The God froze his left leg in mid-air.
"And that arm. Yes. Just so."
The God froze his arms.
"Ah. That calm repose. That hand raised in blessing. Dearest! Just so!"
"Beloved."
His last words.
The God froze altogether. They say he stands there still, motion and emotion locked in Time's four-cornered crystal. Destruction, Preservation, Creation and Necessity.
Perfectly balanced.
So perfectly balanced that it is almost—dare we say it?
Yes.
Almost as if there were no gods at all.
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Consider the Snorklepine
Edward McEneely
Mrs. Harvey found the Snorklepine in an ancient wooden chest that was about the size and shape of the ottoman her youngest took with him to college.
It had been curled up under a neatly folded Union Jack, frayed and tattered at the edges, large enough to cover a casket. Old photographs: a young lancer, Regular Army, Boer War-era. Newspaper clippings; A “Mentioned In Dispatches” cutting, the dull crimson ribbon over the bronzed Maltese Cross. A portrait of Queen Victoria. Under all of this, the Snorklepine.
He was maybe two feet tall, uncurled, but at the time his tiny feet were pulled up close to his round little body, somehow strangely reminiscent of both the porcupine and the wombat. He wore a bathrobe of some age; it had obviously been tailored to fit him. Spectacles dangled from the breast pocket on a thin gold chain, the lenses clouded with dust.
His eyes fluttered. He blinked, once, twice. He coughed, a cloud of dust rising from the chest. His paws fluttered about before settling upon the pince-nez, and he slowly raised it to the bridge of his nose.
"Good day to you, madam,” he said in a deep and burbling voice.
* * * *
At first she thought it symptomatic of a deeper problem, that without any children left in the house, just her husband and the cat, she had gone mad. Certainly, her husband never seemed to see the Snorklepine, or, if he did, steadfastly refused to admit its existence. The cat and the Snorklepine settled into a guarded truce after the Snorklepine produced an ancient lunch pail fashioned out of tin and shared some smoked herring and cheese.
* * * *
In a way, it was difficult to mind the improbable creature's intrusions. Most of its day was spent napping in a small deck chair that the Snorklepine unpacked from its sea-chest. The name of the liner it had come from was long since faded away, and only the slightest indentations remained where once had been words engraved with gold leaf, or so the Snorklepine said. Occasionally, he would write a list of food for her to purchase for him, gravely plying her with ancient shillings and pence along with it. He wrote with a full-sized presentation fountain pen of exceptional craftsmanship, inlaid with wood and silver filigree. Indeed, all of his official correspondences (and there were a great many, for such a wholly imaginary animal) were written out laboriously by hand with the pen, the Snorklepine mumbling and chortling to himself as he finished each letter and carefully sealed it in its envelope with red wax and a small signet ring made of bronze. Every day it carefully washed the bathrobe by hand in the bathroom sink, standing upon a stool purloined from the kitchen. In his modesty, he insisted that the door be locked during this time, and brooked no intrusions. As the robe dried, he would run a hot bath and exuberantly scrub himself whilst singing old songs: “Soldiers of the Queen, My Lads"; or “Good-bye Dolly,” both of which he had committed to memory and sang with more enthusiasm than skill in his watery baritone. When he had finished, he would shuffle into the kitchen and formally apologize if his singing had caused offense; gravely, he would hand her a wrinkled five-pound note and offer her his fervent hopes that it would be sufficient recompense. Every night he ate a dinner of several courses, always washed down by tea, which he prepared with his own small porcelain tea service. He had a fondness for cheeses as well as an obvious allergy to them, for after consuming them, his normal snuffling became even more pronounced. He had explained to her that this was the main characteristic of Snorklepines in general and that if none of his illustrious forebears had let anything stand in the way of cheese, neither would he.
* * * *
When she asked about his forebears, he became very animated, and rummaged about in his trunk for a great while. Eventually, he returned triumphant, an enormous album fully as large as he was clutched precariously in his paws. Opening it to the first page, he showed her an old cameo portrait, cracked with age, of Admiral Lord Nelson on the deck of HMS Victory, a Snorklepine standing just behind and to the left of him, wearing a miniature blue jacket and epaulets. Others followed. A Snorklepine riding with Wellington at Waterloo. An old daguerreotype of a Snorklepine with a group of men on horseback; the Light Brigade, he told her, at Crimea. A nasty business. A Snorklepine standing with Victoria and Albert as they gazed at the swaddled Prince of Wales. A Snorklepine in the Lords Gallery at Parliament. Then, a portrait of the young lancer again, the Snorklepine sitting beside him.
"Who's that?” she asked.
"I ..... forget,” said the Snorklepine, his voice trailing off. “It was a long time ago, and one tries so hard to remember, but ....."
"But?"
"There was a war. In Africa. One tries to do one's best, you know. End of slavery, teach the Boers a lesson about fair play, but .....” And the Snorklepine broke down, sobbing quietly into his robe as he curled up.
"I'm sorry,” she said, feeling uncomfortable. “I'll leave you alone now."
"I did my best,” the Snorklepine called out through its tears after her. “He didn't run with the others. He knew what to do. I did my best. When they ran, he stayed."
That night, Death came for the Snorklepine. He wore a fashionable suit of black, as was his custom, and he held in his right hand a long ebony cane, gold at the handle, bleached bone at the tip.
The Snorklepine was alone in the guest room that had been set aside for him, miserably flipping through his collection of old newspaper clippings.
"Good evening,” said Death. “I promised you I would find you, and now I have. If you will kindly come with me?"
The Snorklepine turned with a start and adjusted his pince-nez.
"I do not wish to go with you, sir."
"You are the last of your kind. You are forgotten, little creature. You do not belong in this world. Come with me."
Again, the Snorklepine adjusted his spectacles. “Sir, I do not wish to go."
"There is nothing for you here. You are a fantasy, a dream. The things you and your forebears worked for are long dead and gone. Only monuments remain, and only the birds acknowledge them. Everything you loved is gone."
The Snorklepine looked very gravely at Death. “That, sir, is not the point."
"So you say.” Then, almost conversationally, “You know, that boy died because of what you taught him."
"I beg your pardon, sir?” The Snorklepine's tiny body shook with constrained rage.
"All of your nonsense about duty and honour and fighting to the last man that you filled his young head with. You might as soon hand a boy a loaded revolver and tell him to place it against his head as send him off to war with notions like that. It wasn't even his fight."
"It was everyone's fight,” said the Snorklepine, angrily. “Britannia called him, and he went. I never told him to be a hero, and I certainly never told him to die. That was the choice he made when the time came. He died for his friends."
"They certainly weren't interested in staying to die for him."
"That is their shame, not his. He was not forgotten, though."
"A medal named after a Queen who died before the war was over? Who never even visited all the corners of her empire? A mention in a few old musty books? What kind of memory is that? Tell me, please do."
"I remember him,” said the Snorklepine. “Not just when he was brave and true and held the line, but when he was a boy and had nightmares an
d needed a bedtime story, and when he played with his tin soldiers and needed a second-in-command. I remember how proud his father and mother were of him when he took a first in school. I remember when he joined his regiment, and how proud he was to serve, and how his mother cried and how his father begged him to reconsider. I have never forgotten."
"A dead thing remembering other dead things, now all dust. Come with me. It is time for you to leave all of this behind."
"Sir, with respect, I will not go.” The Snorklepine's eyes flashed defiantly. “There are still older laws and higher powers in this world than you, and although they owe me and mine many debts, none of us has called them to account. Touch me at your peril, sir. There is the strength of an Empire in me yet.” And the Snorklepine seemed to grow bigger and older as he spoke, and his voice caused the room to shake. “I warn you sir, there is the strength of an Empire in me yet."
"Dead strength of a dead thing. I have come to claim you, as is my right by ancient laws. There is no power strong enough to save you from my claim.” And Death stepped forwards, his hand stretched out towards the Snorklepine. “Your time here is ended. Come with me."
* * * *
The next morning, the Snorklepine failed to show up for his customary breakfast of kippers and toast. Mrs. Harvey went to his room to investigate, and found him hard at work sweeping up a large pile of ashes. He apologized profusely for the mess, enigmatically saying that there had been some trouble with his pipe. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, he asked, might he be able to enjoy a somewhat later than usual breakfast?
Although she agreed readily, she was quite curious about the lump of what appeared to be gold and white marble, indissolubly fused together at the center of the ashpile.
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Dear Aunt Gwenda
The Brevity is the Soul of Something, Suddenly Referring to Self in Third Person Edition
Dear Aunt Gwenda,
What do you do when your significant other loves a book (let's call it Sparkly Vampires) that you can't stand?
Thank you.
A Reader.
AG: Well, first off, you're to be commended on your excellent taste—Sparkly Vampires sucked. (No, that wasn't a pun. Aunt Gwenda doesn't do puns.) As I see it there are three options. One, find a nice nonreader and hook up with them. Two, forbid your significant other with the bad taste from ever expressing an opinion on a book without running it by you first. Third, and this is what I recommend, chain your significant other to the bed and strictly control his or her access to books. They can't like what they can't read.
Dear Aunt Gwenda,
On his thirtieth birthday, a friend of mine received a gift of surveillance equipment from his neighbor. This neighbor has surveillance equipment of his own, and watches their street on television screens in his basement. My friend doesn't want to install his new surveillance equipment, but he's worried his neighbor will find out if he doesn't. Is there a polite way out of this one?
Sincerely,
B.B.
AG: Move.
Dear Aunt Gwenda,
I've eaten all the orange, green, and yellow jelly beans, and only the pink and white ones are left. Should I force them down or just throw them away? And why won't the jelly bean manufacturers stop making them?
AG: Jelly bean manufacturers are actually a little-known arm of the government. Where do you think the mind control comes from? Oh wait, if you're eating that many jelly beans, you probably can't think anymore. Don't worry your pretty little sugar-rushed head about it.
Dear Aunt Gwenda,
Should just everyone and anyone get dogs or just the few and proud? How do people know if they are ready for such responsibility?
AG: Everyone and anyone should definitely not get dogs. Do not get a dog if you: travel to outer space frequently; like the taste of dog meat in the morning; are often overcome with sloth; have an irrational fear of dogs; expect people around you to follow your commands without treats; or you're a cat person. How do you know if you're ready for the responsibility? Grow up, babyface. If you have to ask, that dog will own you.
Dear Aunt Gwenda,
I used to want to be a pirate, but now everybody wants to be a pirate, and if we're all pirates then we'll have no one to pirate, due to the restrictions of the pirate's code. I've tried developing other fantasies, but when I fall asleep I still smell rum and hear the shivering of timber. What course should I set here?
Sincerely,
Barbara Rossa
AG: For awhile we were all busy being zombies, and I believe that just as that gave way to the pirate craze, arrgh matey will eventually give way to a unicorn craze. Don't we all just want a big old horn coming out of our forehead, glossy white flanks and a magical land to gallop through? All of us except you and your bad grammar dreams apparently. I personally can't wait to see you trying to pirate us unicorns. We will kick your ass.
Dear Aunt Gwenda,
My partner is considering a position at an educational institution (by choice, not judge-mandated) in another state. What special considerations should we take with our book collection?
Yours,
F.W.
AG: Book collection? See, alarm bells start to go off immediately. Book “collections” make me nervous. What are you—the Vatican's secret agents? The rest of us just call them books. Cull the doubles and give them away. Pack the rest in boxes. As long as it's not a rogue state, you shouldn't have any trouble crossing the border with them.
Dear Attorney General,
How long, how long, can you hang on?
AG: This is misaddressed. A hazard of initials. Aunt Gwenda will outlast Gonzalez and the cockroaches.
Dear Aunt Gwenda,
When the best fantasists in the world are in power in the USA, where does that leave a clean-living, story every week professional?
AG: Oh, I hate you overly productive types.
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Under the Skin
Steven Bratman
Just as he took the casserole out of the oven, Scott heard his seven-year-old daughter Caitlin come hurrying across the deck, calling, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. He has horns. Big pink horns."
She banged the door open, ran for the kitchen, and grabbed her father around the waist as he cast around anxiously for somewhere to set the hot pan. He found a place for it between the pot of boiling pasta and an empty pressure cooker and kneeled and stroked her hair. Caitlin's lips were purplish, her skin dusky.
"Slow down,” he said. “Catch your breath."
This could be it, he thought, the moment she pushes herself too hard and it happens.
Caitlin pulled her head away, her round face more astonished than scared. “Daddy, that man—the one across from the Carsons, you know that strange guy, the one who never comes out of his house? Well he came out today while Laurel and I were playing house in the woods. There's great big horns coming out of his forehead, as big as my thumb. Bigger than my thumb."
"Horns? What do you mean? Horns like a deer?"
"No. Skin-color horns. Laurel says it's because he listens to the devil's music and it's the devil coming out in him."
He gently patted his daughter's shoulder through the bright pink. “Laurel always talks about the devil. Remember when she said Carol and Judy were from the devil because they're lesbians? Then you met them, and they were perfectly nice?"
"Yes. Well Judy, not Carol. But he does have horns, just like the devil."
He wondered how Laurel's parents, Reverend Michael and his wife Jennifer, would deal with this. Not too well. “There isn't any such thing as the devil, Caitlin. Maybe it's under-the-skin jewelry?"
She looked at him, wide eyed.
"It's starting to get popular. You put a piece of metal or something under the skin and it makes a bulge."
"Why?"
"You have your ears pierced, don't you?” he said. He fingered the pink hearts in her earlobes. “It's the same idea. Though on the ot
her hand, he might have cancer. Cancer can make things grow out of your skin."
"What's cancer?"
While he explained, her lips turned back to their usual healthy red. So it wouldn't happen right now, her impossibly deformed heart killing her. But soon. Maybe she would live a little longer if he forced her to stay in bed, if he didn't let her live the life of a little girl growing up in the woods. That's what her mother had insisted on, back before she divorced him and disappeared. But after Dawn left he'd decided that, even if Caitlin didn't have long to live, he'd allow her a full life for the time she had.
The phone rang, and Jennifer's voice came on over the answering machine. Before she could get started Scott picked up and said, “Caitlin just told me. How about she sleeps over your house tonight, and I go down to talk to him? I'm thinking there's a logical explanation, like maybe skin cancer."
Caitlin put her little hands around Scott's waist. “Don't go! What if he really is the devil?"
He rubbed his forefinger down his daughter's soft, freckled nose. When he'd finished making arrangements with Jennifer, he held his daughter in his arms and let her misshapen heart thump irregularly against his chest.
* * * *
After dinner, Caitlin forgot all her fear in the happiness of a mid-week sleepover. They walked hand in hand across the wooded cul-de-sac. Jennifer answered the door wearing a tight, low-cut red satin blouse and black skirt, the sexy style oddly de rigueur at her fundamentalist church.
"Don't let them scare each other too much talking about it,” Scott said, as Caitlin disappeared toward Laurel's room.
"Oh, no, don't worry about that,” Jennifer said. “I'll have them watch Veggie Tales."
These were Christian cartoons, but Scott didn't mind; Veggie Tales were funny and very well done.
When Scott stepped back outside, he wondered for the hundredth time why Jennifer and Michael even bothered to live in the country. They'd cleared all the trees off their lot and planted some fragile strain of grass that needed constant defense to survive. And while everyone else let their dogs run free—the RiverPark Housing Association didn't enforce a leash law—Jennifer considered the practice uncivilized and kept their Great Dane perpetually confined in a minuscule dog run.
Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 20 Page 3
