The Crash of Hennington

by Patrick Ness

  They didn’t seem to blame her, though, glancing at her sadly but without accusation, and indeed, they had a point. The cow had been extremely old and perhaps unable to eat enough to keep her alive even if greener grass were underfoot. Maybe some other, unknown condition had merely accelerated an already imminent death. Herdmembers died. It was sad that it had to happen. That was all.

  And yet. What if the worst was true? What if the old cow had died because of her neglect? Though she had not slept through the night as the cow had slowly passed, and had led the herd with considerable vigor all day long to the greenest, wettest spots she knew of, she was still wide awake well after dark. What had she not seen? What could have happened differently? Was there anything?

  When she was a calf the leader was a stout bull with dark creases under his eyes. He had once led the herd in an attempted fording of a river that was nearly in flood. Four of the first five animals crossing had been washed away and drowned, excepting only the leader whose immense weight alone carried him safely to the other side. A shaky, tenuous period followed, but the chastened leader was slowly forgiven and allowed to retake a firm, if increasingly cautious, grip over the herd. The lead position depended entirely upon the faith of the members of the herd being led, and it was true that there seemed to be no question of her losing that. Still, she didn’t want to lose any others, even from natural causes, even from the inevitable additional deaths that the worsening drought would certainly bring. It was an impossible goal, but in striving for the impossible, she might accomplish the improbable.

  As if this wasn’t enough, there was also the whole matter of the thin creature. His behavior was becoming more erratic, if that was possible. His awful sick sour smell hovered about like a swarm of lazy bees. He had not made any further attempts to bother the herdmembers physically, but he had taken to yelping at them from up in the trees. Some of the more sensitive among the herd were becoming unnerved by his presence and had begun chasing him off if he ventured too close. She was concerned not only for the safety of the herd but, distantly, for the thin creature himself. What if his strangeness increased? He had never been a threat to them before. How could she keep him from molesting them without hurting him? What if he died of whatever illness he was suffering from? He had been with them since before she and most of the rest of the herd were born. What would happen to them after he was gone? Of course the herd would continue just fine, but even so, that sort of change was unwelcome.

  Her ears turned back as she heard him pass by some distance behind her in the dark, a low gurgling coming from the underbrush. What was to become of him? What was to become of them? As tired as she was, it was still a long while before she could manage to sleep.

  (Agnes Derwent was deep into her morning constitutional when she heard the buzzing. Her gnarled hand raising her walking stick-cum-cane, she strayed from her set path, whacking away a few low palm leaves in search of the sound’s source. She had done this walk in varying forms for years, dwindling from a stroll along the beach in the early days down to the current widowhood version of three turns around her (admittedly very large) back garden. She had never enjoyed it, which was the point. Exercise should be unpleasant, boring, and difficult, otherwise how would you know you were doing it properly? So when she heard the buzzing of the flies through the trees that led to the lawn bowling green, she was annoyed. She grew even more annoyed when she saw the carcass of a large rhinoceros baking under the morning sun. The day was hot, again, which annoyed her even further. She scowled even though there was no one to see her but the flies and the dead beastie.

  —Now who do you suppose is going to clean that up?)

  53. Fallout.

  As soon as Monday had dawned, a daisy chain of visitors began appearing in Jarvis’ office and continued with surprising persistence as the week dragged on.

  Sally Nottingham: ‘Maybe I’m being oversensitive, Pastor, but I couldn’t help thinking you were talking about me. I mean, I know I sometimes get a little over-enthusiastic about what I let my children do and don’t do, but do you think that’s wrong? I realize there was some talk when I wouldn’t let Melinda wear trousers to school, but to me, the Sacraments are very clear on what a woman should wear. And if I don’t think that either her or Daniel should date until they’re twenty-one, well, I’m sorry, but that’s just the way I feel. I’m just trying to be a good Bondulay and follow the Sacraments exactly as I read them. Am I going too far? Is that what you were trying to say? Was it about me?’

  Rackle Minneham: ‘Couldn’t agree with you more, but it won’t do any good. I understood you, but for the rest of the sheep in there, it’s just in one ear and out the other. You got them old biddies who started reading the Sacraments when they were eight years old in Bondulay School and haven’t come up for air since. Now about that loan I was hoping to get from the church. It would really be a help to this business I’m starting up. Listen …’

  Jerry Bish: ‘Was that a warning since I’m not Rumour? Am I in some sort of danger?’

  Jessica Hickham-Dearth: ‘I for one am really tired of this left-wing propaganda coming from the pulpit of my own Bondulay prefecture. Your job is to instruct us and uplift us with teachings from the Sacraments, not pass along this nonsense fairy tale. I’ve never seen any convincing evidence that the sailors didn’t bring the punishment on themselves, or for that matter whether this supposed “massacre” ever even took place. Let’s face it, it’s a fiction started by bleeding hearts like yourself to add yet another chapter to the persecution sweepstakes. I mean, really, Pastor, I expect more from the head of my church than historical lies.’

  Amos Oham: ‘I once went out on an ocean-going fishing boat, back in the days just after the Gentlemen’s War. I remember it like it was yesterday. The sun beat down from a pink, morning sky, shining on a young lad of thirteen …’

  Lorna Wyndham: ‘Forgive me if this seems paranoid but were you alluding to anything in particular? Do the prophecies say there’s something coming? Is it the end of everything? You know me, Reverend Kingham, I’m a bit of a worrywart. Is there something I should be keeping an eye out for, something I should be preparing my family for? Or am I missing the meaning of it all, maybe? Is it happening soon?’

  Jameson Drossham and Wil Huffham: ‘We’ve been speaking with some of the other Deacons and some of the parishioners, and frankly, some of us are a little offended by the, shall we say, hectoring tone of your sermon on Sunday. Some of us sort of feel that this type of thing is a bit too much of a sermon. Do you know what I mean? There’s a feeling that your lesson was too much of a lesson, rapping us on the, so to speak, knuckles, a feeling that you maybe treated us a bit too much like, as it were, children.’

  Germaine Pelham: ‘This bad reaction to prophecy or misuse of the Sacraments or whatever it is you were talking about, how will it affect the Spring Cotillions? Because my parents have put out a lot of money, and if we need to change venues, we need to know that now. Do you have any idea how cutthroat it is these days?’

  And on it went. The most heartfelt, passionately directed sermon of his life, and it was like rubber bouncing off stone. Even his friends smiled politely and shook their heads. Somehow, in some way that he couldn’t see and that continued to astonish him, he had stepped wrong. Why was this so unpleasant for them? What had he said that had been so difficult to hear? Jarvis was nothing if not a thoughtful man, and he searched his mind and soul to see if and where he had gone wrong. He was coming up empty. If he knew this little about his parishioners, then how could any of his sermons have impact? At least, he thought, the week was almost over, and there could hardly be another week’s worth of uproar over his upcoming sermon on generosity of spirit. That one would just bore them.

  But then half an hour before Jarvis left for the day on Friday, his office door opened without a knock and in walked Theophilus Velingtham.

  —Greetings, Brother Kingham, on this fine, warm summer’s day.

  —Fine hot summer’s da
y, some might say, Brother Velingtham.

  —I’m not one to question what the Good Lord has chosen to bless us with, Pastor.

  Theophilus wore his ever-present smile. The best Jarvis could muster in response was a tight-lipped grin that he knew made him look as if he was bravely suffering through pain, which, come to think of it …

  —What can I do for you, Theophilus?

  —A friendly visit, Pastor. A friendly parishioner-to-preacher chat is all. No agenda.

  —That’s good to hear.

  —Though I have been going over your latest sermon in my mind in the past few days.

  —Ah.

  —Listening and learning from it with much prayer and reference to the Sacraments, as I do with all of your sermons.

  —That’s very flattering.

  —I do not intend it to be so. Flattery leads to pride, which the Sacraments tells us is a venal sin. I refer to the story of the King and the shoemaker wherein—

  —I’m familiar with the story.

  —Yes, of course you would be. I’m merely a parishioner. Who am I to venture instruction to my own most reverend Reverend?

  And still the smile. Jarvis fought down thoughts of putting his hands around Velingtham’s throat.

  —Was there anything in particular about my sermon that you wanted to talk about?

  —No, I can’t say there was anything ‘in particular’ about your sermon that I wished to go over with you. There is, however, something in general that struck me as worthy of further discussion.

  —And what would that be?

  —May I be candid?

  —I would hope for nothing less.

  —I think perhaps you are misguided.

  —In what?

  —In your interpretation of what the Sacraments have to teach us.

  —You mean my feelings on the Book of Ultimates.

  —Yes, precisely. I wonder if your distaste over the admittedly horrible goings-on during the Brandon Beach Incident—

  —Massacre.

  —Yes, ‘Massacre', I wonder if your feelings of revulsion at that episode, natural as they are, of course, have colored your opinion of the wonderful things the Book of Ultimates contains, the information it has that adds meaning to our lives.

  —Well, as I hope you know, my whole belief in the Sacraments is based upon the meaning I feel they can add to our lives.

  —Except, it would seem, the Book of Ultimates.

  —I don’t dismiss the Book of Ultimates out of hand—

  —That’s good to hear, since I may have misunderstood that exact viewpoint from Sunday’s sermon.

  —Theophilus. I understand the appeal of prophecy—

  —Prophecy is a gift from Our Lord.

  —But surely you must admit that the writing in the Ultimates is so open to interpretation that we must proceed with the utmost caution, if we proceed at all.

  —I admit only that the Sacraments, the Book of Ultimates included, are the divinely given word of Our Lord. It would be dangerous to presume that one can ignore them at will.

  —It would also be dangerous to presume we understand their meaning without reservation.

  —Don’t you think that Our Lord took that into account? How can you know His mind and His plan?

  —How can you?

  —I can believe that He planned full well the words in the Ultimates. I can believe that He would have His believers act as their hearts tell them based upon our interpretation of those words. And I can believe that whatever the outcome of that interpretation, however unpleasant it may be, it must follow as a part of His plan, and therefore His will.

  —Brother Velingtham, if I may say so, that’s the road to chaos. To madness. First and foremost, Our Lord gave us free will with which to avoid debacles like Brandon Beach.

  —But He also has a destiny for every man. Who are you to say that Brandon Beach was a debacle? Yes, on the surface, it’s terrible, but how do you or any of us know that the deaths of those sailors was not part of Our Lord’s plan?

  —I think you’re veering dangerously close to blasphemy, Theophilus.

  —Am I?

  —With what you’re saying, any action whatsoever, no matter how debased or violent, can be justified.

  —Who are we to get in the way of Our Lord’s plan?

  —I don’t know what Lord you’re speaking of. Certainly not My Lord. The deaths of innocents come when the hand of man contradicts what Our Lord teaches. Destruction comes when man misinterprets the word and name of Our Lord for his own selfish purposes. These are the things the Sacraments teaches. At least, the Sacraments that I read.

  Theophilus’ smile broadened. An empty moment of time passed before he spoke.

  —Very passionately presented, Pastor. I respect your position immensely, and though we disagree on this one small point, I thank you for your willingness to talk my ideas through with me.

  —Did I change your mind?

  —Does that really matter so much? We now know where we all stand and that’s before Our Lord in worship. I’m grateful to have a man as ardently committed to the Sacraments as I am at the helm of our little church. Our disagreements are as nothing in His eyes. Good day, Reverend Kingham, and may Our Lord bless you.

  With the smile still stretched across his face, Velingtham left without another word. Jarvis leaned far back into his chair with the frustrated sweat of a man cut off just before the culmination of a difficult task, a stumble with the finish line in sight. Theophilus had always been zealous and officiously pious to the point where Jarvis wanted to kick his teeth in, but today seemed to point to a depth of blind faith that almost wandered into the unsettling. Jarvis was surprised to find himself agitated on a very basic level and not a little frightened. Where was this all heading? He exhaled deeply and tried to figure out just how it was that he had managed to venture so far into unknown and possibly dangerous territory.

  54. Max and Talon and The Emu.

  —I don’t see him.

  —Look beneath that stretch of bamboo.

  —Where?

  —There.

  —Where? I can’t—

  —Follow along the tops of the shrubs and stop just under that bamboo.

  —Oh, I see. Not doing much, is he?

  —It’s hot. He’s probably taking a siesta.

  —What’s a siesta?

  —It’s a nap in the middle of the day to prepare yourself for the evening ahead.

  —Can a tiger really get that tired in a paddock?

  —Probably not, but it is pretty hot out here.

  —Okay, so then what did Mayor Cora say?

  —That the City Council had approved the title and passed a budget making it a separate office.

  —What’s the title again?

  —Crash Advocate-General.

  —I still don’t understand exactly what you’ll be doing.

  —Well, you know how sometimes The Crash walk on people’s lawns and accidentally knock down fences?

  —And smash cars.

  —I’ve never heard that.

  —Jamie Lewis’ father had to turn his car to miss them and he hit a bus bench.

  —Then that’s more Jamie Lewis’ father’s fault than The Crash’s, huh?

  —I guess so. What’s that?

  —A vole.

  —Never heard of them.

  —Says here they’re mainly in the desert. They’re rodents.

  —Like mice?

  —Exactly.

  —They’re bigger than a mouse.

  —Takes all sizes, honey.

  —So what about The Crash?

  —You know sometimes people complain about them, right?

  —Yeah.

  —And you know that the city has laws protecting them, right?

  —Yeah, everybody likes them.

  —Not everybody, and even the ones that do sometimes get annoyed with them when they trample gardens and knock down fences.

  —So you’re going to protec
t them yourself?

  —If I can. Cora’s agreed to give The Crash separate legal representation. Me.

  —You’re going to be their lawyer.

  —I see it more as being their public advocate. They can’t talk for themselves, so maybe I can do their talking for them.

  —What about Maggerty?

  —And where did you learn that name?

  —School. Everyone tells stories about him.

  —Well, you stay away from him if he ever comes around, okay? He’s probably harmless, but he’s not all right in the head.

  —But doesn’t he already look after them?

  —Maybe he thinks he does. Who knows?

  —Could something bad happen to The Crash?

  —Don’t worry, little one. I don’t think anything’s going to happen to them anytime soon, but they might as well have someone to defend them if it does.

  —And that’s what you’re going to do?

  —Yep. What do you think?

  —These monkeys smell.

  —Let’s keep going then.

  —That one’s picking up poop and throwing it.

  —Come on, Talon. Let’s go to the aviary.

  —The aviary’s boring.

  —How can you say that?

  —You can’t do anything with a bird.

  —Birds are amazing. They can fly.

  —But you can’t pick up a bird. You can’t pet them or sleep with them in your bed. They just stare at you with those crazy little eyes and scream all the time.

  —I had no idea you felt so strongly.

  —Tara Wiser has a cockatoo, and all it does is scream.

  —But there are more birds in the world than cockatoos. Come on. You’ll see all kinds of things.

  —Daddy—

  —Come on. You won’t regret it.

  —All right, but so why The Crash though?

  —Remember when we put out food for them when there was that wheat blight?

  —Sort of.

  —You were very little, but that was something my office did.