The Old World and Other Stories

by Cary Fagan

  Well, well. You are good. I certainly underestimated you.

  People have all my life. I’m used to it.

  Now this is what we’re going to do. No doubt he’ll use the washroom before getting back on the bus. As soon as he gets up we’ll follow him to the back.

  Whatever for?

  When he starts to close the washroom door you’ll put your foot in to block it.

  I’ll put my foot in?

  Then I’ll elbow my way in and close the door on the two of us. You’ll keep a watch on the outside while I rough him up a little, take the money, and convince him to keep his mouth shut. Then I’ll come out and the two of us, we’ll walk easy out of the diner. That’s when we run. And we don’t get on that bus, either.

  What are you talking about? Put my foot in? Rough him up? I thought we were going to work for your brother building those houses.

  Why work when you can take it for free?

  Because it isn’t ours. Because we didn’t earn it. Because we’re not crooks. Because he may be old but he’s strong — he could knock you down and shout for the cops. We’d end up in prison.

  That’s why it’s a good thing I’ve got this.

  Where’d you get a knife?

  Funny you didn’t notice I had it on me, considering how observant you are.

  Well, I’m not doing it. No thank you.

  Yes, you are. Because if you don’t I’m going to play X’s and O’s on your chest with this knife. Then I’m going to pull out your liver and make you eat it.

  What is wrong with you?

  Nothing except a perpetual lack of money. Okay, he’s getting up. He’s moving to the back. Go ahead of me. Go on.

  All right, all right. But I still say —

  Shut up.

  This is coercion, you know. I’m being coerced.

  If that makes you feel better. Move.

  You don’t need to point that into my back, I’m going.

  Get the door!

  I got it. Hey, mister! Sorry, this just isn’t your lucky day. I just have to — whoa. That really isn’t necessary. You can put that away. Don’t point it at me. My friend here — ah, Jesus, where did he go? It’s just a joke, that’s all, you can take your finger off, no, don’t, please —

  THE OLD WORLD

  We weren’t allowed to go out, me and Kathry, and nobody would even tell us why except to say there was some kind of “disturbance” in the neighbourhood and it would be better not to. I hated that phrase, better not to — there was no way you could argue with it. It wasn’t even late yet, just getting dark because it was October and the days were shorter, but the weather had turned nice, almost like the world was deciding it ought to be spring instead. I held my ball because I’d been hoping to get some kind of game going, soccer or one we just made up on the spot as we often did, but even though that wasn’t going to happen, I still kept it as Kathry and I sat in the window seat and looked out into the street.

  Every so often we’d see somebody, or maybe a couple of people, running along the sidewalk. Or a police car would go by with its siren on. Maybe they were chasing an escaped convict, just busted out of jail. Could have been a house — no, a whole block of houses — burning down. But nobody was telling us.

  “Don’t take up all the room,” Kathry said, pushing her feet against mine.

  “You’re the one who’s taking up the room.”

  “Well, I’m bigger than you, shrimp.”

  “I want to go outside.”

  “It isn’t safe.”

  “Why isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know, Raymond. Stop asking.”

  “But I’m bored.”

  “You think I’m not? We were going to skip rope.”

  “Now you have to play a game with me. X’s and O’s.”

  “That’s the stupidest game in the world.”

  “Well, you have to do something. Tell me a joke.”

  “I don’t know any.”

  “A story, then. Tell me a story about the place we come from. Before we moved to the city.”

  “Again? Aw, what do you want to hear about the old world for? You were just a baby. And I was only five, I hardly remember. You know that.”

  “Then make it up. I don’t mind.”

  “You can’t bother me for the rest of the night. A deal?”

  “A deal. It was beautiful where we lived, right? That’s what you said before.”

  “Uh-huh. On a farm. But not an ordinary farm. It was the greenest, richest, handsomest farm anyone ever saw. There were just fields and fields of things growing, tall as you now.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “I don’t know for sure.”

  “Please, Kathry.”

  “All right. There were fields of growing things. Beans and squash and tomatoes — for acres and acres, you never saw anything like it in your life. And the air smelled sweet on account of all the flowers growing around the house.”

  “Tell me about the house.”

  “It was a grand house, all white-painted clapboard, with a big veranda that went clear around and one of those swing chairs you could just sink into and swing in, back and forth, back and forth. And that’s what we did, you a baby in a basket and me sitting with my legs dangling. And someone would bring me a glass of cold lemonade with tinkling ice in it.”

  “For me, too?”

  “You were too young.”

  “Who would bring it? A servant?”

  “We didn’t want any servants around. Mama brought it. Then she gave you a kiss on the forehead and went back into the house because she was cooking up the most delicious dinner imaginable. And even though you were just a baby you could smell that good cooking coming from inside, and it made you smile.”

  “And there was a barn, if it was a farm, right?”

  “Of course we had a barn. And horses in the barn, too. Work horses and ponies and even a racehorse.”

  “A racehorse! What was its name?”

  “Hmm, let me think. Its name was . . . Ethiopia. And it won every single race there was. And of course we had a beautiful carriage, for when Mama wanted to go into town. She’d shop for store-bought clothes, she didn’t have to make anything, and we had something different to wear every day of the week. And she bought us candy, too, gumdrops and sours.”

  “And where was Papa?”

  “Papa, well, Papa was in town, working in his office. He had a big desk, like the principal at school only it wasn’t all plain and scratched up, it was fancy. He sat behind his desk and signed papers all day and people came to him to ask for favours and if he liked the person he would grant the favour and if he didn’t like the person he would send him out again. Then when the day was over he would put on his fine coat and go down to the street and get on his own horse, which was big and white, and he would gallop home just for the fun of it.”

  “And people had to jump out of the way?”

  “Yes, they did. And Papa would reach the house and give the horses their oats and he would come up the veranda stairs and pick me up and whirl me around. And then he’d pick you up and tickle you, and we’d go inside, and Mama would have the most splendid dinner all laid out for us. And it wouldn’t just be us at the table, it would be Aunt Ellie and Aunt Del and our cousins Will and Jake and Roland and Grandma and Grandpa — all the people you can’t remember and I can hardly remember — and we’d eat and drink and tell stories and joke and laugh. And then after we had our dessert we’d go outside where it was dark and I’d hold you and we’d all run around the big dark lawn chasing the fireflies that dipped and rose and the deer that was grazing on the distant hill would raise its head to look at us.”

  Kathry stopped talking.

  “I wish we were there,” I said. “Why did we move to the city?”

  But she didn
’t answer. She never answered that question. Now she just looked out the window, where the wind was blowing a fedora along the sidewalk. All by itself it was moving, without even anybody chasing it.

  MINUTES OF THE MEETING

  Minutes of the Meeting of the Norton East Gentleman’s Society for Scientific Inquiry, held in the private room of Hiram’s Tavern.

  SECRETARY: Attention, please. May we at least begin? If you will only sit down. The meeting is now officially commenced. I have tabled the minutes of last month’s meeting. Will someone propose acceptance?

  MR. HORNBY: I make the proposal.

  MR. ASHLAND: I second.

  SECRETARY: A show of hands? Minutes accepted. As some of you know, we were to have a presentation by Mr. Ostmann describing the latest trial of his leg-powered vertical-blade flying machine. However, as Mr. Ostmann is currently recovering in the Norton East Hospital —

  MR. CROSSLEY: Two broken legs, ha!

  MR. MOOREHOUSE: A toast to Ostmann, that idiot!

  SECRETARY: Order, please. Let us not have this meeting descend into the anarchistic shouting match of last month. As for present business, we are fortunate to have a volunteer in Mr. Josiah Thorpe. Mr. Thorpe has offered to give us a sketch of his own current work.

  MR. DIXON: Good on you, Thorpe!

  SECRETARY: Kindly let me finish. Some of you may not be acquainted with Mr. Thorpe, the newest member of our society, the gentleman having only recently situated himself in our neighbourhood. Mr. Thorpe is a teacher at the Henshaw Upper School for Boys where he is responsible for teaching Greek, Latin, and all the natural sciences.

  MR. CROSSLEY: In vino veritas, eh, Thorpe?

  SECRETARY: Would someone make sure that Mr. Crossley is served no more libations. I myself am unfamiliar with the exact nature of Mr. Thorpe’s investigations and look forward to these preliminary remarks. Let us now turn our attention, and the full power of our own rational minds, to the honourable member.

  GENERAL (singing): For he’s a jolly good fellow, etc.

  MR. THORPE: Thank you for that that warm welcome. It is never easy to be the new pupil in class, so to speak, and I appreciate the manner in which the members of this society have made me feel welcome. Indeed, the main reason for my leaving Goldrich was the closed-mindedness of the society there.

  MR. CROSSLEY: Shit on Goldrich!

  MR. THORPE: Yes, well. Let me begin without further delay. In fact, I do not wish only to give a description of my work, but also to make a proposal. My area of particular interest is a conjoining of organic life speculation with developmental geography. Surely, gentleman, I am not the only man of inquiring spirit who has found flaws in the largely accepted notions of the workings of the sphere we inhabit. That is, earth. The perfect balance of oxygen, water, and other crucial elements that allow for not just life, but an amazing variety of creatures, many of which we have not yet discovered — all of this seems too amazing to be merely a result of accident or even of blind, amoral evolution.

  MR. TURPER: You aren’t a clergyman in disguise, are you, Thorpe?

  MR. THORPE: It is true that I studied for the ministry as a young man. But my scientific cast of mind and my reading forced me to break from all religion. No, I do not make an argument for some all-powerful deity. Instead, what I offer is a new theory of life that has its origins in the very heart of our planet. That is, in the earth’s core.

  MR. PORLISS: Molten lava!

  MR. SIMONS: Shifting plates!

  MR. THORPE: Neither. I believe that the centre of the earth is quite hollow. Yes, hollow. And within this enormous space works a spherical mechanism, an engine as it were, created by minds far superior to ours.

  GENERAL: (Much shouting.)

  MR. THORPE: That’s right. An engine created by the mind of a superior race — a race not of earth. To imagine this mechanism you may think of the inner workings of a gigantic and most complex pocket watch. I believe it is this engine, this clockwork as it were, that drives the living impulses of this planet.

  MR. HORNBY: Is he mad?

  MR. CLEMENZ: Give him a chance!

  MR. CROSSLEY: I insist on another drink!

  SECRETARY: Let Mr. Thorpe continue.

  MR. THORPE: Thank you, Mr. Secretary. Next month I shall bring charts, diagrams, evidence, and conjectural drawings that I am sure will help to reduce your skepticism. For now I must plead with you to remember our great scientific ancestors whose own theories were rejected by their peers. Try to imagine this most extraordinary engine and the beings who operate it. What these creatures look like I cannot say for certain but I have concluded through reasoning and deduction that they must be small — say the size of a common squirrel. Also that they are extremely dexterous and likely have three or even four sets of hands.

  MR. CROSSLEY: Shake hands with the intelligent squirrel!

  MR. THORPE: If I might now get to the proposal. I wish to build a machine. A machine that will dig downward, much as we now dig tunnels under mountains for trains and the like. But it must be ten times more powerful. We shall dig straight downward until we reach the earth’s core, an undertaking of three or four years. Only then can we make contact with the beings who are the true rulers of our planet. At the same time I propose that we convene a meeting of the world’s greatest linguists — men from around the globe — to speculate on the structure and workings of their language so that we may begin at least a rudimentary discourse on our first encounter. Of course this will be a costly undertaking. Therefore I wish to establish a fund —

  MR. SIMONS: Can’t we just use shovels?

  MR. CROSSLEY: Ask Hornby, his wife’s family controls the linseed oil market!

  MR. MOOREHOUSE: What if the earth is a giant ball and you let out all the air, eh? Pssst!

  MR. THORPE: — a fund, I say, for the design and building of this digging machine. If we act in a bold and authoritative manner to convince the public, I believe we can raise the money quickly and get to work. As I say, I shall present all my findings next month, but if I could see by a preliminary show of hands —

  MR. PORLISS: You’re telling fairy tales, Thorpe, bedtime stories!

  MR. FLEURY: What about my theory of intelligent fishes? Why haven’t we funded that yet?

  SECRETARY: Get off the table, Ashland! Crossley, do not throw that —

  MR. DIXON: Mind control through magnetism!

  MR. HORNBY: You’re a thief. You’ve stolen my ideas!

  MR. THORPE: Let . . . go . . . of . . . my . . . whiskers!

  General chaos. Meeting dissolved without official closing.

  THE TRAVELLER

  It took me a long time to train myself, or rather not all of myself, but to separate my mind from my corporeal being, my body. That was the hardest part. But I had to learn if I wanted to survive.

  Of course I had my piano lessons to give, and they helped me get through the day. The evening was what I dreaded most, and the time in the bedroom until he went to sleep. Only then would I feel the weight of his presence lessen, shift away from me, and my own tension ease. I wouldn’t go to sleep right away; I’d lie for an hour or more, feeling the freedom of aloneness. Every time he shifted his bulk or snored the feeling would dart away like a frightened bird.

  But when things got worse, merely lying there wasn’t enough. It was as if I couldn’t lift the weight of him off me, couldn’t catch my breath. That was when the discipline began, the training, for I knew that I had to escape at least in my mind. I would lie very still and let all memory of the day slowly fade. It felt like snipping threads, one after another, hundreds of them. My hope was to simply turn off my life for a few hours, the way one might turn off a radio for silence. But something else happened. One night I got into a state of both concentration and ease, a state difficult to describe, and when the last thread gave way I felt myself float upwards — not my whole self, for my body
remained (I could sense this) in bed, but my spirit or mind or soul or whatever one might call it. I rose up toward the plaster swirls in the ceiling and then stopped. I came down again and settled once more into my body.

  Whatever had happened felt wonderful. It gave me hope. After that I waited impatiently for him to fall asleep so that I could try again. I couldn’t do it the next night, but I succeeded the one after, and every night after that, only I got stuck in the same place, hovering above my physical self, unable to move any farther. Not all the threads, it seemed, had let go. And then came a night where I was particularly horrified and exhausted and despondent, when I felt as if I had nothing of myself left. It was very late when he finally fell asleep. I lay there feeling like a glass jar rolling on a table. The glass jar went over the edge and shattered — and in that moment all the threads let go.

  The thing was, it didn’t feel strange. It felt right and natural. The night was warm and the bedroom window was open. A slight breeze shifted the curtains. I floated out, over the small back garden and then the gardens of our neighbours. I saw a woman standing at an open window, smoking. I saw a man digging a hole. A cat on a roof tilted its head up as I passed over.

  I didn’t go far that first night because I was afraid of not being able to get back into my body to become my whole self again. I slipped through the window, hovered over my body (my eyes were closed, my mouth unemotional), and slipped back in. There was a slight tremor of the mattress that made him turn on his side. I was tired and went quickly to sleep but remembered as soon as my eyes opened in the morning. I couldn’t wait for it to get dark again.

  I went farther the next night, travelling over houses, the school, the park. Over town I saw the lights of the all-night diner, saw the one street light turn green and red and green. Behind the dark bandshell two forms lay on the grass in an embrace. I went lower and saw that the girl was one of my pupils, who came every Wednesday afternoon for her piano lesson while the boy sometimes waited outside to walk her home. I felt glad to see them.