We all know that Dore is lithe, fleet of foot, and of the shrewdest natural bent. It would be reasonable, then, to expect him to be wary of the dangers presented by a scruffy and altogether plebeian giant. If Dore were to turn and run through the forest, the giant would be hard-pressed to follow. This seems, at first glance, to be the course I should have my brother adopt.
No, no, no. If you don't have the idea by now, give up. Primo, Dore is bone-weary, nearly starving, bleeding from half- or unhealed wounds, and longing for hominid companionship. Secundo, he needs to learn all he can about the nearby countryside, so that he may face the dangers thereof with at least a minimum of preparation. And tertio, if he were going to avoid all the rough spots, I would have had him take a boat in the beginning.
So Dore looked up at the monster on the hill. The giant was, in traditional terms, as tall as a mountain. His cave yawned behind him like the greedy mouth of a grave, as the poet has it, hungry for yet more rotting bodies. A metaphoric owl dwelt on a craggy overhang, and his ceaseless, awful calls kept away all but the least sensitive birds and animals.
All these things Dore began to see as he climbed the large boulders on the side of the hill. He became less and less sure that the giant would greet him hospitably, not knowing for certain what was meant by the periodic Loooo. The giant was escorting his goats to pasture, down the hill on the other side. Dore continued climbing, and in several minutes he stood gasping for breath at the entrance to the cave.
The opening into the cave was wondrous dark; the morning sun was still too weak to push back the gathered forces of aged night. Dore stood outside, whistling and rocking on his heels like a bored magazine salesman. Around the cave huge rocks had been sunk between sprawling micha trees and tall, slender losperns to form a sort of pen or yard.
Presently Dore heard a vague looing. The sound grew louder, and in a short while the fearsome giant appeared. He towered over Dore's appalled form, grinning a yellow-toothed and joyless grin. He wore animal skins pinned together with thorns, in the traditional comic-strip caveman style. He held up one hand, palm facing Dore, and said, "Loo." Dore did the same and said, "Dore." Loo grinned, and bent to the remains of his cooking fire just outside the mouth of the cave. He blew on the coals and soon had the fire going once more. From the blaze he lit two torches, handing one to Dore and indicating that they should enter the cave.
Dore followed him into the cavern, regretting it immediately. Besides the damp, unpleasantly ancient smell of livestock, the equally venerable stink of giant made the air virtually toxic. They proceeded into the heart of the mountain, and soon they were entirely divorced from the light of the sun. Loo halted, putting his burning branch into a niche carved from the rock wall. Dore did the same, and sat upon a flat stone that evidently served as a seat. The giant nodded solemnly and offered Dore some goat cheese and warm goat milk. Dore accepted gratefully; the cheese was old and rancid, but the milk was sweet and frothy.
"Loo," said the giant, refilling Dore's stone cup with milk, "I been expecting you, don't you see. I been sitting in this cave ever since the world began, don't you see, waiting just for you. Now you're here, the prophecies have been fulfilled, and we can get on with it. It's all very interesting."
"What prophecies? How did you know that I was coming?"
"I know, loo, I know it all. You're one of those humans, aren't you? I've met a few of you before." Here the giant pointed into the gloom, indicating some grisly bones lying in twisted disarray further into the cave. "Loo, and I'm glad to see you. It makes me feel better, don't you see, sitting here talking to you, drinking a cup of milk. Tell me, what is the news?"
Dore was still looking at the disarticulated skeletons. He was seeking a viable pretext for escape, trying to think of something that wouldn't upset the giant's evidently murderous ire. "Look, Loo, thanks for the milk and all," he said, "but I have to be going. I really shouldn't have killed this much time. My wife's waiting for me down in the forest, and we're supposed to be on a vacation. But why don't you drop by when you're passing through? Stop in; we'd love to have you. There's always room for a friend." Dore stood, starting to make his way out of the cave.
The giant scowled evilly. "My name's not Loo. I say it a lot; it's a verbal habit like 'well,' don't you see. And you can't leave until I at least test you." He stood, too, and with his longer strides arrived at the cave entrance well before Dore, who stumbled in the darkness. The giant hefted his gateway—an incredibly heavy boulder fully ten feet tall—and blocked the opening.
"You needn't explain your coming, loo," said the giant. "The fact that you came at all, don't you see, is proof enow of your desire for expiation."
You would think, from the pained expression on Dore's handsome face, that just being in the same county as that pungent lair would be the redemptive equivalent of several thousand of the finest candles going. But no, the giant did not agree. He apparently felt a sense of pride in the resourceful and, to his mind, not entirely inelegant uses to which he had put the materials that he found to hand.
At one time, long ago, there was another such temporary "home," which Dore recalled with something approaching the same repugnance. Our Parents and Dore were fleeing the sneep of Cleveland. They had barely escaped, driving their rattling groundcar through the rain-slicked streets of the near West Side. Across the city they drove, prepared at any moment to hear the sirens of the Northeastern Ohio Credit Association's sneepcars.
They abandoned the car on a dark side street, running through the drizzle for the protection of the park. They huddled together under a shale ledge in the remnant of Cleveland's once-famous Emerald Necklace. All night they imagined they could bear the shouts of the hunting sneep, and expected to see at any moment the beams from their pocket searchlights. Dore was still a baby and unaware of their danger; he slept through most of the night, but Our Mother and Father held each other in silence. Our blessed Mother's tears flowed in their holy profusion.
For several weeks the family lived in a corner of the Metropolitan Park, hiding during the day in a wet, filthy culvert. At night they sat out under the silver maples, afraid to speak for fear of revealing their presence to the electronic ears of the sneep that might have been planted nearby.
At last, of course, they were discovered. Our Father was spotted on one of his nocturnal forages by the wealthy jeweler from Parma. The merchant called to Our Father, who, in his blind panic, caught the man and began, to strangle him. Our Mother heard the noise of the battle and, fortunately for all of us, was so impressed with the merchant's accoutrements that she decided it would be worthwhile to spare him and rely on his gratitude.
And what gratitude it was! The largest that Our Mother had ever seen, and the only one since Our Father's was shot off in the war.
"Then where did Dore come from, Seyt? That is, without resorting to out-and-out blasphemy?" asks my little brother, Auel, who has just come in.
"Why, hello there, Auel. You know the story, don't you? Surely you've been taught that Our Father appeared to Our Mother in the debtors' prison of Pittsburgh in the form of a shower of gold. Our Mother was impregnated by this shower of gold, and thus Dore was conceived."
I'll wait a minute until he leaves.
Alors. What I was going to say was that copulating with a shower of gold is not the most stimulating thing in the world. It's all right for him, I suppose, and it enabled Our Parents to effect their escape ("Hey, Lenny, there's a naked broad and the damnedest shower of gold you ever saw!" "We'd better get the doc!") ("Quick now, my love. They have left the doors wide open in their unthinking haste . . ."); but, still, Our Mother was partial to the regular way.
Na'theless, the memory of those sodden, muddy days in the abandoned sewer was forever imprinted engrammatically on Dore's infant mind. It is altogether reasonable to assume that his deep and abiding love for greenlands sprang from this early situation. And after that he avoided all the darker, moister places of his surroundings. But he was trapped in the gia
nt's cave, and these unconscious and nonverbal feelings flooded back and forth through his unprotected psyche. He was afraid, and nauseous.
"Loo, you might as leffer make yourself to home," said the giant, grinning, "because, loo, I get to tell my tale here, and you will be amazed."
The two had returned to the giant's parlor, although in the dim light of the torches Dore could see little. He found his former seat by tripping over it. He sat and listened, all the time trying feverishly to find some way to get out.
The giant told him how he had originally been a slimy peasant named Odrucajnek. Dore nodded absently; he could believe that. The growing part got a bit much, though. Actually, Dore couldn't care less. But the conversation was the only thing he had to stall the giant. Dore sat on his rock, frantically studying the cave and finding nothing at all encouraging.
"Are things realer now?" asked Dore.
"Loo, yes, of course. Before, don't you see, it was all someone else's idea. Now all this is my illusion."
"Yes, but how do you know it's not my illusion, as it seems to me?"
"You probably do have your own, don't you see, but, loo, it works within my system. I created this universe. Back at the beginning of time. Your time, loo, not mine."
"I don't understand." Dore realized that if he said "I don't understand" often enough, he might die of old age right there in the cave.
"I'm not boring you, am I?" asked the giant.
"No, not at all. I've never seen God before."
"Yes. God. I've never thought of myself as God, but, loo, I suppose I am! It's not so difficult being God, don't you see. You open your eyes in the morning and, loo, there you are. Easier than pulling limbs."
"Tell me," said Dore, his voice croaking with frustration, "how did you come to create the world as we know it?"
"An interesting question, that. I was about to tell you; a revelation, don't you see. Loo, if I'd let you go, you could be my prophet. These others were here first, loo, but they missed their chance. They wouldn't believe me, and I'm a jealous god, don't you see. We'll know, loo, we'll know about you in a while."
The giant stood up again, taking in one hand the torch that he had put in the wall and, with the other, reaching down around the level of his knees to clutch Dore's arm. "Come with me," he said, "and I will show you your test."
"Fine," said Dore helplessly.
Now, Tere and Ateichál are getting just the least bit impatient with this account. I believe from their hints that they were looking forward to something on the order of the Book of Job, that great mock-Euripidean drama. But certainly it is clear that, for me, at least, it is impossible to sing my song as briefly or as beautifully as those nameless authors of Job.
But where I detect irritation in the spiritual cadre (in the final analysis my only true sponsor), I find however only mounting joy in the mundane concerns that surface, ephemerally, to float like bubbles for a time in the imagination of the acquisitive members of our happy band. With me now are Loml and Peytheida, Male and Female Vice-presidents in Charge of Proliferation for the current incarnation of the Ploutos Corporation.
"Good evening, my brother and sister. It is nice of you to drop by to see me."
"It's nice to be here," says Peytheida.
"It's nice of you to have us," says Loml.
I offer them some candied flowers. My tiny cell has become increasingly popular as word of my project, sanctioned as it is by all factions, spreads among our sorrowing tribe. My present visitors are here to investigate the merchandising possibilities that may arise as a direct result of my history. Surely there can't be very many.
I receive for this ingenuous sentiment two indulgent smiles.
"You underestimate your power," says Loml.
"Mightier than the sword, after all," says Peytheida.
Now that I am once again alone, I must consider their excited dreams. Can it be that I am shaping the destiny of not only our own way of life here in the house, but also the course of whatever culture may develop across the length and breadth of Home, our dear adopted world? Reasoned discourse permits no positive reply, and yet. . .
Tourism. For the least instance, how about that monster's torch of a dozen paragraphs past? They would make little plastic images of it, molded so that if they were painted at one end to simulate flame, we would have the allegorical false light, the will-o'-the-wisp of heresy, which is coming to play such a large part in our day-to-day life. The plastic remaining one color, brown, throughout—voila! the famous club. I am told that our house and grounds will become a fashionable and lucrative tourist attraction. Why not take the opportunity to supply each pilgrim with a material and permanent keepsake? Sell to them little clubs like atrophied pickle pins mentioned so often in American journals. If they could sell souvenir ladders at the Lindbergh kidnap trial, why can't we have countrified inns, Antiques signs in front of every home on the road, with weathered boards and pre-faded letters. Corps of engineers dig lagoons in the yard among the chairs: a boat ride under the summer sky, to view with open mouths animated figures bending at the waist in artificial greeting. Wax dummies of Our Parents and Dore in their favorite chairs. I cannot await this with any eagerness.
Dore and the giant walked deeper into the cave, and Dore caught indistinct glimpses of many sorts of evil things. The corridor went along in a straight line for quite some distance, with no side branches or inlets of light that might promise a possible emergency exit. Then he noticed by the sudden steepness of the path that they were going down into the heart of the mountain. The light of the burning brand in the giant's fist broke on the cave walls against scores of tiny, colored surfaces. It seemed to Dore that the rocky passage was set with a staggering variety and richness of rough gems, and the refracted beams split the darkness with weak flares of red, blue, and green.
As they walked, the giant continued his story. Dore had to restrain himself from pointing out various inconsistencies that occurred to him; he knew the danger of appearing a disbeliever. He was careful to say "Wow!" and "Uh huh" at the appropriate places.
"What happened when you woke up? Where were you?"
"Now, loo, that's also very interesting. I couldn't remember then who I was, don't you see, or even what had just happened to me. I've had to reconstruct all that since."
"And a marvelous fine job of reconstructing it is, too," said Dore. He was sorry it had slipped out before he could censor the sarcastic tone, but the giant never noticed.
Lalichë, my critic, my thesis consultant, has graced me with another visit. And this time I listen to her. She claims that this chapter is growing unwieldly, with a disproportionate amount of description and dialogue. Now, of course, she is ready with a reason for why this is happening: it seems to her prepubic mind that I am trying to avoid dealing squarely with the problems inherent in my task. I am refusing to "come to grips with (my) material." I am not coping with the actual assignment I am not relating.
Well, of course. How astute of you to notice. This is the most difficult thing I've ever had to do. I loved Dore.
I had planned for the end of this section a longish essay on the problems of writing, much like that of Henry James's Preface to The Portrait of a Lady. After all, I am in a peculiar position; I must detail a quest about which I know nothing, and therefore I fashion fiction. (What a play of words there. Mylvelane, Tere, do you notice?) But insofar as I deal with real people and places, I am constrained to limit my imagination. And this paragraph now is a further delay, more procrastination. "What happened to Dore?" they cried, expecting a five-page answer. And so, like Fielding, I will strive and aim to bring this section to a close. It has gone on its appointed length, is quickly reaching that limit of attention span that I can reasonably require of an audience. A few more bits of information to impart in preparation for the action of the following pages, and then I will end. Lalichë is satisfied; and you, my inquisitory readers, you must be patient while I learn to juggle plot and charm.
What the gia
nt told Dore: He told him how he (the giant) had awakened in a room at the end of a long hallway. Along the hall were two other sleeping rooms. At the far end was a large room, decorated with crystal and gold and soft, colored silks. There were no other rooms, and no doors or windows anywhere.
As he entered the room he saw the misty forms of three people disappearing. They were vanishing, evaporating, like smoke from a fire. He saw what appeared to be two giant men, one with the most totally black skin, the other snowy white. With them was a golden creature, smaller and rounder, with long, golden hair. This one raised a hand and waved, just before they all blinked out completely. ("A princess," said Dore. "Some beautiful goddess, no doubt."
"Eh?" said the giant, puzzled.)
The giant sat in their parlor for hours. He put his feet up on a large coffee table, the top of which was dull black and perfectly clean. It was decorated with galaxies and nebulas in infinite detail. When he tapped his finger on the sheet of glass covering the table the stars moved. He lifted the glass and put his hand down onto the blackness; it kept going. They had the whole physical universe there in that coffee table. They were gods, and they had gotten tired of it. The giant had been picked as their successor. The first thing he did was to wipe out the old universe, like washing a blackboard.
"One clean, empty coffee table. Loo, then I got rid of that idiotic palace."
What Entropy Means to Me Page 9
