by J A Campbell
If Clara were right−the coon didn't dare to think of it−perhaps she'd leave him for good. He was sick with worry but also felt the anticipation that Clara had−a warming bit of excitement like a tiny hot coal in the pit of his stomach. In the dark they waited for a sign from the people of Mead.
Sure enough, music began and there was a great thumping from the tree. There was singing and the sweet smell of food wafted from the hole.
"It sounds like they're celebrating," said Clara.
"Could be a colony of termites for all we know."
"Should I go in?"
"I wouldn't risk it."
Without considering the coon, she took a deep breath, drawing all the courage she could find in her tiny person. She entered the hole. In the back of the tunnel was a set of stairs ascending upward toward the music and merriment. She climbed them cautiously, the music getting louder with each step, distinct warmth coming from above. Then there was a door, small and wooden and carved with care, embroidered with forest scenes and flowers of every color. She tried its handle but found it locked. She jiggled it hard and yanked, but it wouldn't budge. She knocked and knocked again, but no one seemed to hear her over the loud music and thumping of feet. She was so close and couldn't give up now and so she yelled, using that mighty voice to be heard.
The music stopped, the thumping ceased and there was a murmur amongst the small people of Mead. She tried again, a determined knock and this time a voice responded.
"Who is it?"
"Clara."
More indecipherable mumbling from within and then the voice said, "We don't know a Clara."
What to say now? Of course they didn't know her, but why couldn't they? "I met a boy," she said. "On the tiger lily today. He told me of the people of Mead."
It was quiet. No one stirred.
"Please," Clara said. "I need answers."
The door opened slowly and the boy peeked out his head. "Go away," he said.
"Please."
The boy considered her and there must have been a look of desperation on her face that evoked a bit of pity, because he didn't shut the door. "The raccoon isn't with you?"
"He can't fit through the hole."
This seemed right and he closed the door to talk with someone else.
He opened it again.
"Alright." The boy motioned to enter. Inside, the lights were bright and the smell of food was pervasive. "You can ask the flower prince one question and then take your raccoon and leave these parts."
She stepped into the enormous hall that was carved from the heart of the tree, its walls adorned in exquisite paintings of the seasons, the hunts and births of the Mead people. There were dozens of wooden benches stacked with food and wine, a band complete with instruments, and in the back of the hall was a table above the others. A man the size of a quarter sat at it with a crown of baby's breath about his head.
"Come here," he said.
Clara walked through the people who were just her size, some, the younger ones, a bit smaller. "Children," she thought, something of gratitude for seeing it. "My god, they are children."
Standing before the flower prince she said, "How did you know I had a raccoon with me?"
"We saw you and the raccoon," he said quite simply.
"Right."
And the boy appeared, took her by the arm and led her away. "One question and now goodbye."
"Wait!" It seemed altogether unfair. Why were these people so secretive? She'd come so far and been through so much, she wouldn't give up now. "Please!"
"We cannot associate with someone who associates with a raccoon."
"I'm bound to him," she said. "It's not my fault." But perhaps this wasn't true. It was her fault really.
"Your coon could eat the entirety of our people," said the prince. "Now, move on. You're not welcome here."
"He wouldn't eat you!" Clara fell to her knees before the prince. "He can't eat."
"Nonsense," said the prince.
"He's dead."
A great chatter rose from the people at hearing this.
"He seems very alive to me."
"He's haunting me," she explained. "He tastes the world through me. If I cannot eat you, then assuredly the coon cannot."
The prince leaned over to a man in uniform and whispered something.
"Bring us something to prove what you say is true."
And with that, she was escorted away. Back outside, she told the coon what had unfolded.
The coon shook his head. "I don't see why you bothered with those people."
"I have to try." She thought long and hard about how she could prove her story. Finally, she figured if they were to believe her story, they must know the whole story. With much effort she rolled the coin with her face on it up the stairs and knocked again at the door of Mead. It opened and the boy sighed heavily, his tiny brow furrowed.
Clara pushed past him. She rolled the coin into the hall and let it fall in the center of the gathering. With a great bang, the coin dropped flat and shook the floor with an enormous force. The people held each other.
Clara began her story with her birth and told of her isolation and her belief that she was the only small person in the world. She told of her bitterness and what the coon and she had done and how the coon had assuredly died and was even skinned and it was her fault and so in repentance, she had fed the coon with her own appetite for life. The people listened and were very still.
When the story ended, they gathered around her and looked at the coin, then back at her. Indeed the resemblance was uncanny. This girl must have been someone very important. Why else would the people have made a coin with her face on it?
A girl asked, "Are you a princess?"
"Not exactly."
"A god?" Another asked.
"I suppose the people thought that." Then she added, "But I am neither. I am just a small person, like you all. I'm just a girl looking for answers."
Although the people of Mead were recluses and mostly kept to the trees when they weren't collecting pollen to make honey or hunting grasshoppers in the fields, they understood that the girl needed to belong somewhere and had spent most of her life on the outside of a community. They offered her some food and a chair to sit next to the prince who wanted to hear more about the town of Fankfret.
"Giants," he said. "We'd heard of stories but always believed them to be just that–stories."
Into the night, with the warmth and interest of the people, Clara talked, forgetting the coon outside and forgetting her obligations to him.
The next morning she crept out to tell him of the most wonderful evening of her life. She told him in great detail the history of the people of Mead, the reign of the flower prince and about the lands in which they lived for thousands of years. She said that they were altogether shocked she'd been born to giants, but nonetheless, thought it possible because of the size of the coin she presented. They'd asked her to join them on their hunt and wanted to meet the coon as well.
"I don't want to meet them," he said, curling up in a ball.
"But you must."
"I don't have to do anything."
When the prince exited the hole, the coon hid up a tree and refused to come down. "Very well," said Clara and off she went to learn how the small people hunted grasshoppers.
It wasn't before long that she spent all her time with the people her size, helping with gathering and building projects within the tree. They even gave Clara her own room in the east branch. They considered her an important member of the clan−one who had knowledge of other lands and possessed incredible tales of warfare that the children delighted in hearing. Although the coon experienced all these new delights and kinship through Clara, he became terribly sad. He felt, alas, that she was falling in love, not just with the people of Mead, but also with the prince himself. They spent every moment together and as their love grew, the coon knew his time with Clara was ending.
If he was ever going to stay with her, he dec
ided, he had to kill her. So he hatched a plan. The evening of Clara and the prince's wedding, he would tell her that he needed to talk and take her through the fields of flowers and to the edge of the river Leading Out, (which the people happened to call the river Leading Here). It would be there that he'd drown her.
Weeks passed and the people of Mead busied themselves in preparation for the big event. Baby's breath was hung about the hall, fireflies were asked to perch on strings for lighting, and a cake was made the size of Clara.
The day of the wedding had arrived and when the sun set, the coon asked Clara if they could have a moment together.
"I don't see why we have to talk so far away from the red tree," she said, following the coon, a skip in her step. She was very happy, had never been so happy, having found a home and love all at once.
"I'd like some privacy," the coon said, a bite in his voice.
"I know I've been busy lately," she said. "And I'm sorry if you've felt left out."
She pulled at his tail. The coon turned and hissed. Clara jumped back. The last time she saw that face was right before he'd eaten her. A note of fear struck hard at her heart and in turn his. At the edge of the river, he saw how beautiful she looked in the silver light of the moon. Her black hair glowed blue, and she wore a gown of flowers the people had made for her as a wedding gift.
The coon readied himself to push her in the river and hold her there until her screams went quiet in the running water. He wanted to get it done with fast, so they could be together again.
But then something happened that he didn't anticipate; that he thought never was possible.
Clara loved him. She loved him for all they'd been through and all they'd shared. She loved him for bringing her to this place and new family. She felt grateful for their friendship, even their partnership in crime, because she grew to be who she was because of it. The coon felt all of this as she held onto his tail and waited for what he had to say.
"I'm leaving," he said.
"Leaving?"
"The obligation has been fulfilled."
He picked her up so he could hold her near his face and smell the sweet flowers about her tiny person.
She cried. She'd nearly forgotten of the compromise they'd struck. She'd been so busy falling in love with the flower prince; she'd not recalled that in doing so, her time with the coon would end.
"But you can stay." She sniveled and hugged the faded coon. "You don't have to go."
The coon considered this, but knew that he must. He also knew that he couldn't kill her, because he did truly love her. And in loving her, he wanted more than her. He wanted her to be happy.
"Thank you," he said, because he did owe her much. She'd taught him many things in the year they'd had together. But mostly, he'd learned all about life and what it meant to truly love another.
Without another word, he set her down and entered the water, drifting away from the river Leading Here, further and further away he went, Clara getting smaller yet until she was gone to him altogether.
* * *
"And you've never seen her since?"
"I haven't."
"Coon, that is quite a tale." The farmer scratched his head.
"I thought someone ought to know."
The farmer set down his feathered pen and studied me. "You mind if I title it?"
"How about The Girl Who Never Stopped Growing?"
The farmer was quiet.
"Too cheesy?" Of course, it was.
"I was thinking," said the farmer. "If you don't mind of course, Clara and the Coon."
I nodded.
Yes, it did seem right. In the end, it was my story, too.
* * *
The first draft of "Clara and the Coon" was conceived in a short story workshop at the University of San Francisco. At the time, I was reading the collected stories of Gabriel Garcia Marquez and was greatly influenced by the possibilities of magical realism as well as fabulism, reading texts from Aimee Bender and the like. Starting out, I had no idea of what Clara was capable. Her struggles seemed to underline an innate ugliness in humanity–its wanton chaos, hyperbolic at times, also articulated the ridiculousness in human nature. I think I gravitated toward this genre for its distinct rendering of culture and its notions of morality. In addition, I was fascinated by the didactic conclusions of the traditional fairy tale and its use of disguise. I think the platform of fantasy with all its distortions, is a fine place to interpret the evils of our world and the evil within us. It may also prove to be the place where we find we are capable of much more–compassion, forgiveness, and even love.
~M.K. Boise
Hans and the Best Day Ever
by
G.L. Jackson
So Hans, he never was the sharpest tool in the shed, but we all knew that about him to start with. That day he got assigned to our unit as an apprentice, that's when the laughter started, and it's gone on for seven whole years. Normally the boss, she frowns on letting people go back home to see family–they belong to Corporate after all–but I think even she's glad to make an exception in Hans' case. He wanders into the Executive Suite, glowing like a fool with that benign-as-eff smile on his face, so we all stop what we're doing and watch. He saunters right up to the boss-lady in her office like it happens every day just that way, like it's the most normal thing in the world. Just like I'm about as far from being the boss's right-hand man as you can get, I pretend not to listen in, but she motions me over with a loudly hissed Gabe! and I can't make like I don't hear. Even her whispers have been known to move mountains. Literally.
"Boss-lady." I skate over, shake my earbuds out and let them dangle, the faint dulcet screeching of Led Zeppelin just barely audible in the marbled chamber. One look from her and I turn the music off. Fast. I'm no Hans, or at least I like to believe I'm a way quicker study than that lame douchebag.
She glares in that stand-up-straight, behave-or-you'll-pay way she wears like next season's Armani. My only defense is a shrug.
"I mean ma'am. What can I do for you?"
The boss tilts her head toward Hans. "This neophyte (funny her calling him that after seven long years, but the word's a perfect choice given the fact that Hans hasn't learned a single effin' thing the whole time he's been here) wants to go home to his mother. I'm inclined to grant his wish."
A hush of disbelief fills the room, and not just from yours truly. This is far from an everyday occurrence. Sure, a few guys got sent home eons ago because they either didn't make the cut or pulled some power-grab or whatever, but it's been a long time and Hans...well, he's just dim. He has about as much brains as a bag of unmixed cement–or maybe less–and that's being kind to the cement.
There I am, resting with full smugitude on my laurels, when the boss points a long bony index finger in my direction. "I want you to go with him."
Me? Me go along? What the h... better not say it, I figure. "You mean like some kind of glorified babysitter? No offense, Boss, but after seven years the guy ought to be able to–"
"Silence." The word thunders across the room at me, violent and electric. I don't need to be told twice. Obedient now, I nod.
"You will oversee his journey." She speaks like Hans isn't standing there in the corner picking his nose, gazing out wistfully through the window to the world far below. "Don't interfere. See to it that he returns home safely, but I repeat: do not interfere. When the journey is complete, file a thorough report. I'll want that in triplicate, Gabriel. No shortcuts."
My yes, ma'am is about as meek as it ever gets. I tuck my board under my arm, walk over to Hans, turn him in the general direction of the door, and nod. "Okay, dude. Let's haul a...let's go. Time to go see your mom."
"Your mom." He laughs like it's a) appropriate and b) the world's oldest joke. No one likes to give Hans credit for much of anything, but he might just be right about option b.
* * *
The boss purses her lips, which is a lot scarier than it sounds, and takes my report (in triplicat
e) into her hands.
CASE FILE 0369742.6369
TO: THE HBIC
FROM: GtA, ESQ.
RE: HANS AND HIS JOURNEY HOME
DATE: 10.16.13
"Really, Gabe? HBIC? Aren't you ever going to grow up?" She flashes me that look before smirking. "Oh, wait, you can't. That's right, frozen in the moment." A sound that's remarkably pitying escapes her lips. Seems no one's above a little trash-talk when the opportunity presents itself.
"Head Boss-Lady in charge, Your Honor." My defense is a weak one, but it serves its purpose. Mollifies her, at least enough so she can begin to read her way through my golden-inked Aramaic scrawl on parchment. Hey, I keep trying to get her to go with the times, but she's a stickler for tradition. She holds a finger up to her lips to indicate we'd all better shut the...be quiet and let her read, so we do.
* * *
Hour One:
Gabe here, checking in. I get Hans to the surface without much incident. These days, people assume we're a meteor or something like that, and they're all so plugged in to their MP3 players and phones that they ignore the accompanying angelic choir. Haha, just kidding, Boss. We land in the courtyard by the White Tower at the Tower of London. The ravens don't much care for our entrance, too splashy, but it isn't like they can fly away anyway. As far as people go, by now I'm pretty awesome at staying unnoticed and by that I don't mean invisible. I'm just good at convincing them they don't see us is all. Hans is all hey bro, I've never been here before as we start walking around. There's like a million tourists and you'd think he'd go straight for them and mingle, but no. You won't believe what he does: finds this nearly see-through chick sitting near the chopping block all weepy, head in her hands. Like, literally, she's carrying her head in her hands. He asks her what's wrong and she looks at him like he's brand new. First she's all stunned he can see her, next 'cause he's walking around all serene and glowing, and finally 'cause he isn't running away screaming. Hans, he does that thing where he sighs and rolls his neck and ruffles his feathers.