by Ben Loory
But the thing in the pool! What about the children? What about the children of the neighborhood? Every day they swim in there! They take their lives in their hands! And none of them—or their parents—even know!
The man begins a campaign to have the pool closed. He scours old newspapers at the library. He finds a few articles detailing accidents, near drownings—even a number of deaths.
There are town council meetings, lawyers, a courtroom; eventually the man wins the suit. The public pool is declared officially unsafe, and a date is set for its closure.
The day they finally drain the water from the pool, the man stands in attendance. And as the water level sinks lower and lower, his breath comes more easily to him.
But when the pool lies dry and bare, like a great white empty shell, the man does not feel the triumph he’d expected. Instead, he feels empty, alone.
What’s wrong? the man says, as he falls to his knees.
What’s wrong? he whispers. Please, tell me.
And then, with the night, the answer comes.
He’s set the monster free.
THE TUNNEL
TWO BOYS ARE WALKING HOME FROM SCHOOL WHEN ONE of them sees a drainpipe set back in the woods.
Look at that, the boy says. I never knew that was there. Let’s go in and see where it goes.
But the other boy takes one look at the pipe and quickly shakes his head.
Uh-uh, he says. Not me. No way.
Why not? says the first boy. Are you scared?
I just don’t want to, his friend says, and takes a single step back.
Come on, says the first boy. It’s just a pipe.
But the other boy won’t be swayed.
I’ll see you later, he says.
And then he turns around and runs.
The first boy watches as his friend disappears, and then he turns again to the pipe. Its open mouth is very dark, and very, very wide.
The boy glances around as he moves towards it.
He is all alone.
When he gets to the opening, the boy peers inside, but he can’t see anything in the dark. Scraggly vines spill over the edge and hang down to the leaf-strewn ground.
The boy leans forward and yells into the pipe. He waits for the echo to come back.
But nothing ever comes back, no sound at all—just silence—although he waits and waits.
The boy climbs up onto the lip of the pipe and kneels, facing into the dark.
All right, he thinks. Here we go. Just keep crawling until you reach the end.
The going is very slow at first. The boy has to be careful. The floor of the pipe is littered with rocks that gouge his hands and knees.
But after some time, the debris seems to clear, and then the crawling gets easier.
The boy crawls until the daylight diminishes to a pinpoint behind him and disappears.
Now enveloped by the dark, the boy waits for his eyes to adjust. But this never happens, not even in the least, no matter how long he waits.
Finally, he decides to give it up, and crawls onward, blind. He feels his way through the pipe with wary, outstretched hands.
I’m just in a pipe, he keeps telling himself. I’m just in a pipe, that’s all. There’s no reason to be afraid. Eventually I’ll get to the end.
But the thing is—the boy finds—the tunnel has no end. Or, at least, none he ever reaches. Instead, the tunnel closes in—bit by bit, slowly. It grows smaller, gradually; narrower, narrower, tighter. The boy can feel the roof pressing down, the sides squeezing in. His ribs contract; air hisses from his lungs. But still he fights to move on, to press ahead, to push through.
Until—suddenly—he realizes he couldn’t turn around if he tried.
The boy’s flat on the ground now, with the ceiling on his back. Filthy walls press his arms against his sides. He pants as he inches forward through some foul-smelling substance. He can hardly breathe; his head is starting to spin.
And then the boy feels it—he feels the tunnel grab him. From all around, it takes him, holds him fast.
The boy screams and squirms—but he’s trapped, immobilized. It’s no use; he can’t move at all.
And as he lies there in the dark, a single thought comes to him.
The single thought fills his mind.
He is going to die.
And it is then—and only then—that the boy sees the door. The little door in the wall right before him.
He reaches out and touches it, runs a hand over its surface. It’s real, all right—not a dream.
He slowly turns the knob.
The door creaks open to reveal a quiet, peaceful room. Moonlight spills in through the window. There’s a bed—a small bed—with a figure lying in it.
The figure stirs and looks up.
It’s the boy’s friend who ran away.
The boy watches as his friend in the bed shrinks back against the wall, and then he takes a step down from the pipe.
He moves slowly, deliberately, trailing leaves and rocks and oily tracks, and a crooked smile cracks his face.
Please don’t scream, he says.
But his friend in the bed doesn’t obey. His mouth opens wide and he screams.
So the boy reaches out with one gnarled, twisted claw.
Together the two boys reach the end.
THE CROWN
A MAN WORKS AS A DISHWASHER.
One day, as he is rinsing the dishes, he finds something strange in the water. He takes it out and looks at it, but it appears to be invisible.
He collars a passing busboy.
Hey, what is this? he says.
The busboy takes it and feels it with his hands.
It’s a crown, he says, and gives a shrug.
Then he hands it back and walks away.
The man looks down at the invisible thing in his hands.
A crown? he thinks. In my dishwater?
It doesn’t make sense. The man shakes his head, then sets the crown on the drying rack and goes back to work.
Later, when his shift is over, he forgets all about it and goes home.
But the next day, the crown is in his dishwater again.
This again! thinks the man. Why is this here?
At first he’s angry, but then he gets an idea. He dries off the crown and puts it on his head.
He spends some time getting used to the feeling.
It’s kinda nice to wear a crown, he decides.
It seems to make him work just a little bit harder.
He even starts to whistle a little tune.
The days go by, and the man gets used to the crown. He’s never felt so good about himself. He actually starts to find himself looking forward to going to work.
This is a new experience for him.
The only thing the man finds just a little sad is that no one but him is aware of his crown.
My crown is so nice, the man keeps thinking. I wish it wasn’t quite so invisible.
Then one night at home, while watching TV, the man suddenly has a great idea. He takes off his crown and looks at it—or tries to—and then he goes out into the garage. He hunts all around until he finds the paint cans, and then he sits down on the floor with a brush. He paints the crown a bright, bright yellow—the brightest yellow he has. It takes him a little time to paint it evenly, but it comes out nicely in the end.
The man sits there and looks at the crown in his hands. It is strange to see it so yellow. Actually, it is strange to see it at all. But in any case, the man finds it delightful.
He can’t wait to show it off at work.
But the thing is, the next day, the man never gets to work. He is surrounded as he walks down the street.
The king! The king! everyone is saying. Look, everybody, it’s the king!
The man smiles and tries to act appropriately, but the people are swarming around him. They are yelling and yelling. He can hardly move. Everyone is talking to him.
Oh, king, they are saying, please help us! We need mon
ey, and food, and housing! And more days off, and a nicer flag, and teachers and schools and tanks! We need a man to walk on the moon again! We need a better system of transit! We need bigger farms and a cure for cancer! No, scratch that—a cure for death!
The man doesn’t know what to say to anyone. Mostly he just kind of nods. Pretty soon he’s in a long limousine with men wearing fancy suits. Everyone is talking very excitedly about things the man doesn’t understand. He keeps having to sign official-looking documents and pose for pictures and shake people’s hands.
Eventually the man is sitting on a throne in an immense room with tapestries on the walls, and rows of buglers are serenading him with big, loud, shiny horns.
It comes down to this: there is another country—some country somewhere—and they are about to attack.
The men who swarm about the king’s throne swear up and down to this fact. These other countries—did I say it was just one?—are going to strike at any moment, and what is the king going to do about it? Will he, or will he not, unleash the bombs?
The king excuses himself and goes into the bathroom. He stands there, staring into the mirror.
How did I get to be king? he thinks. All I wanted was a raise.
The man takes off his crown and looks at it. It is quite silly, actually, he now sees—the yellow paint is garishly bright, and much of it is flaking away. He reaches out and slowly turns on the tap, then holds the crown underneath, and quietly washes the paint away, scrubbing frantically with a paper towel to help speed up the process.
Finally, when the crown is no longer visible, the man turns to throw it in the trash. But then he stops, having suddenly noticed that there is nothing in his hand.
Visible or invisible—there’s nothing there.
The man turns and looks back at the sink.
The sink too, he sees, is completely empty.
The crown must have melted away.
Outside, in the hall, the king’s retainers are waiting.
I’m sorry, the man says, with empty hands. I seem to have lost my crown, as you see. I’d like to help, but it looks like I can’t be king.
And in answer, the buglers all blow their bugles, and every man present—as one—reaches behind his back and holds out to the man a gleaming crown of solid gold.
THE MAN WHO WENT TO CHINA
ONCE UPON A TIME, A MAN WENT TO CHINA. THEN, later on, he came back. This was at a time when people didn’t go to China—it was a strange place, and far away, like something in a book. But this man went, and then later, he came back. And when he came back, he was rich.
He’d traded things for other things, the usual things, expensive things; there really isn’t much to speak of there.
The only matter of interest to us is the box—the small lacquered box he came back holding in his hand.
It was in his hand all the time, either one hand or the other—though sometimes, when seated, he’d rest it on his lap. But even then, he was always touching it, caressing it, smoothing it, as if making sure that it was there, or assuring it that he was.
The man was not (of course) Chinese, but he dressed and acted as though he were. And for this reason, those in the town who knew of him referred to him as the Chinaman.
He lived in a large, Oriental-looking house on a hill overlooking the town. Every morning he sat and took tea on his porch, and every morning the box sat with him.
The neighborhood boys soon took notice, and they began to argue about what was in the box.
It is a treasure, one said. The Chinaman’s greatest treasure—a magical amulet that lengthens a man’s life.
No, said another, it is a photograph of his wife—the Chinese wife he left behind.
No, said a third, I think you’re both wrong. It is his last will and testament.
And the guesses went on until the boys finally realized there was only one way to know the truth. One of them would have to go and sneak into the house, and find and open up the little box.
Only one boy volunteered.
He was a small boy, and poor. He had never done much, and always clamored for more.
He looked around and saw that only his hand was up.
At first, he was frightened.
But then he grew resolved.
That night the boy crept into the Chinaman’s house. He wound his way through the maze of artifacts. He went under the birdcages and over the carpets, and around the tall painted screens.
As he approached the Chinaman’s bedroom, the boy’s heart began to pound. He stood in the doorway for a while. He stared into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. And then they did, and he saw.
There was the Chinaman, asleep in his bed, underneath his fine silk sheets.
And there, on the pillow resting beside him—unheld—was the small, lacquered box.
The boy moved closer. He moved very quietly. He reached toward the box with one hand.
The Chinaman issued a small, sad sigh as the boy lifted the box, but slept on.
In the adjoining room, the boy sat on the floor and started to open the box. His personal belief was that it would hold sweets, and his stomach was aching with hunger.
He turned a small latch, and a drawer slid open.
Inside the drawer was a tiny man.
The man was smaller than the boy’s little finger, and bound hand and foot with threadlike ropes. A tiny black bag covered his head and was tied tightly about his throat.
Despite that, however, the man was alive.
The front of the bag rose and fell.
With trembling fingers, the boy started to undo the knot that held the bag closed. And when he was done, he loosened the string and gently lifted off the hood.
There was the Chinaman, staring back up at him. A minuscule version of the man. With a gag in his mouth, his eyes wide with panic—lost—completely lost. Terrified.
The boy’s mind reeled as he stared at the tiny Chinaman. This one looked younger than the real one. His hair was shorter, his skin was smoother; he had an entirely different air about him.
Less Oriental, one might say. Less traveled, less knowing, less wise.
Please, said a voice then, put him back in the box.
The real Chinaman stood in the doorway.
This is yours, he said, jingling a small leather pouch, if you put him back as he was.
The boy looked down at the man in the box.
But what is he? he wanted to know.
He is nothing, said the Chinaman. Just as he always was. Now be fast, or all will be lost.
The Chinaman tossed the bag of gold to the floor, and it spilled open before the boy’s feet. The boy looked from the clattering coins to the face of the frightened, imprisoned little man.
Do you feed him? said the boy. What does he eat?
He doesn’t, said the Chinaman. Now come. There is a fortune there waiting. Put back the hood, close the drawer, and pick up the gold.
And so the boy lowered the bag into place, and slid the drawer back into the box.
Wait here, said the Chinaman, taking it from him. Wait, and I will be back.
He was gone for some time, while the boy gathered his gold. The Chinaman returned with a box of kitchen matches.
Take this, he said, handing it to the boy.
The boy opened it, looked inside, and frowned.
It’s empty, he said, shaking it to be sure.
Yes, said the Chinaman. But things change.
The next day, the neighborhood boys sat and waited for the boy to come and tell them what was in the box. But the boy never came, though they waited all day, and finally they grew concerned. They went to the house where they knew he sometimes stayed and found he’d never come home the night before. They searched the whole town, but no one had seen him.
They looked up to the house on the hill.
They approached it slowly, and stood outside. It was calm, and very quiet. They knocked on the door, and the door swung open.
The house was empty;
the Chinaman was gone.
And not just the Chinaman—all of his things. All his furniture, his paintings, his screens.
The only thing they found was the small, lacquered box, which they opened, but it didn’t contain a thing.
THE OCTOPUS
THE OCTOPUS IS SPOONING SUGAR INTO HIS TEA WHEN there is a knock on the door.
Come in, says the octopus over his shoulder, and the door opens.
It is Mrs. Jorgenson.
Got your mail, Mr. Octopus, she says, moving daintily into the apartment.
Thank you, Mrs. Jorgenson, says the octopus. Would you like some tea?
Why yes, I’d love some, comes the response. Do you mind if I sit down?
Not at all, says the octopus, getting down another cup. Not at all.
He brings the tea to the table.
Oh, my aching feet, says Mrs. Jorgenson. I’ve been up and down those stairs so many times today already.
I do appreciate your bringing up my mail, says the octopus, laying a spoon beside the sugar bowl for Mrs. Jorgenson.
Oh, for you I don’t mind at all, she says. It’s just some of these other tenants. Everyone’s got a problem, you know. And I nearly tripped and fell on the third floor; there was some kind of puddle.
Puddle? says the octopus.
Puddle! says Mrs. Jorgenson. Just sitting there in the middle of the staircase.
The octopus looks confused. Then he sees the mail.
Do you mind if I...? he says to Mrs. Jorgenson.
Heavens, no, she replies. You go right ahead. Mmm, this is good tea.
