“Please come and see my Pink Pagoda. All the people and all the officials avert their eyes from it. They say that it is impossible that such a thing could be there, and therefore it cannot be there. But it is there. See it yourself (or see plates IV, IX, XXXIII, LXX especially). And it is pretty (see plates XIX, XXIV, V, LIV). But best, come see it as it really is.”
Miss Phosphor McCabe did that rather astonishing photographic article for the Heritage Geographical Magazine. Heritage Geographical refused to publish it, though, stating that such things were impossible. And they refused to come and see the Pink Pagoda itself, which is a pity, since it is the largest and most beautiful structure on earth. It stands there yet, on that thirty acre hill right on the north edge of town. And you have not heard the last stone of it yet. The latest, a bad-natured little addition, will not be the last: Miss Phosphor swears that it will not be.
There was a flimsy-winged enemy flew down, shortly after the first completion of the pagoda, and set the latest very small stone (it is called the egg-of-doubt stone) on top of the main capstone. 'Twas a crabbed written little stone, and it read:
“I will not trow two-headed calves,”
Say never-seens, and also haves.
“I'll not believe a hollow earth,”
Say skepticals of doubtful birth.
“I'll not concede Atlantis you,
“Nor yet Lemuria or Mu,
“Nor woodsmen in northwestern lands,
“Nor bandy-legg'd saucerians,
“Nor ancient technologic myth,
“Nor charm of timeless megalith.
“I will not credit Whales that fly,
“Nor Limestone Islands in the Sky.”
—Unfolk Ballad
That crabby little ballad-stone on the top almost spoils the Pink Pagoda for me. But it will be removed, Miss Phosphor McCabe says, just as soon as her traveling friends are back in this neighborhood and she can get up there.
That is all that we have to say on the subject of stone setting.
Does anyone else have something further to add?
The Most Forgettable Story In The World
Even for the non-believer, there should be one paramount theme or set of questions. The non-believer has not accepted the Mystery of the Fall, but how can he get rid of the puzzle? It bulks up like a protoceratops in the parlor. How can he avoid constantly asking the question: Who and what are we really? And what is the age and nature of the amnesia that is our ambience?
—name of author forgotten
The theme of the meeting was “The Insufficiency of Mere Perfection.” It was to be an open meeting: anyone in the world might come. But only a dozen persons and half a dozen machines showed up. There was a lassitude about everything in those days.
“I believe that I could contribute something to the discussions—if I could only remember what I've forgotten,” a clean-cut young man said.
“So could we all,” the young girl said. “It is a familiar syndrome, this worrying that there is something forgotten. It is really the last worry in the world. A syndrome is a convergence of roads. They all converge on ourselves, if they are not illusion, but we are not sure whether they lead into us or out of us, whither or whence.”
“We could not have arrived by all the roads, could we?” a dapper young machine asked. “Does anybody remember by which road we did arrive at our present perfection? Or rather, since some sort of central forgetting seems to be at the heart of all our questions, has anyone any theory as to how we got here?”
“By stumbling backwards over no road at all, downhill and through tangled brush, until we found ourselves in the bottom of a pit,” a dour old machine issued. “Then we noticed that the bottom of the pit was actually the top of the Delectable Mountain. If there is nothing lower, then also there is nothing higher. To be in the middle of a plain is the same as to be on the top of a mountain, if all the mountains are gone and forgotten. No, I don't believe that there are any roads, or have ever been. Why should there be roads to get to where we already are? And why should we leave when there is nowhere else to go? What need of roads?”
“The world, of course, is perfect, as are all of those living in it,” said one of the perfect men. “Nobody ever goes out of it, though most dissolve in it by the pleasant-thanasia. We cannot find or speak of dissatisfaction in our world, since the pleasant-thanasia is highest satisfaction to those who use it.”
“There was an old essay entitled ‘The Ultramontanism of Utopias’,” one of the younger women half-remembered. “It said that Utopia is always over the hills and far away. It isn't. It is here and now. Ah, does anyone remember what ‘hills’ were?”
“They were the offspring of mountains, in some old anthropomorphic context,” said another of the perfect ones. “We have forgotten what mountains were, I suppose. One says that the word means one thing, one says that it means another. And we have all but forgotten what ‘offspring’ means. Do any of us remember what we ourselves are?”
“In one old fairy-tale cycle—The Grimmsian—it was said that we were all princes turned into frogs,” a young machine issued brightly.
“In another old fairy-tale cycle—the Darwinian—it was said that we were all frogs turned into princes,” the young girl said. “Ah, does anyone remember what a frog was?”
None did.
“Or a prince?”
Again none.
“If it weren't that everything was perfect by definition, I'd suspect that something had been left out,” the dour machine issued, “that something had been — what's the word? — forgotten. If there really were roads, and not mere illusions of roads, one of them might go somewhere. It might be a destination.”
“What does destination mean?” an exceptionally perfect man asked.
“I forget,” the dour old machine admitted.
“Doesn't anyone remember anything?” a young lady demanded in a voice conveying exasperation, if there were any remembrance of such a feeling, if such a thing were possible in a perfect world.
“Yes. I do,” the clean-cut young man stated suddenly. “I remember what I have forgotten.”
“What is it?” the young girl inquired sharply.
“My destination and my name.”
“What? You remember what they are?”
“Oh no, no. I merely remember that they are what I have forgotten.”
Somewhere there is a story about mankind, about his origin and his destination, about who and what he is. Once this story was known. How is it that it has become so forgettable? And how is it that it has become so forgot?
Apocryphal Passage Of The Last Night Of Count Finnegan On Galveston Island1
X made his own escape from the immediate threat. After all, in his vaudeville days he had been the Great X-Capo. And Doll and Finnegan moved over the graves and down the alleys towards the gaudy beach. They moved with a sudden lithe speed that was not the human way of moving, and Finnegan knew Doll then though she was never to know herself. She also was one of them, but she never suspected it; and do not tell her now. They were down to the shimmering beach and into the heady crowd for all the daylight and the dusk. This was the bright surface world and the deep middle world mingled in the happy vitality of people having fun. They were in the middle of them; it was important to be in the middle of them!
There were the happy drinks and beers that might be the last forever. Remember the Congo? Remember Cracker's, and The Idle Hour? Remember The Brass Rail, The Little Room, The Capri? They aren't there any more, or their names have changed. Remember Murdock's Pavilion? (This was before Hurricane Carla had scattered that great wooden structure for fifty miles.) But do not try to track these places. They are of the older days.
They were into the water for an hour at Murdock's. There was a high surf lashing in and it was fun to swim through it and beyond it. That Doll could swim; and there was never such a swimmer as Finnegan.
They were out of the Gulf after that and to supper; this was at the Golden
Greek's or at the Sea-Side or at some other place along the bright and shining Boulevard. It was late already. Had X yet returned to begin to dig at the grave? And how would Saxon Seaworthy watch both X and Finnegan? Meanwhile, Finnegan was making himself conspicuous with his loud talk and his loud doings.
Later, they danced on the upper deck of Murdock's, that went far out over the water. Finnegan and Doll had reveled on hard juice and shrimp and crab-meat and they were glowing wonderfully. And the music was made for them, literally. Especially the piano. Somebody on the piano was reading their minds and divining their moods. The piano took over, and Doll and Finnegan took over. It was rich and wild and intoxicating. It was rowdy. It was the best thing like that ever done; so were they. And there was no way to dance with Doll except rowdy. The music came to a halt with a roguish explosion, but Finnegan and Doll still danced to its echo.
Dotty Peison was coming across the floor to the two of them with compassionate laughter. She took Finnegan up in her arms.
You do not know Dotty well: only that she was one of the Company of Fifty who sometimes inhabited the Old Wooden Ship, only that she was the foremost Galveston-style piano player in the world. You do not know how she was when a deep black mood had just left her and she had begun to sparkle. And that lack of knowledge shall be remedied at another time. But Dotty was one racey little girl, and to be up in her arms was like dynamite and roses.
Then Finnegan and Dotty and Doll were all in one bear-hug, loving each other with an end-of-the-episode passion. Somebody was calling Dotty to come back. She was the piano player there, and it was time for her to play again.
“Finnegan, you are going to kill a man tonight,” Dotty said. “Can I help?”
“How do you know that, Dotty?” Doll was curious. She didn't know Dotty.
“I know everything. But he'll put a trail on you, Finnegan. And he'll kill you with it after he's dead. Well, you've had fun along the way, haven't you, Finn?”
“I have had fun, Doll and Dotty,” Finnegan said, “dark fun and light fun. Now I will move. That boy coming across the floor has a note for me.”
The boy coming across the floor did have a note for Finnegan. And the note, when unfolded, read: ‘Finnegan, come to the West corner of Tremont across the Boulevard. Your life is required of you now.’
“I leave you girls,” Finnegan told them. “Don't take any wooden Indians.” Then he went over the far railing of the pavilion, moving with a sudden speed that was not quite the human way of moving. He swung in under the floor, dropped twenty feet to the first cross member, then went down one of the huge tarred pilings, and was into the churning water of the Gulf in the dark. Shucking off only his shoes, he swam outward swiftly and with the tireless sudden strength that came to him in the moments of his transport.
These were the waters that were under the world. There were lights above and beyond; but here, at first, it was blinding dark. “This may be almost what he expected me to do,” Finnegan told himself as he swam with fishy power. “He can read me like a rune. He knew that I was not about to cross the Boulevard to the Tremont corner. But what more opposite way could I go than this? How will he have me here?”
There had been a row of shrimp boats about a mile off beach at dusk, but Seaworthy had nothing to do with shrimp boats. One of them, at least, was still there with engines loafing, but nobody picks up a swimmer in a mile of water even with a spotlight, not a swimmer who doesn't want to be picked up. Finnegan went out some five hundred yards, far beyond the reaches of the lights of the pavilion or the Boulevard. Then he turned and gave himself to the cross-currents, swimming easily. He would come ashore on that narrow beach beneath the cliff at old Fort Crockett, the only cliff, the only hill of any kind on the Island. He would return to the town from there; or from another approach if that one seemed spooked. He was still on the hunt for the Devil Fox, but the timing and the surprise and the advantage must be his own.
Did he give the old fox too much credit? Likely the Finnegan ambush had been set up on the first beach and not in deep water; somewhere on the beach below the sea-wall among the granite boulder breakwaters. Likely Seaworthy had expected Finnegan to go down one of the interior stairways or ladders that the bathers used, and to strike up-beach below the wall. That also would be in a direction opposite the way down the Concourse and across the Boulevard to Tremont corner.
Finnegan had company in the water. He now had the companionship of a low-floating, ocean-gnarled tree.
“You are the tree named Lagrume,” Finnegan said, “the tree named Log. You also are a person in the legend, and you have drifted all the way from Haiti.” Things did drift that long course, and they ended up exactly where Finnegan intended to end up.
“You are good company,” Finnegan said, and he slowed his speed to that of the low-floating tree log. “Besides, you will be a diversion, or a ram, should an enemy improbably wait for me on the water. I will lead you but only for a little. I will lead you by five counts.”
There were only the dim lights of the Boulevard a half a mile to the right. There was only the light of the stars in all the rest of the world. The piano music of Dotty could still be heard, either in reality or in imagination. It was still rich and wild and intoxicating and rowdy, but now there was an additional low beat in the very cellar of its sound: heavy footsteps, menacing, inexorable footsteps that seemed to move with an inexplicable splashing sound.
Finnegan sighted on a star cluster riding medium-low ahead of him in the coal sack of the night. They looked as the Lyra group and Vega should look, and Finnegan called them that in his mind. They stood before him except when he was in the deepest troughs between the waves. Finnegan swam a leisurely mile on his course.
Then Vega went out!
The tree named Lagrume, understanding the situation quicker than Finnegan did, ducked its head and floated completely under water; but it still followed Finnegan at the five interval.
Vega had been blocked out by a low, floating form; and at the same time Finnegan's hand touched the gunwale of something almost too small to be called a boat.
One Count!
There was a match-head sized gleam of phosphorus six inches from Finnegan's eyes. It was the front sight of a rifle. And behind was the faint fire grey of the eyes of Saxon Seaworthy.
Two count!
“It's the end, Finnegan,” the fire-fox Seaworthy said.
Three count!
“Not without a quip, Saxon,” Finnegan taunted, knowing the old fox's love of the theatrical, and fighting for time.
Four count!
“This, the quip, Finnegan,” Saxon said, and he fired (simultaneous to another happening).
Five count!
The shot and the other happening had been at five count exactly. For also, with the shot at five count, the tree named Lagrume, low floating in the water, rammed the micro-boat. Finnegan was scratched of nose and shattered of jaw, but the shot did not explode inside his head. It furrowed its way out with gore and bone splinters, but it was too low to cause his death.
Finnegan had the barrel of the rifle in his hands. Then he had Saxon Seaworthy in his hands, far under water in a turmoil. Saxon did not die easily or willingly. To lull the grip he went limp as though already gone. Then, thirty seconds later, he erupted with violent writhing so as to break away. It was not easy to throttle a man with so sinewy a neck that was also protected by the pherea, the throat protuberances of an old satyr: and to choke off the air of a man already under water is of little effect. When Finnegan was able to hold Seaworthy with one hand, he raked down into a side pocket for his clasp knife and went to work on throat, under-ear gap behind the jaw-bone, and the intercostal slots into the thorax. He opened half a dozen fountains that gushed under water, and he sealed it when he had the heart itself in his hands.
Saxon Seaworthy did not have a proper grave, and it was not at all sure that he would remain buried. But he would remain dead.
Finnegan came to the surface breathing horri
bly through mauled nose and shatter-jawed mouth. He swam wearily for the beach. The very small boat was filled and turning under and sinking somewhere near. The tree named Lagrume had drifted on without waiting for Finnegan. Though it had saved the life of Finnegan by bumping the small craft at calculated five count, yet it had done it almost unknowingly: a mere instrument, and yet it was a person in the legend. There was no noise at all except the silken whisper of the water not quite ready to form into breakers, and the tired and now uneven stroking of Finnegan, and the footsteps. But the Lyra group was in the sky again, and Vega (if it were they); and the cross-currents helped the tired Finnegan on his way.
Sometimes there sounded a car horn from the Boulevard a half mile away; sometimes there boomed the shock of a very high breaker reaching the Sea Wall; sometimes there was a distant boat horn. There was the clucking of the near waters, and Finnegan's own sounds of tortured breathing and stroking, and the footsteps.
The Man Who Talled Tales: Collected Short Stories of R.A. Lafferty Page 131
