The Boy Who Would Rule the World

by Brian Toal

  "Well, Chris can...Oww!" He stopped talking as Chris kicked him painfully in the shins.

  Beth and Sharon both looked up as Jesse moved a short distance away from Chris. "What can Chris do?" Sharon asked. Beth had explained to her, several times, the damage and repair processes hopefully occurring within Todd's brain and so Sharon hadn’t paid much attention to Beth's dialogue with Jesse and Chris. However, as soon as she heard Jesse mention a possible difference in Chris' behaviour, she became interested. She thought Chris' behaviour a little strange lately, herself.

  "Well, yesterday..."

  "Nothing, Mom." Chris interrupted loudly, pushing his way in between Jesse and Todd's bed and blocking Jesse from his mother's sight.

  "Chris, don't interrupt Jesse, I asked him a question."

  "There’s nothing wrong with me. Jesse just doesn't know me very well."

  "You couldn't do that last year."

  "No, but I wasn't interested then." Chris was now sorry he had shown off to Jesse the day before.

  "What can Chris do this year that he couldn’t do last year?" Sharon asked impatiently.

  Chris looked at his mother and then moved aside so that Jesse could speak. "He can remember things. He can remember everything. He showed me last night."

  "What do you mean, everything?" Sharon asked, her voice calm, but Chris could detect a certain sharpness to it that usually indicated she was concerned or annoyed about something.

  "Last night he opened a magazine for two seconds - I timed him. And then he recited both pages back to me."

  Sharon looked over at Beth sitting beside her, her stare returned by a shrug from Beth.

  "Chris, is this true?"

  "Yeah, sort of." Chris responded.

  "And you have only been able to do this since the accident?"

  "I guess."

  Sharon stood up and walked around the bed towards her son, worry and concern in her face and voice. "Chris, you told me you felt fine."

  "Mom, it's no big deal." Chris objected, knowing he had to calm his mother down before unknown and unpredictable events took place. Unpredictable to him anyway.

  "But Chris, it may be a big deal. You have just heard Aunt Beth talk about the human brain. It’s very fragile and if something has happened to you - good or bad - we have to get it checked out. And remember what the doctors in Toronto said - any strange feelings or changes in vision or anything at all, you have to tell us about."

  "Mom! I don't want to go back into the hospital again, just because I can remember better. That’s stupid! I hate hospitals and there’s nothing wrong with me."

  "Well, I think you have been acting a bit strange myself. I haven't been able to put my finger on how you’re different, but I think we should get you checked out again."

  "Mom! There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel great! It's just I can remember better - that's all."

  "Yes...and this sudden interest in libraries. Your father told me about your little run-in at the main library."

  "Dad told you?" Chris asked, his face flushing with embarrassment. "He promised me he wouldn't tell."

  "Sometimes parents have to break promises when they are concerned..." Sharon paused. "Honey, we’re just concerned for you. We want to be sure you really are alright." Sharon put both of her hands on her son's shoulders and Chris didn't try to shake them off, even though a school buddy was present. "Honey, I’m only worried about you. We can't take any chances."

  "Mom..." Chris began, stopping his protest as his mother shook her head, indicating that she had made her mind up about a particular course of action.

  "I am going to make an appointment to get you looked at right now. Don't..."She shook his shoulders slightly as Chris was about to renew his protests. "Stay here with Aunt Beth while I go down to the admitting department. I want to get you in as soon as possible."

  "Mom..." Chris protested weakly, realizing his mother had already made her mind up. "...I hate hospitals."

  "I’ll be right back. Beth you see he stays here." Then hitching her purse, on its long strap over her shoulder, and without another glance at Chris, she marched from the room.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ONE

  Chris was certainly annoyed at Jesse for telling his mom about his new-found ability. Now his mother had arranged an appointment for him with a doctor at Saint John's in a week and a half, when he was scheduled to undergo a barrage of tests. The only two redeeming features of the appointment were: it would last only one day and it would take place during school time. He hadn’t liked school before because it was a lot of work. Now he didn't like school because it was too easy. He found it boring; do this project, learn these math formulas, read this book. All of those tasks and others assigned to him, he could accomplish in minutes. He figured, if given the opportunity, he could accomplish the entire year's curriculum in about two weeks. He found he disliked school again, but for an entirely different reason than last year.

  He was currently fiddling under his desk with his own wooden ruler as well as Jesse's metal one. Although Mr. Clifford had put him at the front of the room by his own large desk, he taught almost all of his lessons from the other side of the room, where he liked to lean against the doorframe while lecturing. If Chris was careful, he had almost as much freedom, during lessons, as he would have had if he had been located at the back of the class.

  The day before, he had read how the development of the crossbow had altered battle-field tactics during the middle ages. He had been intrigued by its apparent simplicity and he was currently working to build his own miniature version that would shoot pencils. He had the two rulers wired together to form a 'T', with the wooden ruler’s pencil groove pointing forward and a thick elastic band he had taken off Mr. Clifford's desk doubled over and attached to the cross piece. It was moderately difficult to pull the elastic to the rear of the grooved ruler, and he figured it should shoot a pencil pretty far. When recess came, he would try it out.

  "Hey fuzz brain, what are you doing?" Ben Able whispered across to Chris.

  Chris still didn't like Ben Able and even though the episode with the spaghetti in the cafeteria had lessened his eminence within the school population, he was still a bully in the classroom.

  "Nothing." Chris muttered.

  "Yes, you are, dweeb." Ben hissed across at him. "What are you making?"

  Chris felt his face flush with anger. "I’m building something," he whispered back.

  "I can see that, but what?"

  "It's called a crossbow."

  "A what?"

  "A crossbow...it's called a crossbow." Chris whispered back, raising his desk lid to put away his contraption.

  "You little turd." Ben whispered, then turned to hassle the girl sitting to his other side.

  Chris sighed. God, he hated school. Why did he have to go and blow-up Mr. Clifford's muffler. If he hadn't, he probably wouldn't have been forced to sit beside Ben Able. There probably was a learning experience in this, he realized, however he didn't know if he would ever be able to change. He hadn't meant to damage Mr. Clifford's car and he certainly hadn’t expected him to become his teacher. Life was so perplexing. Sometimes, just when you think you have it figured out and have even tested your theories, the parameters change and suddenly it all becomes inexplicable again. He just didn't understand it. No wonder why people have nervous breakdowns.

  He turned and looked towards Mr. Clifford, who was leaning against the doorframe at the other side of the classroom, stroking his long mustache as he droned on. "One of the South's important military advantages was its geography. The Confederate area, during the Civil war, covered a huge territory..."

  Chris slumped in his seat, already bored with the lecture. A figure materialised within his mind: 750,000 square miles.

  "... the territory of the Secessionist South in 1861 was almost twice as large as the thirteen colonies in 1776. It was approximately 750,000 square miles, and...."

  Chris groaned out loud, bringing him a quick
look of contempt from Ben Able, who shot him 'the finger', before ignoring him. He was so bored. He pulled his open history text tight to his stomach and tried to focus his attention on his teacher.

  "...the Appalachian Mountains formed a considerable obstacle to the advancing Union forces and the Union found it quite difficult...."

  Chris watched Mr. Clifford pull on his bushy mustache. The space between his nose and upper lip was quite broad and Mr. Clifford sported a thick, wide moustache, its length hanging considerably over his upper lip and almost obscuring his mouth when he talked. Chris noticed for the first time, its ends ran quite far beyond the edges of his lips, drooping down on each side of his mouth. I wonder if he is trying to grow a Fu Manchu? Chris wondered idly. He figured Mr. Clifford would look pretty funny with a Fu Manchu mustache.

  Mr. Clifford pushed himself off his perch against the door frame and walked to the centre of the classroom, standing with his hands clasped behind him. "....between Washington and Richmond, Virginia, six rivers ran from west to east, each of them a line of defence..."

  Chris felt his interest wane and he allowed his body to slump back down in his chair, his eyes still on Mr. Clifford. His personal method of relaxation lately had been to let the pictures and pages he had stored in his mind, pass before his eyes in a 'moving slide show'. That's what he called it, now that he had actually analysed his skill and it had been necessary to describe it to other people; Jesse, his Mom and his Aunt Beth being the three, and he expected to have to explain it all again to the doctor in the research department at Saint John's.

  He started with war pictures, his favourite, then rapidly switched to plates from astronomy books, the data and information from each picture also available if he wished to stop the rapidly changing images to find out more. It was truly an endless slide show, with carousels containing every bit of information he had learned, available for his pleasure at a moment's notice. The pictures progressed in front of him, each one triggering knowledge of available, related information and he allowed the exhibition to continue, not directing its play any longer, letting it flow over him, his eyes unfocused but directed towards his lecturing teacher. Pictures of the Crab Nebula, with statistical data. The Milky Way with information on Quasars and Quarks and Black holes. The pictures changed constantly, some lingering for his scrutiny, others that he had less interest in, flashing by rapidly. War pictures came and went, flashes of colour and devastation. The history of flight, fighter planes, rockets and high-speed jets flashed through his vision. Lunar landers, satellites, space vehicles... Suddenly the frames sped up, increasing in speed, his control over their order lessening. Chris sat up straighter at his desk. He had never seen them move so fast before. It had become more like a movie film that was running just a bit too slow, the individual frames separated by a thin black line. The pictures were random, there was no order to their progression. Paintings of ancient battles were interspersed with images of the outside of his school. A civil war picture, Mr. Clifford standing in front of him, a television movie set, his father's truck, Mr. Clifford, Vimy Ridge, a cross-section of the inner ear, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Mr. Clifford, a satellite shot of Jupiter...something was happening inside his head. He had felt it before, a tickling sensation inside the front of his skull, but not as powerful as this. His toes curled inside of his shoes and he squeezed his elbows tight into his body, trying to control the now unstoppable flow of pictures. The speed of the pictures increased to a blur, information searing through his conscious mind, lights, colours, math, history, philosophy and physics combined. Chris groaned, reaching upwards to press the palms of his hands tight against his closed eyes.

  There was a pause. Then one picture slowly stabilized before him - his teacher. The vision appeared, like a picture from an old history book - Mr. Clifford standing as Chris had last seen him minutes before. Hands behind his back, leaning against the door frame, his mustache brisling above his partially open mouth. Immobile, frozen in Chris' memory. He lowered his hands and opened his eyes, searching through the fixed vision for the present whereabouts of Mr. Clifford.

  There he was, standing at the front, one hand raised for emphasis, the other holding a long wooden pointer. "...and this battle could have led to a defeat of the Union Armies, if only..."

  Chris sighed and relaxed; still the Civil War.

  Then the picture changed.

  George Clifford had been teaching for sixteen years and of those sixteen years, he had been teaching American History as a specialty for six. He could teach American History in his sleep, or so he had bragged to Laura Andrews. George Clifford had never scored with another teacher before. His wife taught at another Detroit school and he had always been concerned that rumours of his successes may reach her ears through other teachers within the Detroit system. He had usually limited his pursuits to the Wayne State University bars, where he posed as an Associate Dean of History. He had, over the past few years, achieved a number of sexual successes with the first and second-year students. Laura Andrews, the school librarian, was an exception though. Laura had been hired late in the summer, to replace a librarian of ten years who had been disabled in a car accident. It was Laura's first job with the Detroit School Board and she had been understandably a bit nervous in her new position. Especially since, in a moment of weakness, she had confided to George, that she had misrepresented - just a tiny little bit - her qualifications. Well, as George had explained, they couldn't have the School Board find out about her little lie could they? Or maybe it was actually quite a large misrepresentation. Laura was a gift and George wasn't about to turn down a gratuity. He really would try and make this affair last as long as he could. Laura was always only a few steps away and he had plenty of excuses to stay late after school.

  George Clifford was talking history, but thinking of Laura Andrews - when something began to happen to his mustache.

  The human brain and its bilateral method of functioning is an amazing development - or creation, depending on one's philosophical views. It is capable of operating and monitoring a complex biological organism, controlling the heart rate, respiration, heat displacement, digestive processes and a multitude of other life-dependant functions without imposing on the consciousness of the being. It is also able to coordinate a number of learned tasks, such as walking, or driving a car, or buttoning a coat, without detracting or hindering the individual from performing other tasks that require complex decision-manufacturing abilities. A human being that has been driving a car for some time can easily manipulate the controls of the vehicle, monitor the surrounding traffic, smoke a cigarette and engage in conversation with the other passengers, all without undue concentration on any one task. All of the above tasks have been previously learned and take little active control in the Neocortex. However, should a bee fly in the window and sting the driver, or the cigarette end fall upon their lap - all of the above learned tasks will be instantaneously aborted. The higher learning processes shut down, while the brain immediately applies all of its investigative processes to solve and remove the painful and unexpected stimulus.

  George Clifford bragged that he could teach History in his sleep. He certainly was able to teach History and dream of future encounters with Laura. But he was not capable of teaching History when the hairs of his mustache involuntarily rose up and plunged into his nostrils.

  He stopped talking, his eyes crossing as he attempted to look down his nose. He could sense, what felt like, and could only be, the long ends of his mustache thrashing about deep inside his nasal cavity. He slapped his hand up against his face, feeling the smaller hairs of his moustache wrap themselves around two of his fingers, as he did so.

  Trying to maintain his usual aloof behaviour, his right hand covering his nose and ignoring the suppressed giggles now audible from the stupefied class, he quickly moved over towards the door and its reflective glass.

  Thrusting his face in front of the glass, he removed his hand. The long strands from each side of his mustache had for
some inexpiable reason buried themselves deep inside his nose as the rest of his mustache, between his nose and mouth thrashed about madly on his face - some trying to wrap themselves around his upper lip and invade his mouth as well. With his index finger and thumb he pulled one, long length out of his nostril only to have it plunge back inside as soon as he moved to the second nostril. What the hell was happening to his mustache? His eyes were watering and he knew that shortly he was going to have a sneezing fit that he would be unable to stop. He had to get out of here!

  He spun around. Some children were gawking in flabbergasted, open-mouthed wonder. Others were holding onto their desks, screaming with laughter, unable to contain their convulsions at the spectacle of their teacher's mustache hairs attacking his own nose. "Class, read the next ten pages of your texts. I will be back shortly." With that rather nasal command, he shoved open the door and threw himself from the room.

  Chris laughed with the rest of the class. He had never seen anything so funny in all of his life. The sight of Mr. Clifford's mustache buried up his nose, was a memory he would treasure for ever.

  The laughter in the classroom never entirely stopped and continued with children standing in the aisles reliving their experience with their friends and throughout the class Chris could hear innumerable conversations beginning with, "Did you see..." followed by laughter.

  As his own laughter died, a feeling of apprehension overcame him. Did he cause Mr. Clifford's mustache to do that? Just before the vision of Mr. Clifford had blanked out, in his mind, some changes had been occurring to the picture. Especially to his teacher’s mustache. Had he actually caused Mr. Clifford's mustache to move? Just like a couple days ago, when he had wanted Ben to pour his spaghetti on top of his head, and it had happened. Could he actually make something happen by thinking about it? Chris looked around the classroom, the other children laughing and making the most of their free time.

  He had to make a test!

  He looked about the room for an appropriate object to attempt to manipulate. He could try and move the garbage can by the door or the wheeled map-stand by the black board. But both of them were big. Maybe he couldn't move large objects.