What Entropy Means to Me

by George Alec Effinger

  Life along the River is exciting, healthful, never exhausting. But I can't claim that we live here without threats to our safety. Besides the somewhat shaky relations with our neighbors, whom we choose to ignore, there are strange beasts and vegetable menaces. Standing on the hill with the banner was not a simple task. I am rather glad that this history excused me from the job, which has been passed on to the eleventh-oldest male, a young man named Thib. We regret that Thib is not as suited, preferring to spend his spare time in dark and damp cellars. I told him that if he wished he could come to me for some pointers, but he never did. I fulfilled my obligation to him.

  Happiness has always played a great part in the governing of our family. We were always happy, except for those times when devotional matters by their nature compelled us to grieve. But in the day-to-day maintenance of affairs we were quite contented. Each of us had his own particular area of interest, but each member of the family was concerned for everyone else's business as well. For an instance, I was always messing around in the meadows. Flowers, most frequently the yellow ones, were my sidekicks, though there was a limited amount of experiences which we could share. Nevertheless, I gained through Relp's association with lily pads, for example, or Vaelluin's water birds. She was so lost when they followed Dore down the River.

  I don't know if I can convey to you, my now-and-then readers, the pervasive, nearly threatening quality of that happiness. We were reminded of it constantly. Our Mother told us often enough that she wept only that we might not have to. But that weeping, bless her soul if it needs it, was the only signal we had that our happiness was to some extent illusory. It kept us awake nights. Even today leaves will not grow on the lower branches of the micha tree under which she sat.

  Our happiness was founded on beauty, pleasure, and fertility. Everyone is beautiful. Everyone has access to everything he desires. And Our Mother was fertile. She was a true mine of information and children. We, for some reason, are not. Our Mother always felt that her greatest sadness since the vanishing of her husband was in never seeing a grandchild. The dew of the subconscious, trampled upon by the cloddish feet of sensual, conscious life, lies all around us on the lawn of existence. The tributary streams of thought, arising from the collected dews and passing from our minds in the form of action, make us what we are. And our dews are beautiful dews. We think joy and sky and silver chalices. We have happiness. We dance to express ourselves, oftentimes stopping in the middle of some essential labor to hop up and down with strange, ecstatic expressions on our faces. Others in the chamber or hallway or field will clap their hands. It's a shame that Dore has to miss all this.

  And now, sincerely, I want to thank Tere and Ateichál for their custodianship of our happiness. Without them we would have been lost in the bogs of individual interpretation. We would have wasted our energies in many fruitless directions, but they have sacrificed their own pleasures to the task of uniting us. We are a great team, moving forward into enlightenment together, watchful for those twin deceitful lords, Rumor and Heresy. Like Hermes, messenger of the gods, the bringer of the Word and the guide of the dead, Tere and Ateichál join the best of both worlds, the male and female principles combined without taint of carnality to the betterment of all concerned. And if Tere's masculinity is less apparent than it might be, and if Tere and Ateichál tend to differ over fine points of doctrine, well, it is only Our Father's way of reminding us that they—and us—are only mortal.

  But not for long. I have a plan.

  In a perfect democracy such as ours, where each member of the family has precisely the same opportunity to demonstrate merit, those who possess that merit cannot fail to be recognized. Inner worth makes itself known although, due to the total environment of equality, there is little personal gratification. Naturally, those with the most goodness are those least interested in reward, but it is a well-known fact that the existence and impartial availability of reward can act as a motivating factor for those unfortunates born with fewer of God's beneficences. If one can point to another, better person and try to emulate him, for whatever reasons, the results can only work for the general good.

  Thus, I herewith introduce a system for canonization, contingent only on the acceptance of the sectarian leaders. My inspiration is obvious, and I beg the pardon of Tere and Ateichál for my lack of imagination, but I hasten to say that I see no reason why the scheme may not be as serviceable now as it has proved to be in the past.

  St. Lucy, my researches indicate, was a virgin martyr of quite some time ago. She was an allround fine person and had several miraculous or horrible things happen to her. In art of the church she was pictured with two eyeballs on a dish. Every time you saw a holy lady with two eyes on a dish, it was St. Lucy, because of the similarity between her name and the Latin for "light." Now, if my plan were adopted, Ateichál could be St. Ateichál, not necessarily a virgin or martyr but possessed of enough mystic substance to easily defeat all competition. Future graphic representations of her could contain some symbol of her personality or her achievements. I don't know what.

  Even Tere. St. Tere. Of course, like all new ideas it takes a bit of getting used to. But even the true saints were sometimes a mite ludicrous in the stories and myths that came to be collected. We read of St. Agatha, another in a long series of virgin martyrs. She had her breasts cut off for her faith, and is of course shown in paintings and mosaics as carrying them on a dish. Because of the shape of breasts on a dish she is the patron saint of bell founders. Who knows what Tere might end up to be? St. Apollonia had several teeth put out by an angry mob and became the divine one invoked against toothache. In time we might with a little effort build up an entire Ars Medica of helpful souls.

  Say it with me now: St. Ateichál. St. Tere. A small beginning, but a sure and practical foundation for a great edifice of faith. Let us prepare now for the eventual passing of these two most generous of disciples. Let us build gorgeous things to house chips of their bone. Let us touch St. Tere and St. Ateichál whenever we can, and tell them of the cures they have achieved. Let us smile quietly at them when they pass. And let us not forget to be on the lookout for others who might, through demonstrations of virtue, be elevated to their lonely rank. Whoever proves that he lives "along Dore's way" may be eligible, and not just those who work miracles or talk to fish. Even a poor hagiographer.

  Who will be the first to have a vision and build a shrine? Who will be the first to be eaten in Dore's name? Who will be the first to hold back the River's angry torrent with his simple faith? I tingle with anticipation. It is possible that this work may be equivalent to Moses' well-received Pentateuch, that I institute here the beginnings of something that will endure for all time, even as my avid-for-wealth Ploutonic brethren have indicated?

  How quickly the dream ends. Two notes —

  From Tere: "No. I will not accept sainthood."

  From Ateichál, ironic in tone: "We lack virgins."

  The rain begins. It is evening. The quiet is still undisturbed, and somehow the daily shower spatting on the narrow slit of a window makes the house even more soundless. I wish I could judge whether I am thought a fool, a dangerous enemy of the faith, or a pious workman who happened to miss his mark. I wish there were external guidelines; I wish my personal doubts didn't so mask the reality of my work. What I write is governed by what I feel, and (St.) Tere and (St.) Ateichál will not give me the time or the liberty to know what that is.

  I would like to go for a walk with Dyweyne. I would like to walk beside her through the paneled, tiled, tapestry-hung halls of this house and talk, in low, loving, sentenceless tones. So much could be understood. Perhaps when I became afraid we would stop and I would touch her arm and she would lower her eyes and smile. People going by would pretend not to notice. Then we'd walk some more until I uncovered a new fear. Soon they'd all be gone. Dyweyne, why don't you come? Is it because you do not believe that I have anything to offer you?

  Many material benefits can accrue from our associati
on. Gain through inventiveness: In my function here as documenter of the faith I am in a position to make or break you, not that you have to worry about the latter. But I can set you up in a comfortable circumstance. I'm sure you appreciate that. As the companion of the official historian and biographer of our esteemed brother, you will receive extra attention. All eyes will be on you when we enter the cafeteria. Our sisters will copy your dress, your hair styles, your mannerisms. Stories will be written comparing me to Dore, telling of the pain of his memory and linking your name with others in clandestine attempts to ease your anguish.

  I'll go out now, I think. I haven't taken a good ramble in months. How grow the hedges beyond the yard? Do the doglike animals still run wild, waiting to nip your ankles when you cross the property line? I think I will take a summer promenade, along the same rude highway that Dore followed, so many dreadful weeks ago. I will take my notebook and search for clues. And perhaps I will meet someone; perhaps Dyweyne will feel like leaving her humid cell for a while.

  The house looks as if it has aged a century in the last few months. The paint on the outer walls and palisades and gabled towers is flaking off, as though our very residence weeps for Dore's return. The driveway is a long, gently curving path filled with white cinders. The crunching sound they make beneath my shoes always made me feel curiously at home, but today they are reminding me that as I walk down the hill I am going away from our country. I pass the various introductory monuments just within the huge, arching granite gates. Here is Loml's moss-covered obelisk, the oldest of them. It makes me seek out my own shattered pediment, which I began at the age of eight and destroyed at an early stage when I discovered that no one was watching. It is hidden by weeds. Here is Niln's red column, inscribed with meaningless pictographs. There is a new, sad equestrian statue of Dore, built by Talavesía, Dúnilaea and Lalichë. A bronze tablet with Yord's name engraved on it; a marble column; several simple pillars; a boulder with strange figures carved on it which Aniatrese tells me are copied from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "Adventure of the Dancing Men," a Sherlock Holmes rouser. I pass by these and other remarks, under the permanently open stone portals, and out into the wide world of mystery and disease.

  About a quarter mile down the road I came to the home of the Fourth family, residence of the lovely Melithiel who is famed in song and legend. As no one seemed to be out and about, I saluted as I passed. I went on, and I saw the forest track where Dore turned away from the road. I didn't.

  Continuing down the road, I saw a weather-worn roadside stand, where the way is met by the drive of the Fifth family. It was constructed of warped boards and sections of cardboard, badly fitted together and threatening to surrender entirely at any time. A wooden sign stood in the uncut grass, with letters of chalk dispersed and emaciated by the evening's rain. The sign was unreadable, but I saw pints of strawberries for sale, and apples, corn, raw gebbins, beans, tomatoes, and flowers. The whole thing gladdened me; I think that it's because I was gratified to see someone still working for himself, still providing, still contending successfully, with enough left over to offer in trade. Our poor attempt at growing chata embarrassed me, because I know that the Fifths here must resent us more for it. I went up to the stand and said hello.

  "Howdy," said a young boy, perhaps six or seven years old. He was shy and after his first volley retired behind his grandfather's chair. The old man, I recalled, was Donald Five, an honest patriarchal sort. He touched the child's head affectionately. His son and daughter-in-law, Andrew and Bonny Five, ran the farm now. I supposed Mr. Donald had been put to pasture here at the stand. Is it worse than a stone-damp throne?

  "Onions and carrots are cheap today," said Donald Five. I felt my throat choke with emotion; which one?

  "Fine," I said. "And let me have a box of the berries, okay?"

  "Anything else?"

  "No, that's all for today."

  "That's, um, three-six, and one," said the old man, putting my purchases in a stained paper bag.

  "Do you have to have cash?" I asked in humiliation. "You see, I'm a First, and I don't usually carry money."

  "You're a First, are you?" said the old man suspiciously. "I beg your pardon, but I'm afraid I didn't recognize you." I could see that he didn't believe me. I got out my card, and he examined it for a moment. "I'm sorry, sir, that I caused you this trouble," he said politely, but, I could sense, bitterly. "Take these with our compliments." I took the package and hurried down the road, still away from our house. I had wanted to talk to those people, to let them know of my sudden and dilettante affection, and I only succeeded in playing the lord.

  I saw no one for several hundred yards and my thoughts and unpracticed guilts tortured me. I saw Les and Larry Eleven, with whom I played when I was much younger and less discriminating. They were standing on a hill in their yard, looking out over the River with their older sister, Maureen. I yelled to them, and they turned and waved. I went up their driveway and climbed the hill to join them.

  "Hi," I said, nervously.

  "Hi," said Les. "Haven't seen you for a long time."

  "Been busy," I said.

  Larry touched Maureen's shoulder and I heard him say, "For eight years!"

  Maureen smiled at me. "You're a First, aren't you?" she said. I nodded, pretending to be interested in anything else. "You're the one who's writing the story of that other one, the one who went down there, aren't you?" She pointed her bare arm down the River. I nodded again.

  "How did you know that?" I asked, kicking a stone down the hill toward the water.

  "She gets around," said Larry, grinning.

  Maureen stood by my side and pressed herself against me. "I get around," she said. "I come and go."

  "She means she comes and she goes down," said Les.

  "I'm sorry," I said, frightened of their cupidity, "I'm not carrying any cash."

  The three were silent, shocked. Maureen stared at me with her head slightly turned, her forehead furrowed. Larry took her arm. "Come on," he said. "Let's go back to the house." His brother knelt and picked up some small stones. I was afraid that he was going to throw them at me, but he turned his back and ignored me completely, and threw them out into the River. I might have been horrified by his sacrilege, as would about half the other members of our family.

  I stayed on the road, coming at last to a small side street which I followed to the estate of the Twentyseventh family. This clan lived in many individual, identically constructed houses; they were painted white or yellow or pale green with a flagstone walk and a picture window, much the same as their ancestors had for centuries on our forsaken shelter, Earth. I took a deep breath and marched up the path to one of the houses.

  I rang the doorbell and was answered by a large woman, strong and red and parturient. "These are for you," I said, pressing the bag of vegetables into her hands.

  "For me? Thanks," she said, closing the door. I caught it before it shut.

  "Wait," I said, "I'd like to ask you a few questions."

  "I don't know. We don't want to buy nothing."

  "I assure you I'm not selling anything," I said. "Did you ever know Dore First?"

  "He one of them that live in that crazy big house up to the end of the road?" she asked.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "They're crazy. Don't know the one you mean, he never been by here, ain't likely any of 'em ever will. They're all crazy. Is that all right?"

  "Yes, ma'am, thank you," I said and headed home. The road was filled with holes, and I stumbled over large rocks a few times. All the way I felt very vulnerable. It was a new feeling, and I welcomed it. I tried to think of a way of avoiding the Fifth's fruit stand; when I passed it, it had been shut up for the evening.

  My room is dark, and it suits me now. I believe that this afternoon I went by a milestone in my development. From struggling artist I have graduated to suffering poet. It is not a happy milestone, and I will endeavor to get through this stage as quickly as possible. What's next? Angry young man?
Bored celebrity?

  My room is dark; there are two narrow windows set in the heavy stones of the outer wall, and they let in little light. For illumination I depend on tallow candles with which Joilliena supplies me, scorning the overhead fluorescents. The windows are rectangular, standing tall on scanty bases. They are divided into dozens of small regular parallelograms by lines of gray lead. On one of the windows two of the parallelograms are colored; a transparent red and a yellow pane have been inserted by a whimsical glazier. On the other window there is a green and an orange pane, as well as an uncolored pane with a very detailed tempera painting of a scholar in a wheelbarrow.

  My room is rectangular, just wide enough for my bed along one short wall. The long walls run parallel to the major axis of the house itself, and thus the two windows look out, theoretically, on the yard of chairs and the vacant throne of Our Mother. But an addition was built jutting out obliquely from the house. On the ground floor the addition makes with the house a sort of open courtyard or bay, and there is a charming cloistered walk in the new wing. On the grass we have placed a table with a large umbrella and four white aluminum chairs. The new wing has a tower which obstructs my view. In the tower is a single small window, about twelve inches long and six inches high.

  Dore loved our house. No, I don't mean just the family and Our Parents and the fallow ambience; he loved the house, its inanimate construction, the insane angles and explosions of rooms. Dore was basically a homebody. He never went out to eat. I don't recall his ever once taking someone dancing or getting up a softball game. This may be the reason Ateichál has avoided the rigors of a missionary tactic: We are the Chosen, of course, but we were Chosen for something that had previously occurred. There is little use in going out to convince others that the greatest spiritual guide has already been here, had nothing to say, and left without promise. Ours is a strange faith.