Chapter twelve
Gregor Samsa Ingledew was so startled to detect, with the whole length of his sniffwhips, the approach of the scent of none other than his own father, that he instinctively prepared himself for combat, something he had been required to do only once before in his life in the Clock, when a scorpion had attempted entry. The scorpion, a mortal foe of all roosterroaches, is an arachnid, like a spider, but an overgrown one, with crab’s pincers, and a tail like a crane tipped by a deadly stinger. Like the roosterroach, he is a night-prowler, but the roosterroach prowls for garbage and the scorpion prowls for rooster-roaches. A favorite taunt or curse of roosterroach children is to say to one another, “Scorpy on you!” Sam had supposed his Clock a safe refuge from scorpions as well as all other creatures, but one night while winding the Clock the Woman had left the glass front door ajar, and the scorpion had crept in. Sam had often had dreams, or rather daymares, of being attacked by a scorpion, and he had thought he was asleep when he first saw it coming at him, thrice as large as he. He had hoped he would wake up, but discovered that he was already very much awake. If he had been asleep, it would have been his last sleep. Awake, he was able to summon up unrealized reserves of the Ingledew strength, cunning, and martial art.
The scorpion had been no match for him, really. Before he could stop to consider what he was doing, he had confronted it, attacked it, wrestled it, mutilated it. Deftly sidestepping the plunging poisonous stinger, he had bitten off one of the scorpion’s pincers while grabbing the other and twisting, throwing the scorpion over onto its back, rendering the tail ineffective, and had chewed into the underside of the scorpion’s thorax. The scorpion had screamed in pain and fright and had begged mercy in a language totally foreign to Sam, but with a universal sound of piteous beseechment so heartrending that Sam had been tempted to let it go. But he had quickly killed it instead, ripped out its heart and its brain, and dragged its carcass to the edge of the mantelshelf and kicked it off, for the Woman to find and dispose of. Only much later had he begun shivering with wracking fear.
Now he was confronted again, not by a scorpion but a possibly worse intruder, Squire Hank Ingledew, who had never visited the Clock before in the time Sam had lived there, namely, all his life. “Dad?” Sam said in great astonishment, even before catching sight of his father.
Squire Hank hove into view. “Morsel, son,” he said, and immediately began looking around him, and above him, at the great intricate innards of the clockworks, the appurtenances and impedimenta of Sam’s apartment. “Right spiffy-lookin place ye got here,” Squire Hank observed.
Sam could not hear a word. “Morsel, Dad,” he said, and politely asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
Squire Hank laughed. “Queer, aint it? I never wunst clum up here afore.” The elder Ingledew got misty-eyed and waxed reminiscent, “The whole time ye was growin up, yore Momma had all the say in yore raisin, and I hardly never saw ye. Ever since she went and westered off, I’ve been meanin to come drap in on ye, and say hidy and all, but I reckon I’ve jist not had a good reason. Not until now.”
Sam, hearing none of this, assumed his father was awkwardly trying to make conversation about the weather. “Yes,” he said, “I expect we might get a thundershower any time now.”
“Worser than that, I reckon,” his father said. “It’s a gal. A female.”
“But I suppose the flowers need it,” Sam said. “It’s been awful dry.”
“I aint so certain we need her,” Hank said. “She’s come to claim kin to us, and maybe move in on us. One of ole Jack Dingletoon’s daughters, him that thinks he’s discovered he’s a Ingledew. Now she says he’s probably west, and Josie too, and it’s her duty, bein head of household and all, to claim kin to us. So what should I tell her?”
Hearing-impaired persons are good at detecting the asking of a question, even if they do not understand the words. Sam could hear the rising inflection of the question mark, and he assumed his father had shifted the topic of discussion from the weather to Sam’s personal well-being, so he answered, “I have no complaints.”
“You mean you don’t care if she moves in or not?” Squire Hank was incredulous. “You want her to bring her whole caboodle of brothers and sisters too?”
Two question marks. “I’m doing okay, thank you, and finding plenty to eat.” Sam gestured at his neat array of food fragments, of which he was proud. The dozens of them were arranged and catalogued, at least in his own mind, and he had specimens of everything the Woman had ever eaten.
Squire Hank surveyed the larder. “Heck, they’d eat all that plumb up quicker’n ye could count.”
“Thank you,” Sam said. “Yes, that one there is a rare dab of lemon meringue. And this piece is almost a year old, a croissant demisel. Here, try a taste of this one, a butterscotch marzipan.”
Squire Hank idly chewed upon the offering. He asked, “Do you want a slew of them rotlog Dingletoon clodhoppers a-stompin all over these goodies?”
The question mark led Sam to assume that his father was asking for samples of other specimens. He offered a taste of peanut brittle. Then he offered a taste of…“No, I don’t think you want this one. This is a pellet of ginseng root, recently acquired from Doc Swain, which he claims is good for—”
Squire Hank snickered. “Yeah, he guv me a dose of that stuff, wunst. It works, I tell ye. But what use is it fer a feller my age? Come to think of it, you might jist be a-needin it, if you have to talk to this gal I’m tellin ye about, this Letitia Dingletoon, says her name is. You want to talk to her?”
His father was being awfully inquisitive. What was he asking now? Had Sam tried the gingseng himself? “Sure,” he said.
His father stared at him in wonder. “Then you’d better bite off a big hunk right now,” said the elder Ingledew and held out the pellet of gingseng. “Here,” he said. “Eat. EAT!”
Sam heard a word, the first word he had heard his father speak. A command: eat. Although Sam did not understand why his father was insisting on it, he knew that the previous night, when he had sampled a taste of the ginseng, it had given him a kind of convivial glow, which perhaps was all it was intended to do. “I will if you will,” he said to his father, taking a bite and passing it back.
“Maybe I’ll need it too,” said his father, and took a little bite, “if I got to go back down thar and talk to that gal and ’splain to her that she’s got to come up here and claim kin to you herself.”
Sam wished he could hear his father. Possibly his father intended that the two of them share the ginseng and work up a pair of convivial glows that would allow them to be good friends, not just father and son. Sam was on the verge of confessing to his father that his hearing had failed him, but if he did that, there would be no further point in having a conversation with his father anyway. Hoping for quick intoxication, he took another, larger bite of the ginseng. “It has a rather strange taste,” he observed. “Don’t you think? Not like a food but like a drug.”
This comment did not lead to further camaraderie. His father seemed preparing to leave. “Well, it’s your Clock,” Squire Hank said to his son, “and I aint about to tell ye how to live yore life. But iffen it was me, I shore would discourage that gal from any notions she might have about movin in on ye.” Squire Hank gave Sam a mockcuff on the side of the head, and said, “Allrighty, I’ll send her on up. Don’t do nothin I wouldn’t do, ye hear? Hawr-hawr.”
No, he didn’t hear. Squire Hank made his exit. “So long, Dad,” Sam called after him, a bit disappointed the visit had been so brief, and so unproductive of any further bond between the two Ingledews. One of these days, Sam told himself, I’ll just have to tell him that I’m deaf.
Chapter thirteen
Sure enough, her nervousness was about to make her involuntarily release a molecule of pheromone. Like an effort to suppress a belch or a sneeze, the anxiety weakened the effort, and the fragrant pheromone escaped, preceding her like a herald of trumpets into the Clock.
Of the three possible intruders into the Clock—scorpion, father, strange girl—the latter struck Sam as the most to be feared, even with the aid of ginseng, a third and largest bite of which he chomped on the instant the molecule began dancing along the length of his sniffwhip.
The interior overwhelmed her. The parts of the Clock were moving, some swiftly, some imperceptibly, but they all moved, whereas the various cogs and gears littering Carlott were all inert, lifeless. She could not separate the minute quiverings of the mainspring from the tremblings of her mainheart.
Sam, after the initial shock of the cavorting molecule of pheromone had paralyzed his sniffwhip, used his eyes to behold, up close, much too close, a female of his own species: a girl fully developed, with long and strong legs, all six nicely spiked on the tibia, the merons muscular and the trochanters shapely, the arolia small and dainty, the unguiae neatly manicured. Her face, although at the moment it was transfixed in fright, was a comely country girl’s with pastoral beauty and the most delicate suggestion of a feistiness: the scape of the sniffwhip was slightly recessed in its socket, and joined the pedicel firmly and assertively but with a touch of mischievousness. Her mouth had full paraglossae suggestively covered by smooth galeae, while the broad labrum rose up to the clypeus with audacity and authority. Sam thought he was about to faint, either from the sight of her or an overdose of ginseng, or both.
Tish felt sick to her stomach. She had had nothing to eat tonight, but she felt as if she were about to puke, not from nausea but from nerves. It did not help, one bit, that Squire Sam Ingledew—for it was clearly he, handsome as all her girlfriends had gossiped he was—was looking at her as if she were something that had crawled out of a hole in the ground. It had been an effort to crawl up the mantel and reach the Clock, but she had made as dignified an entrance as she could.
Moments passed. Knowing nothing better to say, she asked, “Are you Squire Sam Ingledew?” which struck her as silly, almost like asking of Man, “Are you Man?”
It was the first time a female other than his mother had ever spoken to him, and even if he had heard her, which he had not, he would not have known what to say.
“I met yore daddy, down below,” she went on, wondering if she was babbling, “who said he was Squire Hank Ingledew and is maybe yore daddy, if you’re Squire Sam Ingledew, which I reckon ye must be, if this here is yore Clock. I mean, you look like Squire Sam Ingledew, although I’ve never laid eyes on ye before but you just look just like I just figgered you’d just look!” She ran out of breath and had to stop.
Sam managed two words: “Beg pardon?”
Tish took a deep breath, a very deep one, as much as her sixteen spiracles could draw in, and repeated herself, word for word. But Squire Sam only continued looking at her as if she were something on the end of a stick.
Was the ginseng taking effect? Sam managed to mouth five whole words: “I don’t hear very well.” He gave each of his tailprongs a wiggle as if to demonstrate that they were physically functional although sensorially impaired.
“Oh,” she said, and watched him wiggling his tailprongs. They were cute. She moved closer to one of them, cupped her touchers around her mouth and shouted, “HELLO! I’M TISH!”
Sam jumped. “I’m not that deaf,” he said. Then he thought to ask, “Don’t you know that roosterroaches aren’t allowed in Parthenon…except for us Ingledews, of course?”
Tish hung her head, and mumbled, “Yeah, I know.” Then she raised her voice and tried to explain.
Sam tried to listen. Something about her father. Something about her mother. Something about her forty-three brothers and sisters. Something about claiming kin. He realized he must seem inquisitorial, not hospitable. He reached out and selected a dab of one of his collectibles, and offered it to her. “Vanilla egg custard?” he said.
Her touchers told her it was edible, and she wolfed it down, finding it more than edible: the most delicious thing she’d ever eaten. But almost at once she feared it could have been a dollop of affy-dizzy from his own tergal gland, designed to seduce her. Still she commented, appreciatively, “Yum-yum.”
“Peanut brittle?” he offered. She tasted. He offered her tastes of several of his select little snacks. The crumb of dark Oreo, in particular, seemed to transport her.
“I never had any of that before,” she said, sighing with pleasure.
He led her down the aisles of the neatly arranged foodstuffs, pointing out and describing each, and offering her tastes. She was so appreciative. He was surprised at himself, the volubility of his own voice, talking to a female. Alas, if only he could have heard her random comments of appreciation, her sighs of pleasure, her purrs of delight, but just to see the expressions on her face was reward enough.
The Clock announced the twelfth and final hour: “TUTTIFRUTTI!” Then it was silent. “Midnight,” Sam announced, feeling inane, at a loss.
She wished she could talk to him. Squire Sam, she realized, although he was a mortal creature no greater than she, had something in common with the Fate-Thing: both were deaf. The Fate-Thing could not hear her requests or supplications; it was totally indifferent to her needs. Maybe, she realized, Squire Sam wasn’t actually deaf but only indifferent, like the Fate-Thing. She wished she could ask him, at least, if he believed in anything like the Fate-Thing.
For want of other words, he offered, “Would you like to see the clockworks?” and without waiting for the nod of her head, he commanded, “Here, climb up,” and started her on a hike upward through the intricate innards of the Clock, cautioning her not to catch her gitalongs in any of the gears. “This,” he pointed out, “is the Great Wheel, whose ratchets are regulated by the mainspring, over yonder, which is wound up every eighth day by the Woman of Parthenon. Do you know Her? Now here we have the pinion which turns with the Great Wheel and thrusts through the clock face yonder to join the long, or minute, hand of the dial, which completes a circuit of the dial each hour and thus measures the sixty minutes in the hour. This pinion has only one-twelfth as many teeth as the Great Wheel, see? Do you know fractions?” He attempted to explain to her the mathematical ratios of the sundry pinions and wheels, although math was clearly over her head, as were the pinions and wheels. As they ascended upward through the Clock, he said, “Now this is called the ‘dead escapement,’ or ‘deadbeat escapement.’ Do you know ‘dead’? Humans use it as a euphemism for ‘west.’ Of course this thingumajig is neither east nor west, but its true function is to convert the energy from the spring to the swinging of the pendulum down below, and to ‘fall dead’ after each jerk—that is, go west after each jerk—watch closely there, see?—click, click, dead, click, click, west—you get the idea?” How can I actually be talking so much to a female? he asked himself, astounded at himself, and realized it must be the effect of the ginseng.
Why is he telling me all of this? she wondered, flattered that a handsome feller so painfully shy was actually opening up to her. Maybe, she realized, he is making me familiar with the place so that I can live here! Would he really ask her to live here? But would she really want to live in such a noisy place?
“The idea of the deadbeat escapement,” he said, “is an almost poetic metaphor suggestive of escape through death, or escape by westering, which is getting us into eschatology and leading us dangerously close to the concept of Rapture espoused by your Crustian minister, the Reverend Tichborne. But you don’t know eschatology, do you, Tish? I’ll have to tell you all about it, but not tonight. Step up there, a bit more, we’re almost to the top of the Clock. Yes, this bracket we’re standing upon here—see how it overhangs yonder—is attached to the plate, there, to support the very tiptop of the end of the pendulum. This bracket is called the…the cock.” He studied her closely for any blush or twinge, but there was none, so he bravely asked, “Have you ever heard the word ‘cock’ before?” But her face was blank, as if “eschatology” and “cock” were all the same to her. He wanted to explain how the cock hovers above the deadbeat esca
pement, and how the cock symbolizes or is a metaphor suggestive of The Bomb. Didn’t she know about The Bomb? “Haven’t you ever heard of The Bomb?” he asked. But again the blank, expressionless, innocent look. “You know, you could sort of nod your head yes or shake your head no when I ask you something.”
She nodded her head. But then she shook her head, no, she had never heard of The Bomb, nor Cock, nor any of it.
He led her down from the clockworks, back to his loafing space, where he offered her a taste of crust of apple fritter, his favorite of foods. Her eyes gleamed in rapture as she devoured it. Rapture? he said to himself, and thought to try to explain to her the complicated distinction between the artificial concept of Rapture as the Crustians saw it and the actuality of the holocaust of The Bomb. She had difficulty grasping the explanation, especially the part about why Man would do it, in the first place, why Man would set off The Bomb, which, she at least understood, was zillions of times more powerful than Man’s bullets, which were awful enough.
She hazarded a word: “Why?”
“Did you speak?” he asked, surprised.
She nodded her head again, and said, right at his tailprongs: “WHY?”
“I have an idea,” he suggested, having a fine idea: he and she could devise a kind of sign language between themselves, a system of gestures, signals, using their sniffwhips, touchers, even tailprongs. “For example, if you wish to ask ‘Why?’ you put a sniffwhip to your forehead and then spread your sniffwhips to make the letter ‘Y,’ like so.” He demonstrated, then waited to see if she could do it. It was much easier, she found, than merely nodding or shaking her head.
She signed, “Why?” A second time, she signed “Why?” It was almost like a game.
“That’s good,” he said. “Your first word. Now, let’s devise the rest of the alphabet. How would you make a V?”
She held her sniffwhips close together, but spread to form a V.
The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 1 Page 133