Gnochi looked up. “Initially, the prosperity that defined these families when they lived in Middle Creek proper did not follow them. Why not? Because, their water supplies were either too scarce, or required more effort to bring to potability. Both cities had to allocate upwards of three quarters of their merchants to the water-trade. Wagon trails stretched all the way north to the glacier, and wagoniers were paid quite handsomely to lug barrels and barrels of glacial water back to the cities to supplement their own water meager wells. Brigands and bandits along the routes made the trade risky and more expensive.
“It was on one of these wagon trips that a laborer had an idea. Over the course of a decade, and through the loss of thousands of lives, a dry canal was dug, connecting Blue city’s small river with the river supplied by the Great Northern Glacier. That same laborer, now head of canal development, lobbied the leaders of Blue city to have River Middle Creek dammed. This not only cut off Middle Creek proper and Brichton nearly entirely from their water source, but it also forced even more water down the south-western canal that, from its completion up to that point, had displayed lackluster results. With the damming of River Middle Creek at its source came a great rejuvenation for Blue city, aptly renamed Blue Haven after the laborer who revived the resource-depleted settlement.
“Unbeknownst to anyone in Blue Haven, was that the Imunites were also in the process of digging a dry canal to the glacier. They had started late and were a distance from completing their canal. When the river was dammed, water flooded in all directions. After it settled, the water flow found the western canal easy enough. The escaping floodwaters also found the Imuny canal, despite its being miles from completion. What resulted is what we have today. Twin rivers branching from the glacier in the north.” Gnochi stopped and took the breath that he seemed to be dragging out for the past few minutes. He picked up a mug at his feet and sent a silent nod to Nettles, taking a hearty draft.
“Of course, with River Middle Creek dammed and running dry, over time, the lake too decayed into the desert of today. With no water supplying their mills and fisheries, people emigrated in droves. It was an exodus. The first successful settlement in the second age was hung out to dry. Most people fled from there to form other local settlements or they merely joined up with existing ones. Mirr, Urtin and Shallow Hills are directly related to the degradation of the region. Its emigrants also joined with the nations to the south and quite a crowd made their way to Ludvit and Louiston. Truly the first war in Lyrinth’s history was one fought with plowshares and shovels rather than swords. And because the structures were left uninhibited by the elements and brigands alike, Middle Creek proper—and now Brichton, it seems—became a refuge city for travelers.”
Chapter 28
A strained silence met Gnochi as he wrapped up his history lesson. He cleared his throat and looked to Cleo who met his gaze with a warm smile. Other faces around the fire varied with their displayed expressions. Some were confused; others, reserved; yet more still, defiant. Most held some form of contradiction, as though what they’d heard conflicted with what they were taught back in the city.
“It was an amusing story despite its blatant deceit,” General said, shattering the silence. “The history books are quite clear on how the Blue family led the army that destroyed the murderous scum squatting in this desert town. Why else do you think we had a military presence maintained in Middle Creek proper?”
Gnochi scowled, his brows furrowed.
“I expect to hear naught of this fallacious history from any of you. Do I make myself clear?” A chorus of ‘yes, General’ echoed through the camp. “With that being said, we would be interested in hearing your scheduled performance.”
“Yes, well, in light of recent circumstances, I have forgone my role in the play and instead sequestered Zara as an understudy to fill in.” A low murmur spread across the group of players familiar with Zara. “If I could have the actors come to the fire to have a unified voice, you can begin.”
“What, you’re not going to perform yourself?” General asked, snorting. A few of his soldiers chuckled to themselves. “Getting others to work for you so you can lounge around all day? Quite like Tom Sawyer of you.”
Gnochi was taken by surprise at the man’s words. “I wasn’t aware that Providence taught first age literature in battle school,” he quipped.
“They don’t. We were running low on wood last winteryear when I found the novel and read through it. Wasn’t too impressed, so I fed it to a peasant’s fire.”
The words slugged into Gnochi’s gut as though they were fists. When he looked up, he hid the hurt from his eyes.
“For the record, General, I’m sitting this out because I’ve been unconscious for two days due to a gunshot, so I hope you will pardon my recovering self as I’m not quite able to get in the mindset of vocalizing such a play.” His words dripped with acid. Hushed murmurs once again filled the camp. General himself looked as though he’d been caught off guard. Gnochi realized that Dorothea had not made his superior privy to everything that had been going on.
Those reciting the play had seated themselves around the fire, close enough to filch what little light was required for reading.
“If you’ll remember,” Gnochi said. “Last time I told a tale and you had some questions for me about God, but I had no answers. I’ve since wracked my brain and found no better answer than this one.”
God is a Dinosaur
Characters [voiced by]
CHUCKY [Cleo]: A young boy of 7. Wearing a hospital gown. Brain Damage.
MILES [Zara]: A man. Wearing simple clothing. Well-manicured and particular. Unknown.
CHUCK [Lome]: An adolescent boy of 15. Skin is sooty and blackened by ash; clothing is singed. Coughs frequently. Tuberculosis.
CHARLES [Roy]: An adult male of 24. Staff Sergeant in US Army. Prisoner in Poland for a year. Wearing a sodden military uniform. Suicide.
CHARLIE [Harvey]: An elderly man of 83. Wearing dingy striped medical pajamas. Liver failure due to age.
Scene: A small board room. CHUCKY is sleeping in one of the chairs with his head on his arms leaned over the table. MILES is writing in a small notebook, observing CHUCKY. CHUCKY yawns. He rubs his eyes. Picking his head up, CHUCKY notices the board room and the chair he is sitting in.
CHUCKY
Mommy? Daddy? Woah. Cool! This is one of those fancy chairs like Poppa’s boss had. CHUCKY spins in the chair and hits his head on the table as he dizzily comes to a stop. Feeling pain in his head, CHUCKY pats his head and discovers he is bald. Oh wow, does my head hurt. Why is there a crater on my head? Am I a planet? Ow! Ohh man, I’m bleeding. What happened? Am I dead?
MILES
Chucky, Welcome. CHUCKY looks up, confused. My name, well, the name I’ll go by, is Miles. I’m sure you have many questions, but now is not the time. I can assure you, that you are indeed dead. I would refrain from probing that crater of yours. Not that it’ll kill you. CHUCKY laughs. Listen, Chucky. What can you tell me about the last time you were alive? About [pause] yesterday?
CHUCKY
Well, ummm. A friend and I were running around in the old Morris Tin Factory. We had made it upstairs. One of the offices. Ugh, it’s all so fuzzy. There was something on the ground. He had gone back down to get our pop. And then, a shadow? MILES jots notes on his pad of paper. This morning I saw something.
MILES
What do you mean by that?
CHUCKY
Well, it’s just that this morning, I woke up with no feeling in any of my limbs. Glad that’s back, too. Couldn’t see anything, but I heard Momma and Poppa, and someone else. She called Poppa, “Gerald.” She never does that when I’m near.
MILES
Hmm interesting. Alright Chucky, sit tight. I’ll be bringing a few more folks in here, so be quiet as they recount whatever they feel they need to. Smoke wafts into the room from the floor. It lingers in the air and CHUCKY gasps for air between rough coughs. A new person enters: CHUCK. H
e is fifteen years old. His body is covered in black burns. Chuck, Welcome. You may call me Miles. I’m sure you have many questions for me, but I’d like to start by affirming that you are indeed dead.
CHUCKY
Hey! We have the same—
CHUCK:
I’m dead? Examining his body, CHUCK looks to MILES. CHUCK lets out a lengthy coughing fit. Why am I black? I feel like my insides are on fire.
MILES
Yes, Chuck, you are indeed dead. But alas, death is not the end. Hell, I’ve been dead for so many years that I can’t fathom how long.
CHUCK
So, this is Heaven then, and you’re—
MILES
Yes, we will get to that, indeed. Now please, Chuck. I’d appreciate it, and I think our little friend would also appreciate it, if you would recount how you died. Start from the original accident so we get the context of your current situation.
CHUCK
I suppose I’m here now because I caught the plague. And there’s only one time I could have caught the damn’d thing because no one I ever knew was sick with it. I was in a medical sleep for about a week when I was seven years old. CHUCK snickers. Yeah, a friend and I were fooling around in an old abandoned factory. Get this, the factory used to make tin toys. Then when The Great War rolled around, the owner was drafted. He ended up dying in the war. When it ended, the banks foreclosed on the owner’s wife. That’s why my friend and I used to snoop through it. We would look for old ammunition pieces or tools.
CHUCKY
That’s right. We were looking for ammo, or men’s magazines, or tools. Whatever they had left abandoned.
MILES
MILES glares at CHUCKY. Hush child. Continue, Chuck.
CHUCK
Anyways, my friend had gone down to get our pop, and I was wandering around. Something must have fallen on my head. All I know is that when I woke up, a week had passed. I was missing a chunk of my brain. The doctors had told my folks that during that week, I had contracted a disease. I never caught wind of the specifics. Figured, I was fine as Hell. Sorry. For the longest time, I was right as rain. Then, after eight years of being alright—had to wear a helmet for three of ‘em—one day I coughed up blood, and I was hotter than the sun. My parents rushed me to the hospital, but we really couldn’t afford any fancy medicine or doctors. They were still paying off my hospital visit all those years earlier from what I could tell. My friend would call me the hospital’s own ‘Hoover patient,’ because of how popular I was among the other people in the hospital. Whenever he came to visit, he would always be covered in plastic. Well, that was until his Mom forbade him from coming to see me. And every day I kept coughing up blood. Not sure how I had any left after a week. Last night, I went to bed, and woke up here. But that doesn’t explain why I’m black.
MILES
You aren’t black, my dear boy, but rather you are burnt. As you have told us, you contracted the ‘white plague’ when you were in the hospital as a child. The disease was suppressed, and you lived a normal eight years. The plague is one of those illnesses though, that can revive itself and wreak havoc again, many years down the line. The hospitals, in your time, had a mandatory cremation for all cadavers infected with easily communicable diseases, the memory of the influenza pandemic of 1918 still fresh on their minds, I see. Can I get you a glass of water?
CHUCK
Please.
CHUCKY
Me too please! The boys look down at the glasses which suddenly appear before them only to discover that they are glasses are empty.
Wha—
MILES
Chuck, I know you have more questions, but everything will become clear soon. We have another guest entering soon, so let’s give them our undivided attention. And don’t forget to breathe. You might be dead, but you should never forget the mundane things. They help you pass the years. The centuries. The millennia. Brisk water fills the room. CHUCKY and CHUCK stare in amazement as they discover that they can breathe and speak as effortlessly as if they were in the fresh air. CHARLES, 24, enters the boardroom.
Staff Sergeant Charles Wildnis, Welcome.
CHUCKY
Wait a second. Wildnis is my last name.
Is this an uncle I have?
MILES
Patience, Chucky. MILES turns back to CHARLES. For brevity sake, I will refer to you as Charles. My name, or what you may refer to me as, is Miles. I understand you have some questions, but maybe not the same questions that our young friends had when I brought them here. As I know you know, you are dead. I don’t expect you to question this, as you chose to die. I would appreciate it, however, if you would recount what it was that made you die in such a manner.
CHARLES
I am here because I killed myself. So, this must be Hell. CHUCK suddenly sits upright in his chair and coughs sending a spur of bubbles cascading to the ceiling.
CHUCK
You did what? What is the matter with—
MILES
Reserve your judgments, Chuck. Charles, you are not here because you ended your life. No, you are here, as are the other two young men, because you died, and you lived. Now please. Enlighten us about your life Charles.
CHARLES
Well, I’ll have to recount back to my adolescence if you want to truly understand why I killed myself. I had a rough childhood, one friend who stuck with me through thick and thin, and a shitload of bad luck. As a kid, I was in a coma for a week. It was there that I developed a dormant, violent strand of TB. Hell, my life was over as I knew it. I was fifteen, sick as a dog, coughing up my lungs, and I could see death. It was right there. And then, it wasn’t. One day, I sat up and felt the thirst of a desert. I drank a gallon and a half of water before the nurses had to restrain me. And I survived. I had dueled with death twice all before I was even an adult and I had won both times. Boy, did I get drunk when I got out of that hospital. I emptied every bottle of liquor we had in the house. The folks looked on at me like I was a deranged zoo animal. CHARLES laughs. That hangover was a bitch: like a flapper at a convent.
CHUCKY
What’s a hangover? What’s a flapper?
CHARLES
I’ll tell you when you’re older. CHARLES sadistically laughs.
CHUCKY
Hey! That’s not funny.
CHUCK
Chucky shut up!
MILES
Gentlemen, please.
CHARLES
From then on, I had an immense will to live. Unfortunately, it was the Krauts who would take that will to live away. CHUCKY raises his hand. Chucky, Krauts are Germans. And yes, Sauerkraut is where that came from. I was drafted into the US army in the fall of ’42. Mom and Dad fought tooth and nail for me to be blacklisted. I had a missing piece of brain. I conquered one of the worst diseases known to man. Twice. I was still weak, still helpless to them. That’s why I forged my medical papers (although, I heard they were accepting anyone who could hold a rifle and had meat between the legs). Wasn’t a part of the beach assault in Normandy like my friend, but I was in a platoon that assaulted German weapons factories. CHARLES pauses, his eyes close in obvious fatigue at the recollection. Tired and battle weary, we were easily picked apart by a team of German snipers. We surrendered. I was a prisoner of war for a year in Poland before we were liberated. When did I die, Miles? I died the day I happened upon this camp on my way out of Poland. CHARLES’S voice drops. I walked into a Russian regiment and they took me in with them as they inched along the Polish railroads. We came upon this camp which had a peculiar sign above the gate: ‘Work sets you free.’ We entered. It was a goddam ghost town. I opened up a door into a long house and vomited because it smelt like a toilet and a morgue all in one. It was at that moment that I died. When I saw the corpses, those that lived, and those that were dead. I knew that I was one of them. CHARLES pulls a hand up in front of his face. I was better fed and had clothes, but I was no different from the corpses. CHARLES extends his arm and points at MILES. I don’
t understand how that was allowed to happen! I still see them now: the piles of bodies, the stick-thin limbs all weak, and mangled, and contorted. It’s branded my memory. CHARLES pauses to catch his breath. We forced the Krauts to dig graves for the bodies and then each prisoner was able to take a shot at their captors. I gave this little boy a pistol. I kicked out the legs of a soldier and forced the pistol at his head. The kid fired. Hell, he emptied my clip. CHARLES is shaking.
CHARLES
When I got home from the war, no one understood. Mom and Dad didn’t understand. The government didn’t understand. They threatened to have me committed to a state-ward if I didn’t stop talking about Auschwitz. I couldn’t live a moment without seeing the thousands of innocent faces that scarred my memory. So I drove. And I drove. And the water seeped in. And I sat there. I welcomed the cold water as it filled my lungs. And now, I’m here.
CHUCK
How could you be such a coward? After everything you lived through, to go and kill yourself. You’re pathetic. I’m glad I didn’t live long enough to grow into those shoes.
CHUCKY
Wait, grow into those shoes? What—
CHARLES
You have no idea. And count your blessings that you didn’t live long enough to witness that war of godlessness. It was sickening.
Gleeman's Tales Page 24