombat who becomes God. A wombat who destroys and resurrects our universe, but who in the end only wants to feel the pitter-patter of rain on her head. A wombat who loves and makes mistakes like any of us. A wombat who glows, but doesn’t know why. A perfectly fine wombat.
Of course, I added the Aquavania stuff later. After listening to Alistair’s tales. Because it fit. And I was inspired. If I had told you from the very beginning that the story was about a wombat who becomes the greatest and most horrible being in all of creation, the reason for our existence and our destruction, and the ultimate source of inspiration in the world, well, you wouldn’t have believed me, would you have, Stella?
Now, as I read it all over again, I wonder about Luna. Is she more than God? Is she supposed to represent Fiona Loomis? Is she supposed to be a version of my brother? Is Luna really me?
They call that literary analysis, Stella, and I’m not particularly good at it. My job is to write. Your job is to figure out the deep stuff.
And there is deep stuff going on here, isn’t there? For the love of Luna, I hope so. Deep stuff beyond inspiration, I mean. Because whether inspiration comes from an actual place or not doesn’t matter if you don’t choose to do something with it. And if you do choose to do something with it, the stories you create don’t matter unless they make ripples in the world.
Not to be all egotistical or anything, but my stories have made ripples. Things have changed. Small things at first. I’ve called them coincidences, but they’ve spread, become bigger, more significant. Ripples are turning into waves. It’s time for them to crash onto shore.
AFTERNOON
It’s a new year. A new decade.
Mom made an extra special breakfast today with eggs, bacon, pancakes, fruit salad, the whole nine. Dad even poured me a small cup of coffee, saying I was old enough and I looked like I needed it. I did need it. No, I wasn’t up late watching the glowing New Year’s ball. I was up late writing about the glowing wombat.
Alistair piled his plate high with all the grub, like he’d just come off a lifeboat. It pleased Mom. Hungry boys have pleased moms since the dawn of time, I bet.
“Family meeting in the living room at nine,” Mom said. “Okay?”
As I poured maple syrup onto my pancakes, Dad topped off my coffee and then massaged my shoulders. It felt good, but I knew this was one of his methods of easing me into some bad news.
“Okay,” I said with a sigh.
“Sure thing,” Alistair replied.
It was around eight o’clock then, and the sun was barely up. We cleared our plates and went our separate ways to shower, dress, and prepare for the day. As I reached the door to my room, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Do you really want to help me tell my story?” Alistair asked. “Do you want to help me finish it?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Grab your coat,” Alistair said. “And don’t say a word to Mom and Dad. We’ve gotta get out of here.”
So that’s what I did. I grabbed my coat. I didn’t say a thing to Mom or Dad. Alistair brought Fiona back. If he could do that, maybe he could bring Charlie back too. We needed Charlie, and we needed to move on.
On the way out the door a few minutes later, I found a package sitting on the front step. A thin, rectangular gift, wrapped in the Sunday comics and addressed: TO KERRIGAN.
“Let’s go,” Alistair said as he motioned to the bikes that he had quietly wheeled from the garage. So I stuffed the package in my backpack—which I had also stashed you in, Stella, just in case I needed to write stuff down—and I hurried to meet him.
Twenty minutes later, we were fighting our way through the biting wind on the edge of town. Alistair wore his own backpack, one that bulged and strained at the zippers. It was hard to talk at the speed we were riding and with our scarves wrapped around our faces, so I couldn’t ask exactly where we were going. All Alistair had said was “to the river.”
Nearly an hour later, we were on
a dirt road. I’d been down this road before, but that was long ago, back when they didn’t even plow it. It was plowed now, though not well, and we had to ditch our bikes after a while and proceed on foot.
The cabin my uncle Dale used to own was buried in snow. No one had been out to it in ages, it seemed. The roof sagged a bit. The whole thing appeared destined to cave in with the next significant blizzard.
Alistair led the way down to the Oriskanny River, to a bend where the water formed a deep pool. I had swum in that pool before. I began to wonder if it was somewhere around here that Alistair had seen Luke’s body. Years had passed since then, but the thought still made my insides quiver.
There was a rock near the water, and Alistair brushed the snow off and set his backpack on it. He unzipped the backpack and pulled out that fishbowl, which he carried down to the water. He dipped it in and scooped up an icy bowlful, which he carried back to the rock. Sitting down, he held the bowl in his lap.
“I absorbed them all,” he said. “Every last swimmer. All their knowledge. All their dreams and desires. I thought it would help me figure out the best way to bring back the ones who are trapped inside me. But it was a mistake. Like the old lady who swallowed the spider to catch the fly. Remember that song?”
“At the end, she swallows a horse,” I said. “She’s dead, of course.”
It was a joke. A dark and disturbing joke. And I regretted saying it immediately.
A hint of a laugh snuck from Alistair’s nose, and he said, “You may see something strange in a moment. Or you may see nothing at all. I’m going to Aquavania one last time. And I’m throwing myself off the tower and over the waterfall.”
The water in the fishbowl swirled with dirt and sticks. It was a dark and earthy brew. “I don’t like the sound of that one bit,” I said.
“It’s the only way to fix what I’ve done,” he said. “What Charlie’s done. All the mistakes. It’s the only way to release everyone and start over … I hope.”
“You hope? You don’t know?”
“No one has done this before,” he told me. His hands were running up and down the sides of the bowl. He was caressing it.
“But what happens to you?”
“I’ll either come back without any memories of what happened,” he said, “or I won’t come back at all. And maybe there won’t ever be another Riverman. The Riverman has always passed on the responsibility to another, but I can’t put this burden on someone else. And yet if I don’t … well, I’m not sure what happens then.”
On the trees, there were no leaves left to rustle. The birds had all flown south. The only sound was the gentle flow of the current, the chimes of ice splintering along the riverbanks.
“I don’t care what you do, as long as you stay. I need you to stay,” I said, and I moved closer so that I could hug him, so that he could feel the words as well as hear them.
“And I need you to tell one more story,” he said, and his fingers stopped moving over the fishbowl. “If I don’t come back, I need you to tell Mom and Dad that I brought you here to show you where I saw Luke Drake. And then I fell in the river and was swept away.”
Of all the things my brother has asked me to do, this was the worst. This was the cruelest. I couldn’t possibly agree to it.
“No!” I screamed. “I will not! Because I’ve promised you enough. Now it’s time for you to promise me.”
“Okay,” he said. “That’s fair.”
“Promise that you’ll try again, that you’ll keep trying to get them back,” I said. “Jumping off a tower into a waterfall? That’s idiotic. Disappearing? That is not an option, little brother. You need to keep doing what you’ve been doing. You’ve done it twice already. You can do it again.”
“One sacrifice, one person,” he said. “That’s all it might take to bring back … thousands.”
He pressed his hands against that fishbowl, gripping it like a crystal ball, like it was so much more than a piece of glass. And it was. It was his way into Aquavania. I saw that now. Una went there through a waterfall. Jenny Colvin was supposed to use a fountain. Alistair’s portal was that fishbowl.
“I don’t care about thousands,” I said. “I care about you. All of us do. Promise me. No one needs to be sacrificed.”
His grip on the fishbowl loosened for a moment, and I saw my chance. I’ve always been quicker than Alistair. So when I lunged forward and grabbed the bowl from him, he hardly reacted. His face looked confused more than anything. As I wrested it away from him, water splashed on my arms and hit me on the skin between my sleeves and my gloves. The cold was like a jolt of electricity, and I dropped the bowl. Its murky, watery guts emptied on the ground and it rolled away from us, down the riverbank and into the river.
It didn’t sink. Its bottom rested on the surface and acted like the hull of a boat. The current pulled the bowl to the center and then downstream. In a matter of seconds, it was making its way around a bend, and for a moment, with shadows cast on it in a very particular and peculiar way, it reminded me of a head.
Alistair stood and watched it disappear. He didn’t go after it. His mouth twisted up. He might have smiled. He might have even been glad to see it go. But I couldn’t tell for sure, because he quickly wrapped his face in his scarf and turned away from me.
“Stay,” I said. “Please.”
He turned back. His eyes were completely lost, a little boy’s eyes.
He nodded.
Then he sat back down on the rock, and I sat next to him. He didn’t say anything else, not for a few minutes at least. So I didn’t say anything either. Silently, together, we watched the water.
The wind was picking up and tearing its way through the fabric of my pants. My gloves were wet and my fingers were starting to get numb. So I lifted my backpack and prepared to leave. That’s when I remembered the gift inside. I pulled it out. Alistair glanced at it, then back at the water.
As I tore away the wrapping, the first thing I saw was a note.
Dear Kerrigan,
I believe in us, but maybe you never will. I’m sorry I was so stupid, and I understand if you never forgive me. I’m just happy to have had the chance to get to know you. Thank you for giving me that chance, whatever your reasons.
Your Not-So-Secret Admirer and Your Number-One Fan,
Glen
P.S. Th-th-th-th-that’s All Folks!
Beneath the note was a clipping from yesterday’s Sutton Bulletin, enclosed in a glass and metal frame. It wasn’t news, though. It was a story. My story.
“The Ending,” by Kerrigan Cleary.
THE CHRONICLES OF KERRIGAN CLEARY
It’s been a while, Stella. After everything that happened, I wasn’t sure I wanted to record the events of my life anymore. Too much trouble. Too much emotion. Too much everything.
I sympathize with Justine Barlow, the jogger from “The Ending.” Sometimes it feels like my problems are multiplying exponentially, wherever I go, whatever I do. I’m not alone in those feelings.
I wasn’t thrilled about Glen’s publishing my story without my permission. I never intended to share it. I know it was “a gift,” but whatever good intentions he had couldn’t wash away the fact that he stole from me. That he invaded my privacy. Mandy too. Because she helped him.
However, from bad deeds come good things. People told me they liked the story, some even related to it. Among those people was Phaedra Moreau. Yes, that Phaedra Moreau. I wouldn’t go so far as to call her my nemesis, and yet I never ever expected to call her a fan.
“I know it seems like I’ve got this awesome life, but even I get overwhelmed sometimes,” Phaedra told me in the locker room a week after “The Ending” was published. “Sometimes I feel like that chick in your story. Like I can’t run away from, well, everything. Like stuff keeps piling up in my way and it’s awful and, well…”
Phaedra sighed. It was probably the best chance I’ve ever had to take her down a peg, to make fun of her or, I don’t know, laugh at her. Inst
ead, I channeled the power of Princess Sigrid. I found a well of kindness in myself. I sighed too and said, “Thank you for telling me that.”
“It’s a great story,” Phaedra replied. “Except for the last part. Not a big fan of that. It was kinda stupid. I didn’t get it.”
I burst out laughing, because this was the Phaedra that I knew. Not that we were ever going to be friends, but there was something comforting about knowing that even when she was being nice, Phaedra was a bit of a jerk.
Mandy is a bit of a jerk. I guess I’ve always known that. We haven’t talked much since that day in Hanlon Park. It’s amazing how quickly your best friend can become an acquaintance, someone you say awkward hellos to in the hall and that’s about it.
When she yelled at me that day, Mandy said I was selfish. She was probably right. She said I didn’t deserve Glen, and she was probably right about that too. I dated him for all the wrong reasons. Still, it shouldn’t have been up to her to put an end to things. Even if she would never admit it, I know the reason she helped Glen get my story published was to sabotage our relationship. She knew it was sneaky to look at my diary. She knew how I would react. She knew me.
But she doesn’t know me anymore. I’m better. I’m kinder. I’m more complete.
Which reminds me, Stella, I should tell you what day it is today.
SATURDAY, 8/11/1990
EVENING
Today is Fiona Loomis’s thirteenth birthday. I know that it’s her birthday because best friends know these sorts of things about each other. In the last seven months, Fiona and I have grown as close as two girls can grow. Because of geography. Because of circumstance. Because we really like each other.
I won’t sugarcoat things. It’s been a tough stretch. Fiona’s memory is spotty at best. She has talked to her fair share of police and doctors. No one, not even Fiona, has an explanation for what happened to her, why she disappeared, where she ended up, or how she came back.
Well, I suppose I have an explanation. But I haven’t shared it with her yet. She’s not ready for me to be telling her those things, though I do plan to tell her someday.
The Storyteller Page 22
