Weirdbook 32

by Douglas Draa

  The mayor had retreated in dread. Trumpeting harrumphantly, Grumwald endeavored to restore his authority and reputation as he hurried to seize her arm. “Stay back, Miss Twill—” His gruff tone stumbled. A vapid mug blinked at her, owlish. He knew it was some foreign name. The guy released her and coughed in embarrassment. “Everybody keep back. This thing could be radioactive. I’m establishing a perimeter until the sheriff arrives. I called his office and left a message to meet me here. Has anyone seen him?” He scanned visages. “All right, well, he should be along soon. Just step away, miss.”

  “Uh-uh. I can’t.” Zelda’s hand remained on the boulder. A delicate oval face reflected turmoil.

  Baxter rolled his eyes. “Oh dear.” He squinted to assess the rebel. “I’m not asking you. That was an order.”

  “Understood. But I cannot do it.”

  “Yes you can. It’s quite simple.” He demonstrated.

  “No, not for me.”

  “And why is that?”

  Zelda shrugged. “It won’t let me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Baxter’s eyebrows lowered, bunching together. A troublemaker. As suspected. He had voted against hiring her. She was inexperienced. The council insisted. There were no other applicants. “In case you aren’t aware, civil disobedience is punishable by law.”

  “I am sorry. I truly am. I cannot obey.” The young woman’s countenance crinkled with dismay. “I’m unable to explain this.”

  Grumwald pivoted to his audience and heaved a theatrical sigh. “Then I’m afraid there’s no choice but to have you taken into custody once Sheriff Aberdeen gets here,” he announced, wearing a mystified expression. If this event became ugly, the man would need a scapegoat to divert attention, feed the lynch-squad’s wrath. Any gathering could turn, yank out daggers or pitchforks in a heartbeat. She had practically volunteered for the role.

  He adjusted a tacky blue tie adorned with yellow baby ducks, pulling at the knot jammed below his throat. The tie had been a gift from his mother, rest her soul, and now it was choking him. He hoped she was happy. Bax scowled at an overcast sky. The man was not religious, yet he did believe in ghosts and pompously assumed she was watching him every minute. He searched the features of the crowd for a withered ghoul, a shimmering apparition.

  Behind him the librarian trembled. Her body stiffened. Eyeballs went white, the irises scrolling upward. Neck angled, noggin tilted, Zelda shouted to the clouds: “What fools!”

  Baxter’s jaw tensed. He trudged to her and growled, “Did you call me a fool?”

  Zelda meekly confronted him. “Not you. The entire town.”

  Mayor Grumwald leaned nose to nose, his frown boring into her eyes. “That isn’t better. It’s worse.”

  “My apologies.”

  “I can lock you up and throw away the key.” The man grabbed her free wrist. “Got it?”

  She winced as he squeezed. The female nodded. He flung her arm. Zelda’s mouth twisted in contempt. He was like every bully she had the displeasure to cross paths with—a very small person inside. Her wrist burned. Then the boulder talked, and the woman absorbed its statement. Her spine arched. Head tipped to regard the heavens, she gurgled incoherent. The sounds halted. Words frothed out of her lips. “I have observed while you populated to conquer then decimate this planet. In addition to warring and slaughtering, ruling and enslaving each other over diversity. Fools. That is what you are!”

  Zelda straightened abruptly. Flushed and defiant, she declared that the rock had spoken.

  Mayor Grumwald wheezed. He barked like a hound. Cackles and guffaws echoed him. The townsfolk chortled with amusement.

  “Are you trying to tell us the rock is intelligent?” Baxter cracked up in a subsequent round of levity.

  “I’m telling you what it said.”

  The mayor howled, bright pink with mirth, inspiring members of the community to share a good laugh at her expense. “Stop! Stop! You’re killing me!” The man clasped his stomach in mock agony.

  “I am not making this up,” claimed Zelda. Their attitude exasperated her. Even more vexing, she continued to be attached to the thing. Why had she gone over to it? She was the biggest fool. Did the rock summon her? Was she chosen? Or was she merely the village idiot? The only person dumb enough to go up and give it five!

  Hands on knees, bent forward, Baxter caught his breath. He grimaced, envisioning a public-relations fiasco involving rioters waving civil-rights banners versus gun-toting civilians, lawmen and soldiers swinging clubs, if anything happened to her. The streets would be rivers of blood. How would that look on the Five-O-Clock news? “Okay. There’s no need to make a legal issue of this. Let’s just step back and wait for the sheriff. He’ll sort this out, and then we can return to our lives.”

  Zelda shook her head as if declining the appeal. It was really a gesture of impatience because no one would listen—either to her or the rock!

  “I’m offering you a second chance. I strongly suggest you accept it.” The mayor glowered at her. He didn’t appreciate being refused, especially by an outsider, a vocal black woman from Timbuktu or wherever she was born.

  “Mayor, you are asking the impossible.”

  “Is my English too difficult? Or our customs? In America we do things a certain way. We pay attention to the mayor of a municipality.”

  “I’m as American as you are, sir. I was born in this land.”

  “Well then, Miss Twillabug, I guess we have a problem.”

  “It’s Twillamung, and I suppose we do.”

  They were trapped in an impasse, each compelled to play their part, unable to withdraw from their position.

  A town raptly spectated, enjoying the drama.

  Zelda spasmed violently, eyeballs white. Her fit ended. Panting, she translated a stony assurance, head bowed in reverence or fatigue: “This is not about borders and nations. It is about the world. This Earth your feet are planted upon. You will die if you fail to acknowledge the situation.”

  Grumwald’s demeanor toughened. “Miss Twillamong, is that a threat?”

  “No, Mayor, it’s a promise.” She regretted the words immediately and pleaded, “You must heed the warning. A rock has no sense of humor. This is not a hoax. It is of grave importance.”

  “Now I’ve heard everything.” The mayor boosted his volume. “A rock has no sense of humor? A rock has no sense, period! A rock cannot communicate! Forget the sheriff. I think we need to phone the men in white jackets.” The man’s pitch decreased to snarls. “Let’s get one thing clear, little lady. I’m in charge. Not this rock, and not some wet-behind-the-ears librarian. You should stick to shelving books and leave the politics to me.”

  Zelda lifted her head high and responded with dignity, “I wish I could. I would like nothing else. The rock won’t let me.”

  Mindful of a broader public opinion beyond the city limits, easily stirred like a nest of hornets, Baxter’s mood softened to mild sarcasm. “You’re being stubborn. I sympathize with how you must feel. You’re new here, trying to fill the shoes of a beloved denizen. No friends or family. I’m ashamed to admit, we didn’t exactly give you a red-carpet welcome. We’re a small town, which has its charms. We also have our flaws. And I wonder, Miss Twillamong, what was your reason for choosing this job? In a community where you were bound to be as conspicuous as…a sore thumb?” He wanted to say a raisin in a bowl of rice, but that might be construed as racist. He didn’t need a journalist quoting him out of context, and a casual remark circling an incensed globe. The town might demand his resignation over the negative outcry.

  “If you’re implying I must be crazy to come here, I may be willing to agree.” Zelda stood proudly—humble and exposed before a hamlet that was not, after all, a home.

  “I’m not implying anything. You don’t belong. You’re not one of us. Rather than wag your tongue and spout nonsense, I recom
mend you go shove your nose in a book or pack your bags and skedaddle. This is a town matter. It isn’t your concern.”

  Zelda met the scorn and rejection with a level gaze. It always amazed her there were such people, judging her by color or gender. Sometimes both. What century was it? Human nature hadn’t evolved that much to still have these silly conflicts. The rock had a point.

  A burst of electricity stunned her, transmitting a bulletin.

  “You need guidance. Unity. Objective leadership. You have to find a middle ground,” she conveyed. “You cannot see the trees for the forest.”

  “No, no, no. You’ve got it backwards.” Grumwald corrected her in a condescending manner. “You can’t see the forest for the trees. That’s how it goes.”

  “I said what it wanted me to say. There are too many extremes. People see only the group and not the individual. We are all of us guilty.” The reverse parable rang a chord. Though she was private, Zelda morosely divulged her story. “My parents were from Australia, my mother White and my father an Aborigine. Her family opposed the marriage, so they went to live on an outback parcel of land that was left to my mum by her grandmother. They built a dwelling, a farmhouse. Her family wouldn’t let them live in peace, burning their camp, running them off the property. Father died from a stray bullet intended to scare them. I was born in America where my mother—a white woman—raised me in a black community, hoping I could be accepted. I was different, of mixed blood, and not the same culture. Most let us be. There are those in every quarter who won’t. Two hoods, thieves with knives, attacked Mum as she walked from her waitress job one night. She only had tips! My mom bled to death sprawled in an alley. I was an orphan at age twelve. I didn’t fit in with people who looked like me, so I thought all Blacks were like that. I came to this place where there were none. Just me. To answer your question, that is why I’m here. I have been rolling like a stone, hunting for my niche. Librarian seemed safe. Books were my friends. The memorable ones possess their own voice and personality. But I was wrong. Being a good person has nothing to do with color. It is under the skin, on the inside. That is where a person’s humanity is found.”

  Grumwald folded his arms. “Spare us the sappy lectures. We’re good people. You’re the one who’s creating a disturbance. Are you going to be nice and exit the vicinity, or do I need to make you?”

  “Insult me, exclude me, it doesn’t change the fact that I am linked to this presence for the moment. You will have to cut off my arm to separate me from it.” A bold declaration. Inwardly the woman cringed. Oh no, why did she mention that? He might do it!

  Baxter did indeed ponder the notion, but he wouldn’t risk a possibility of fallout. His companies could be shut down, with or without a scandal. As mayor he relied on votes, and there could be serious repercussions. A slew of nutcases might show up and set fire to the town!

  He chuckled, a dry rattle. “Don’t tempt me. That is an option. However, there’s no need for drastic measures. I am confident you’ll realize it is in your best interest to cooperate.”

  “Of course.” Zelda gave a derisive snort. Then jerked like she was being fried by a dose of current. The contorting diminished to shivers and she sagged, braced against stone, a limp form.

  The mayor huffed, elevating splayed fingers. “What? Another decree?” His hands drooped. “I don’t care if God is using you for a handpuppet, lady. I don’t want to hear another word from that overgrown pebble.” The fingers balled at his flanks. “I want you to march yourself home and stay out of this.” He glanced at the spectators, receiving murmurs of approval.

  Zelda ignored him, eyelids sealed.

  “Miss?” Grumwald tapped her shoulder. A surge of power knocked him a dozen feet, slamming the guy on his keister.

  Zelda’s head snapped up. Her eyes flashed. “I don’t have a home. That was your final warning.”

  The mayor rose, face and ears flaming. “I must’ve slipped,” he grumbled. “She pushed me. You saw her. I tried to be fair. I didn’t start this, and I won’t hesitate to end it.”

  Zelda’s orbs glittered like dark gems as she also addressed the throng. “Nobody thinks of stone as a force. They overlook it, but it is conscious deep down, beneath the surface.”

  Harsh stares. Belligerence. She perceived no trace of comprehension or compassion.

  “All right. That’s it. You’ve had your fun. I’m not listening to any more of this hogwash. You’re under citizen’s arrest, Miss Twillamong.” Baxter’s announcement dripped with satisfaction. “I’ll escort you downtown. The courthouse has a detainment cell for criminals, and I have a key.”

  “You mean your office?”

  The pair beheld each other with flared nostrils.

  “You won’t feel so clever when you’re behind bars.”

  “Good luck with that,” Zelda hissed.

  Grumwald strode forth and gripped the wrist of her hand fixed to the boulder. He strained to peel it loose without success. “She glued it,” he complained. “Or it’s some kind of trick.” He jabbed a forefinger in her direction. “Some voodoo hocus-pocus!”

  The accused replied, “I don’t know what it is. I am not responsible. We all are.”

  Jeers were audible.

  “Shut up, witch.”

  “How dare you!”

  “We didn’t do anything.”

  “You brought this!”

  They were on his side. Hoisting a fist as a symbol of solidarity, the mayor grinned victorious and paraded in front of the boulder and his flock.

  Zelda convulsed.

  “Drop the act,” commanded Grumwald. He reached to grasp her elbow, then clawed at air and reeled his arm in, reluctant to be shocked.

  The woman’s quivering subsided. “You are not the masters,” she intoned with an obsidian glare. “We endure. We are everywhere and can wipe you out, grind you to dust. We are capable of moving faster. None of you are safe…on the land, in the oceans, on mountains, in caves. Even in the sky. We helped shape this planet and brought it life. We are ancient. Your existence is fleeting.”

  The mob gaped at her, incredulous.

  Grumwald scoffed, “She’s insane, preaching mythological sci-fi mumbo-jumbo. She wants you to buy into her lame fantasy that we’re at the mercy of rocks. It’s the stupidest thing I ever heard!”

  “I don’t want this!” cried Zelda. “I’m being used! I am as vulnerable as any of you. And I do not have to justify or explain myself. I told you who I am.”

  “Yeah. A wacko. I bet she escaped from a psychiatric ward!”

  “What has made you so bitter?”

  “Hey, I’m not the one on a soapbox spewing drivel about gloom and doom.”

  “Maybe you should be. You need to wake up.”

  “Why? Is this a dream? Are we in your nightmare? Or are you delusional?”

  “It’s very real.”

  Through gritted teeth, Baxter professed, “Reality is waking up to an empty house. My wife left me years ago. She went off with a bearded vagabond, an itinerant teeshirt designer who drove a van! I’ve been miserable ever since. Business and politics became my bedfellows. This is my city.” The potbellied hothead swallowed then seethed, “If you think we’re going to live under a rock, quaking in fear of a stone, you are sadly mistaken. I am in control. Not you, and not a hunk of gravel.”

  Turbulence rippled.

  The tremor caused Mayor Grumwald to lurch. “What was that?”

  Zelda hooted and beamed at her palm. It was free!

  In horror, she slapped it to her lips as she witnessed the boulder shift toward Grumwald. Lethal weight trundled. His yelp was swiftly flattened. The librarian muffled her shriek, clamping her mouth. She had just been conversing with him!

  Everyone froze, aghast and alarmed. Zelda was the first to react, hastening to budge a monstrosity in vain. Others joined her effort. The
obstruction wouldn’t give an inch, lodged securely. Zelda bleated, noticing the squashed remnants of a man in uniform. The rock had been squatting on top of Sheriff Aberdeen.

  Volunteers melted to the sea of faces. The librarian wrestled alone, grappling, exerting, then sought to abandon a futile task. Both hands adhered to the boulder, widely distributed. She was its prisoner. At any instant, the rock might decide to crush her.

  “No,” Zelda whimpered, hunched abjectly.

  With a stab of animus, her own juice this time, the woman’s posture aligned…then she thrashed in a wild dance of dissent and revolt, a protest of oppression, striving to extricate herself from bondage. The mystery ore clung to her, staunch, impervious.

  When her sentiments had drained, she embraced the block of stone like a weary boxer hugs an opponent: not in surrender, but a mutual state of respect. The boulder reciprocated, tickling fibers and nerves with heat, a subliminal pulse. The woman felt numb. Throbbing intensified. It was torture. Braincells hurt. Fingers stung. Ears and lips ached.

  The vibrations suspended. Thrusting away, as far as circumstances would permit, she discerned an eerie bass hum like a sub-woofer. The dull roar infused her, provoking shudders that grew to paroxysms. An urgent missive was dispatched. Then the rock unhanded her, and the librarian collapsed to palms and knees, as if groveling. Or praying.

  She picked herself up and swayed, unsteady, burdened by a cumbrous obligation. They would hate the message and the messenger.

  A mass of strangers studied her. She couldn’t recognize them and began to picture the multitude as a beast with many heads. A legion of extremists; left or right, they were the same. Incapable of compromise, of empathy. Zelda’s throat clenched with emotion. They would hate her. They already did. And they didn’t even know her! Tears spilled from brown eyes. She surveyed the people, clinching her left wrist in her right hand. “I’m sorry. This isn’t my fault. Please remember that.”